After a few nods and facetious remarks to their friends in the audience (familiarities from which a paid orchestra would have been totally cut off), the musicians dashed into a new overture, composed by Signor Mancussi, also "expressly for the occasion."

This musical composition had been rehearsed the week previous in the presence of a select party of amateurs and critics, and had been pronounced, by the sub-editor of a weekly paper, "remarkable for its breadth and color." Under these circumstances, the overture was listened to with much interest at first, which abated as the music progressed. Touching the merits of "color" and "breadth" there might be some grounds of doubt, but none whatever concerning its "length."

It lasted until twenty minutes of nine; and, toward the close, faint scrapings of dissatisfaction were heard, which would have been more audible had Signor Mancussi not been present. As the last twang of the fiddle died on the air, M. Bartin was heard by several persons to say, "Bah! a bad hash from Rossini and Auber." The remark was reported to Signor Mancussi, and did not tend to enhance his friendly regards for the other gentleman.



CHAPTER II.

CURTAIN UP.

At eight and three quarters P.M. the curtain was rung up, and discovered a rustic scene, in the midst of which Mrs. Slapman (Fidelia) was seated. She was dressed in a white frock with low neck, and a flat hat, and was trimmed out with red ribbons in all directions. She looked young and pretty. Only an anxious knitting of her eyebrows revealed the cares and troubles of intellect. Mrs. Slapman was applauded by a unanimous clapping of hands. She was seated in a red-velvet rocking chair, at a small but costly table, on which stood an expensive vase filled with flowers. These properties, though few, were intended to signify boundless affluence and luxury. Fidelia languidly waved a jewelled fan, and sighed. "Will he never come?" said she.

She had hardly made this remark, when, by a singular coincidence, Alberto (Overtop) entered from the left wing, and threw himself, with as much grace as his tights would permit, at her feet. She emitted a small shriek, and gave him her hand to kiss, which he did with ecstasy. Alberto was habited like an Italian gentleman in good circumstances; and no one would have suspected his poverty, if he had not commenced the dialogue by an affecting allusion to his last scudi, which brought tears to the eyes of the fair Fidelia.

Such trifling questions as lovers alone can ask and answer then passed between them; and at last came the solemn interrogatory from the kneeling Alberto: "And will you always love me, dearest?"

Fidelia turned her meek orbs toward the ceiling, raised her hand, said "Forever!" and was about to add, "I swear," when Bidette (Miss Wick) rushed upon the scene with the intelligence, "He comes."

"Who?" asked Alberto.

"My father!" shrieked Fidelia. "Go—that way." She pointed with her small alabaster hand to the left wing.

Alberto vanished as per request, while Fidelia, with well-affected calmness, commenced humming an opera air, and fanning herself. Bidette, the favorite maid, pretended to readjust a flower in her mistress's hair. These feminine artifices were to throw the coming father off his scent.

But the father (Mr. Johnsone, the junior of a small book-publishing house) was sharp eyed, though he lacked spectacles. As he emerged from the right wing, he caught a distinct view of a pair of soles disappearing in the distance, and benignantly asked: "Who is that, my child?"

The child answered: "Only the postman, pa."

"Where is the letter?" he asked.

"Please, sir," interrupted Bidette, observing her mistress's confusion, "there wasn't no letter. He mistook the house for another, sir."

The father nodded his head to express his complete satisfaction with this explanation, and then told Bidette to leave the spot, as he had something of the utmost importance to tell his daughter. Bidette pouted, and withdrew, giving a bewitching shake of her striped calico dress, to signify her hatred of brutal fathers. This touch of nature drew plaudits from those among the audience who were but slightly acquainted with Miss Wick. The others looked on with critical indifference.

The father took a chair, thrust out his legs like a reigning prince, and proceeded, in a story of unnecessary length, to tell his daughter that he owed one hundred and seventy thousand florins to Signor Rodicaso, and would be a ruined man in forty-eight hours if that sum were not paid. Life, in that event, would be simply insupportable. He had procured a pistol to blow out his brains, but had subsequently concluded to make one more effort to save himself. He would, therefore, appeal to his daughter, as a father, and ask her to marry Signor Rodicaso, and so liquidate the debt, to-morrow. He did not wish to influence her choice—far from it—but, if she did not consent, he should feel under the painful necessity of shooting himself on the spot.

The father produced a pistol, and held it to his left ear.

Fidelia, looking like a marble statue of grief, said, in a low but perfectly audible voice: "Stay! I will wed him." This was enunciated with the calmness of despair. Not a gesture, nor a twinge of the features, nor an accent to indicate emotion of any kind. It was in quiet efforts like these that Mrs. Slapman excelled.

When the applause elicited by this stroke of genius had ceased, Mr. Chickson (Signor Rodicaso) came rather awkwardly upon the stage. His eyes (and, it might be added, his legs) rolled absently about, as if he were endeavoring to recall his part, or were in the inward act of composing a poem.

"Your future husband, Fidelia," said the father.

Fidelia rose from her seat—still imperturbable.

Chickson advanced with a sliding motion, and then paused, as if he had forgotten what to do. Mrs. Slapman was heard to whisper something (probably the cue), but he only rolled his eyes heavily in response. A look of displeasure marred her serene features, and, instead of fainting away in Signor Rodicaso's arms, as she should have done, she dropped into the embrace of her father, taking that personage quite unexpectedly, and nearly knocking him off his chair.

Chickson projected himself forward at the same time to catch her, and, in so doing, lost his balance, and just escaped, by an effort, from sprawling on the floor.

Then he looked helplessly at the audience; and there was no longer any doubt entertained that Chickson was slightly intoxicated. Getting drunk, now and then, was an infirmity of Chickson's genius.

The stage manager had the good sense to ring down the curtain on this painful scene, and, the next moment, there was a dull sound, as of somebody falling on the floor behind the green baize.

After an interval of fifteen minutes—protracted by the "unexpected indisposition" of the poet, and the consequent necessity of intrusting Signor Rodicaso to other hands—the curtain rises again, and discloses Alberto in a humble cot, surrounded by three-legged stools, and other evidences of extreme poverty. He is seated on a rickety table (in preference to the greater uncertainty of the stools), his arms are folded, and his head droops upon his breast.

In this attitude, he begins to soliloquize, and informs the audience (what they did not know before) that, from a clump of shrubbery, he had seen fully as much as they of the preceding scene. He does not blame Fidelia. Oh! no. In her cruel dilemma, she could do no less. But he curses—and curses again—and continues to curse for some time—that Fate which deprives him of the "paltry means" (one hundred and seventy thousand florins) to buy off the "heartless monster" (Rodicaso). Having wreaked himself upon Destiny to his own satisfaction, he suddenly remembers that he has not eaten anything for thirty-six hours. He feels in all his pockets successively, but finds nothing. He then draws from his bosom a portrait of his father, set with antique gems. He gazes upon it reverently, kisses it, and says: "Shall I part with this sacred memento for vulgar bread? Never! Let me die!" He restores the portrait to his bosom, folds his arms again, inclines his head, and shuts his eyes, as if preparing to expire comfortably.

All this time, a fat red face, belonging to a corpulent body, has been watching the depressed lover from the right wing. As Alberto utters the last sad ejaculation, a thick hand attached to a short arm raises a kerchief to a pair of small eyes in this fat red face, and wipes them. Then the stout gentleman reflects a moment, nods his head approvingly, draws forth a wallet, opens it slowly, takes out some paper that rustles like bank notes, produces a memorandum book, writes a few lines on one of the leaves hastily with a pencil, tears out the leaf, encloses the leaf and the bank notes in an envelope, emerges with his entire figure into the full light of the stage, walks stealthily toward Alberto with a pair of creaking shoes that would have waked the soundest sleeper, places the note on the table by his side, raises his hands to heaven, murmuring, "God bless the boy!" and retires in the same feline but tumultuous manner.

This mysterious visitor was Bignolio (Matthew Maltboy), a rich money lender, uncle of Alberto, and commonly reported to be the "tightest old skinflint in Venice."

After a pause, scarcely long enough to allow his uncle's heavy footsteps to die away in the distance, Alberto came out of his revery. His first act was to look at the ceiling, then at the floor, then all about him—everywhere but at the note on the table. At last, when nothing else remained to be scrutinized, his eyes naturally fell upon this valuable communication.

"What is this?" he asked. Then he answered his own question by opening the letter, and reading it, as follows:

Venice, Oct. 16,——.

Dear Nephew:

I have watched you, and know all. You are indeed the son of your father, and, I am proud to add, the nephew of your uncle. Enclosed are sixty thousand florins. Go to Jinkerini Bros., on the Rialto, and buy up judgments that they hold against Rodicaso for three times that amount, and offset them against old Corpetto's debts. Rodicaso conceals his property so well, that none has ever been found to satisfy these judgments. Drive a sharp bargain, and show yourself a chip of the old block. Keep the balance for your wedding gift.

Farewell—till we meet again.

Bignolio.

"Dear, dear uncle!" exclaimed Alberto, carefully buttoning up his pocket over the funds, and kissing the letter in transports of joy. "And only yesterday he would not lend me a scudi to get my dinner. Generous man! how have I wronged him! Now, Fate, I will floor thee and Rodicaso together."

[Exit Alberto, rapidly, by shortest land route to the Rialto.]

Overtop's acting, throughout this difficult scene, was of a superior order. Nothing could be more natural, for instance, than the buttoning up of his pocket over his uncle's gift. But neither that, nor the other strong point, where he exulted in the finest tragedy tones over the anticipated downfall of Fate and Rodicaso, produced the slightest sensation among his hearers. Matthew Maltboy paid the penalty of his intimate relations with Overtop, by an equal unpopularity. His fine rendition of the character of Bignolio might as well have been played to a select company of gravestones.

There was a necessary interval of twenty minutes for the fitting out of the stage—during which time the amateur orchestra performed selections from "Semiramide," but, happily, not loud enough to interfere with the easy flow of conversation all over the room. The second flutist, while looking over his shoulder angrily at the garrulous audience, executed a false note, which almost threw the first (and only) violinist into fits. In turning round to rebuke the errant performer, the violinist struck his elbow against a similar projection of the other flutist, and knocked a false note out of that gentleman too, besides momentarily ruffling his temper. This little episode diffused unhappiness over the entire music.



CHAPTER III.

ACT SECOND.

The spectators had been told that there were imposing stage effects in the second and last act; and they were not disappointed. The entire front was filled with furniture, real mahogany and brocade, leaving barely room for human beings to walk about. The background was a perspective of pillars, conveying the idea of unlimited saloons, all opening into each other. Three Bohemian vases, filled with natural flowers, were placed on pedestals in places where they would be least in the way, if it were possible to make such a discrimination. But the great feature of the scene was a magnificent paper chandelier of nine candles, which hung from the centre of the framework, and made every spectator, while he admired, tremble with fear that it would set the house on fire.

At a small table in front, covered by a rich cloth, sat the heroine, dressed in a gorgeousness of apparel that mocked her misery. Beneath the gems that studded her bosom, there was supposed to be unappeasable wretchedness; and the white brow, covered with a spangled wreath, was presumed to ache with mental agony. She was pale and beautiful. Murmurs of applause ran round the apartment.

By her side was the faithful Bidette, armed with a bottle of salts. She bent affectionately over her mistress, and asked if she wanted anything.

"Nothing, my child—but death," was the thrilling reply.

Bidette was taken somewhat aback. She made a respectful pause. Then she said:

"But, my dear mistress, though you do not love Signor Rodicaso—"

"In Heaven's name, stop, child! You are piercing my heart with a hot iron. Name not love to me. Henceforth I erase it from the tablets of my brain. Now go on" (with tranquil despair).

"I was about to say, dear mistress, please, that Signor Rodicaso has a splendid town house, and a beautiful country seat (they say), and thousands of acres of land, which will all be yours—"

The eloquent grief of her mistress's face checked the maid.

"Bidette," she said, "I shall want but a small portion of all his lands."

"What do you mean, dear mistress?" asked the frightened maid.

"Only enough for—a grave," was the harrowing reply.

This dreary dialogue was here interrupted by the appearance of the father in tights, knee buckles, velvet coat, ruffles, a powdered wig, and a general air of having been got up for a great occasion. He carefully picked his way through the furniture to his daughter, and kissed her on the forehead.

"Are you happy, my dear daughter?" he asked.

"Happy? Oh! yes, father, I am so happy! See how I smile." So saying, she made a feeble attempt to smile, which was a most artistic failure, and brought out another tribute of applause.

The father, not detecting the sad irony of the smile, replied:

"It is indeed fortunate that you are enabled not only to achieve your own happiness by this marriage, but also to redeem what is dearer to me than all else in this world—my mercantile credit. But here they come."

"Here they come," was the cue which was to bring in Signor Rodicaso and party; but the Signor was momentarily delayed by the giving way of two buttons in his doublet. When he had repaired damages with pins as well as he could, he emerged into view, accompanied by a notary and a pair of friendly witnesses. The Signor, this time, proved to be the author of the play, who had kindly consented, at five minutes' notice, to take the part in which the hapless Chickson had broken down. Stealing behind, in the shadow of the others, was distinctly seen (by all except the people on the stage) the burly form of Uncle Bignolio.

To satisfy the conventional idea of dramatic concealment, his left leg was plunged in obscurity behind the scenes, while the rest of his figure stood out in bold relief. He was observed, by those who watched him narrowly, to send a pleasant wink and nod to Bidette, who responded with a scarcely perceptible pout.

On the entrance of Signor Rodicaso and friends, Fidelia rose, turned toward them, and made a profound courtesy, as if to signify her abject submission. Signor Rodicaso bowed with equal profundity, and straightway proceeded to make a speech to the lady, in which he spoke of the wild idolatry that he had long felt for her, and alluded most disparagingly to his own merits. If the Signor's statements could be relied on, he was totally unworthy of an alliance with the beautiful Fidelia; in fact, was a "dog who would be proud only but to bask in the sunshine of her smile."

This singular address, extending over "one length," or forty-five lines, excited little less astonishment on the stage than in the audience. For it was not set down in the acting copy, but had been improvised by the author, to better the part of the Signor, which, as originally written, was destitute of Long and effective orations.

Fidelia smiled, and could only reply to this unpremeditated effusion by several modest inclinations of the head. The other actors and actress turned aside to conceal their grins. Uncle Bignolio alone fulfilled the requirements of his part, by casting Mephistophelean leers at the Signor, and now and then stealthily shaking his fists at him.

The father, not being apt at off-hand oratory, did not attempt any response to this speech, but merely bowed, to express his perfect agreement in everything that had been said, and waved his hand toward a table in the rear of the stage, as if to say, "Let us proceed to business."

The notary, taking the hint, seated himself at the table, opened his black bag, drew forth a document from it, and spread it out. Then he dipped a pen into an inkstand, and said:

"We now await the signing of the contract of marriage between Signor Alessandro Arturo Rodicaso, gentleman, and Signorina Giulia Innocenza Fidelia Corpetto, only daughter of Signor Francesco Corpetto, merchant."

In the absence of any definite information on the Venetian formula adopted in such cases, the author had selected this style of announcement as being sufficiently stiff and imposing.

Signor Rodicaso sprang forward with joyful alacrity to sign the contract, dashing off his name in two strokes, as is the invariable custom on the stage.

The climax of the drama had now arrived, and everybody stood aside for the wretched Fidelia. Mrs. Slapman proved equal to the great occasion. Directing one look to heaven, as if for strength, and pressing a hand over the jewelled bodice which covered her bursting heart, she walked with firm steps toward the fatal table. Never in her life had she been more grandly simple. It was sublime!

As Fidelia came up to the little table, she faltered, and leaned upon it to support herself; then, with a nervous motion, grasped the pen. Several times she dipped the pen in the empty inkstand, and each time her face assumed a look of more settled anguish. Then, bracing all her nerves for the decisive act of woman's life, she put down the pen boldly on the paper, and made one up stroke. Before she could make the other down stroke which was necessary to complete her signature, a wild figure, with hair dishevelled, and other evidences of hasty purpose, burst upon the stage.

Fidelia paused; all stood back; and gentlemen who had swords laid hands on them.

"Who is this?" asked the Father, with mercantile calmness.

"Who dares thus break in upon my happiness?" inquired Signor Rodicaso.

"Know you not, young man, that you are committing a breach of the peace?" remarked the notary, regarding the intrusion with the eye of a lawyer.

The wild figure answered them all at once: "I am Alberto, and I come to rend this impious contract—thus—thus—thus!" (snatching the parchment from the table, tearing it to pieces, and trampling on it).

Fidelia, astonished at the turn events were taking, leaned back in her chair, and looked on silently. Her time for fainting had not yet come.

"Draw and defend yourself, caitiff!" exclaimed Signor Rodicaso, brandishing his sword.

"Anywhere but in the presence of a lady," was the sarcastic reply. "Besides, I have claims on you, which, perhaps may teach you to respect me."

"Claims! Thou liest! What claims?"

"These! Hast seen them before? Ha! ha!" shouted Alberto, shaking a bundle of papers in the face of his rival.

"Allow me to examine them, if you please?" asked Signor Rodicaso, with forced calmness.

"No, you don't," was the response. "But I'll tell you what they are. They are judgments to the extent of one hundred and seventy thousand florins—dost hear? one hundred and seventy thousand florins—against you, which I have bought for less than quarter price from Jinkerini Bros, No. 124 Rialto. With them I offset the sum which this unhappy but excellent merchant" (pointing to the father) "owes you. Here, sir; now you are released from yon monster's clutches." (Hands package of judgments to the father, who, overpowered by the scene, takes and holds them in dumb amazement.)

An expression of silent joy begins to steal over the face of Fidelia. But her time for fainting had not yet come!

"Boy!" said Signor Rodicaso, with a composure that was perfectly wonderful, "there is another hand than thine in all this work. Thou art but the poor tool and I despise thee!"

"Here is the hand!" exclaimed the uncle Bignolio, drawing out his leg from its seclusion, and bringing his whole body into full view. "Dost know it?" He held up his right hand, to carry out the idea of the author.

"It is the hand of Bignolio the usurer," said Signor Rodicaso, despondingly, seeing now that the game was clearly against him.

"Bignolio the usurer!" exclaimed the father, still wrapped in amazement.

"Bignolio the usurer!" murmured Fidelia, whose woman's wit divined the mystery of his appearance. But her time to faint had not yet come.

"Bignolio the usurer!" cried the notary, witnesses, and Bidette in chorus.

"Yes," returned that gentleman; "Bignolio the usurer, who now is proud to claim the dearer title of 'own uncle' to his nephew Alberto. That nephew he this day receives into his partnership, and proclaims his only heir. Come to my arms, adopted son!"

Alberto flew to his uncle, and was silently embraced. Even at this moment, sacred to the interchange of the noblest affections, several persons in the audience distinctly saw the uncle's left eye wink over Alberto's shoulder to Bidette, who responded to the unwelcome familiarity, this time, with an indignant frown.

The nephew gently uncoiled his uncle, and addressed himself to the father:

"Respected sir, I have long loved your daughter, and am not totally unprepared to believe that she may, in some slight measure, reciprocate my affections. I humbly solicit her hand in marriage."

The father, with the characteristic decision of an old man of business, had already made up his mind. Alberto, the young partner and heir of the rich usurer of Venice, would be a more manageable son-in-law than the middle-aged though wealthy Rodicaso. The father said words to this effect in an "aside," and then replied aloud:

"Her hand is yours; and may your union be crowned with felicity. Come, children, and receive a parent's blessing."

"My bitter curse be on you all! Boy, we shall meet again!" shouted Rodicaso, striding off the stage, and followed by the notary for his pay, and by the laughter and scorn of the rest of the company.

Fidelia's little cup of earthly happiness was now full. Her time for fainting had arrived at last. Everybody moved to clear a space for her. She rose, and walked with an unfaltering step toward Alberto. There was no overdone rapture in her gait; no exaggerated ecstasy in her face. As a practised critic remarked, "her calmness was the truest expression of her agony of joy."

Alberto advanced halfway with a lover's ardor, and extended his arms. Then was her time to faint; and she fainted with a slight scream, sinking gently upon a faithful breast.

The father raised his hands above the couple, and blessed them in the correct way, never seen off the stage. Uncle Bignolio wiped his eyes, and murmured, "Dear boy! How much he looks like his father now!"—a remark somewhat out of place, considering that Alberto's back was turned to the uncle. Bidette hovered near the happy group, and danced for joy.

It was a touching tableau, and the spectators applauded it In a way that tickled the heart of the author, who was watching the effect through an eyehole of the left wing.



CHAPTER IV.

HOW THE PLAY ENDED.

Just as the curtain was to be rung down on the end of the play, a mad clatter of boots was heard behind the scenes. Then a man, dressed in complete black, and excessively pale, jumped upon the stage. His black hair was tossed all over his head, and his black eyes were rolling wildly. Thus much all the spectators saw at a glance.

The strange man's first intention appeared to be to dash at the happy couple; but, if so, he checked himself, and, standing at a distance of four feet from them, uttered these words: "Scoundrel! what are you doing with my wife there?" The man's whole figure could be seen to tremble.

Many of the spectators, supposing this was a part of the play—though they did not see its precise connection with the plot—applauded what was apparently a fine piece of acting.

"Good!" "Capital!" "Bravo!" were heard from all parts of the room, mingled with stamping and clapping.

The man darted looks of concentrated hate at the audience.

"Who is he?" "How well he does it!" "What splendid tragedy powers!" were some of the audible remarks that this called forth.

It was also observed that a wonderfully natural style of acting was instantly developed among the other dramatis personae. Fidelia sprang from the arms of Alberto, and put on a lifelike expression of insulted dignity, mingled with astonishment. Alberto took a step away from the ghastly intruder, and was evidently at a loss what to do. His face was eloquent with bewilderment and mortification. The father looked confused and sheepish, and put his hands into his pockets. Bidette screamed a little, and fled to the opposite scenes. Uncle Bignolio whistled and smiled, and was evidently amused at the occurrence.

All this, done in five seconds, so delighted the spectators, that they cheered, and cheered again. "As good as a theatre!" ejaculated a new friend of Mrs. Slapman's, on the front row.

The strange, disorderly man plunged forward with one leg toward Alberto, and then drew himself back suddenly, as if in a state of harassing indecision. (Applause.) Then he cast a diabolical look (worthy of the elder Booth in Richard III) at the young lover, and shrieked, "Wretch! villain! I will—I will—" He hesitated to add what he would do, but shook his fists in a highly natural manner at the object of his hate. (Great applause.)

"Sir!" said Fidelia, stretching her proud young form erect, like a tragedy queen, "How dare you, sir!" (Boisterous applause, and this remark from an elderly gentleman: "The picture of Mrs. Siddons!")

The singular individual in black was seen to tremble with increased violence. His eyes rolled more wildly, while his face took on a chalkier hue. He stepped back, as if to insure his retreat. Then, mustering all his resolution, he said:

"M-Mrs. M-Mrs. Slapman, you—you ought to be a-ashamed of yourself!"

The real character of the strange actor was now made evident, and the whole house was hushed in awe and expectation. There was not a man or woman present but knew too well the folly of mingling in a family quarrel. So they held their tongues, and enjoyed the scene.

Mrs. Slapman turned to the audience. She was pale, but perfectly composed. She said:

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is my husband, a very quiet and well-behaved man, whose only fault is excessive nervousness. This fault, I am sorry to say, he encourages, by constantly smoking cigars and drinking strong black tea. He has been indulging in both of these stimulants to-night, till he is quite beside himself. I trust you will excuse and pity him. He has no other vices that I know of."

Then, turning to her husband, whose hands had now dropped listlessly by his side, she added:

"My dear, bathe your head, and go to bed immediately."

He struggled to say something in the presence of this calm embodiment of satire, but could not. Hanging down his head, and looking very silly, he slinked off the stage.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen," said Mrs. Slapman, "after an interval of fifteen minutes, we will proceed with the comedietta of 'A Morning Call,' as if nothing had happened."

When she had said this, Mrs. Slapman fainted—this time in earnest. She was caught in the arms of Fayette Overtop, who immediately, and with the utmost delicacy, resigned her to the arms of Miss Wick (Bidette), and of several other ladies, who came upon the stage and proffered salts, cologne, and other restoratives.

The gentlemen present, actors and audience, unanimously decided that the best thing for them to do, under all the circumstances, was to leave the premises.

This they did as soon as they could, reserving all discussion of the painful event of the evening for the free air of the street.

As Overtop, very serious, and Maltboy, very jovial, were about to descend the steps to the sidewalk, they were met by a messenger, who desired them to go with him immediately to the station house to see some friends (names forgotten) who had been arrested, and had sent for them.

Thither they went, and experienced the greatest surprise of the evening.



BOOK NINTH.

THE INQUEST.



CHAPTER I.

Coroner and Jury.

The post-mortem examination had been held; and three doctors had sworn that deceased came to his death from a great variety of Greek and Latin troubles, all caused by a learned something which signified, in plain English, a blow on the head. Coroner Bullfast was so struck with the clear and explicit nature of the medical evidence, that he had it reduced to writing for his private regalement.

The post-mortem examination, and the testimony of the three doctors, and of all the people in the house (except Patty Minford, daughter of the deceased)—whose joint knowledge upon the subject amounted to nothing more than hearing somebody with heavy boots come down stairs about midnight—occupied the whole of the first day. Patty, or Pet, was so thoroughly unnerved by the events of that horrible night, that the coroner found it impossible to take her evidence on that day. She had fainted twice before she could make Coroner Bullfast clearly understand that Marcus Wilkeson, her benefactor, and her father's best friend, was THE MURDERER. Having learned thus much, the coroner had put the police on the track of Marcus Wilkeson, and had postponed the further examination of the chief witness.

Mrs. Crull, on learning of the tragic affair, had gone in person to the house of death, and taken Patty to her own home.

The remains of the unfortunate inventor had been removed to the nearest undertaker's for interment, at the expense of Mrs. Crull. The apartments had been diligently searched, and the personal effects of the deceased examined, under the direction of the coroner. A number of documents had been discovered, which, in the coroner's opinion, threw a flood of light on the motives that led to the crime. A few dollars and a bull's-eye silver watch, found on the dead body, precluded the idea that the murder was done for plunder. With that quickness of perception for which Coroner Bullfast, like most of his official kind, was celebrated, he had formed his theory of the murder, and tremendously strong must be the future testimony that could shake it.

On the morning of the second day, Coroner Bullfast and the jury reassembled, about ten o'clock, in the room where the murder was committed.

The coroner was a jovial man, with a bulging forehead, a ruddy nose, a large diamond breastpin (a real diamond, of that superlative style only seen in its perfection on the shirt fronts of aldermen, contractors, and Washington Market butchers), and the native New York manner of speaking, which is sharp and mandatory. The coroner began life as a stone mason, gained early distinction as a fireman, controlled several hundred votes in his ward, became a member of a political committee, and got a coronership as his share of the spoils. He had aspired to be a police justice, or city inspector, or commissioner of the Croton Board. To either of these positions, or, for that matter, to any position indefinitely higher, he felt himself perfectly equal. But other members of the committee (which was a kind of joint-stock company for the distribution of offices) had prior and stronger claims than Harry Bullfast, and so he was put off with a coronership. He felt the slight acutely, but, like a prudent man, determined to so keep himself before the public in his performance of the office, as to make it a stepping stone to something much higher—the city comptrollership, or a seat in the State Senate, or in Congress, or (who could tell?) the governorship of the commonwealth—that grand possibility which every ward politician carries in his hat.

The coroner was seated in the inventor's private armchair, with one leg thrown over the side of it, and the other stretched on the floor. He was chewing tobacco with manly vigor, and cracking jokes with a facetious juryman, who was assistant foreman of the Bully Boy Hose, of which the coroner was an exempt and honorary member.

The jury was composed of six men whom the coroner had picked from the large number of idle spectators found by him at the scene of the murder when he was first summoned. Two of them chanced to be acquaintances of his. As to the rest, the coroner had not the remotest idea. They might have been beggars or pickpockets, for aught that he cared. They looked stupid, and he liked stupid jurors.

"Them sharp fellers that thinks they knows more'n the cor'ner, is a cussed nuisance," he often had occasion to remark.

The jury sat near one of the windows, in a semicircle of chairs which had been borrowed from the first and second floors. Pending the resumption of their melancholy work, such of them as could read were reading newspapers containing reports of the first day's proceedings, from two to ten columns long, wherein the scene of the "Mysterious Midnight Tragedy," as one paper called it, was represented in the most ingenious manner by printers' rules cut to show the dimensions of the rooms on the third floor, the position of the fireplace, bed, washstand, chest of drawers, unknown machine in the corner, and other things which had no bearing whatever on the affair. The other jurors, who could not read at all, or had an insuperable aversion to that laborious occupation, were rolling their quids in silence, and looking wise.

At a long table in the centre of the room were seated several young gentlemen, dressed with singular independence of style. From one point of view they looked like actors, bearing about them signs of fatigue, as if from heavy night work. Observed again, they resembled young lawyers of indolent habits and scanty practice, who had just dropped in to watch the case.

From their conversation, no clue to their professional identity could be gathered. They were cracking jokes, propounding conundrums, and telling stories humorously broad to each other. Everything was to them a legitimate amusement. The proceedings of the day before were peculiarly rich in funny reminiscences; and one tall, bright, curly-haired fellow was evoking roars of suppressed laughter by his capital mimicry of two of the dullest witnesses. Another was drawing comic profiles of a sleepy juryman on a scrap of paper. He had previously dashed off a very happy sketch of the coroner, and shown it to that functionary, who had "haw-hawed," and pronounced it "devilish good," and, in turn, presented the young artist with a fine Havana cigar, which he playfully put in his mouth and chewed the end of. Yet there were, about these young gentlemen, signs of business, which an intelligent observer might have easily interpreted. From the outside breast pockets of each of them protruded a number of pencils; and, from their lower side pockets, thick memorandum books with gray covers, or stiffly folded quires of foolscap.

They were the reporters of the press—the gamins and good fellows of literature;—fellows of inexhaustible resources, who carry their wits literally at their fingers' ends;—who can do more than extract sunbeams from cucumbers; for they can make up thrilling facts out of nothing;—who can thread their way through a crowd where a tapeworm would be squeezed to death;—whose writing desk is usually another man's back; and who sketch out a much better speech between an orator's shoulder blades than he is making in front;—whose written language is a perplexity compared with which Greek is a relaxation and Sanscrit a positive amusement;—who deal in adjectives, and know their precise value, and how to administer them, as an apothecary knows the drugs that are boxed and bottled on his shelves;—who are less men than parts of an enormous mill grinding out grist to be branned and bolted in the editorial rooms, made into food in the printing office and press vault, and served up hot for the public's breakfast next morning.

Clever, witty, insatiable fellows they, for whom a planet ought to be set apart, where all the murders are wrapped in impenetrable mystery, and the smallest railroad accidents are frightful catastrophes.

The east side of the room, where the dead body had been found, was preserved inviolate from the broom, mop, and other touch, until the inquest was over. The strange machine stood in its accustomed place, flanked by the screen. It had been extensively handled and looked at, and passed for a new kind of clock. Two large weights (which had fallen to the floor) and the interplaying cogwheels gave force to that conjecture.

A large purple spot on the floor showed where the old man's life had ebbed away. Close by this spot, precisely where it had been picked up, lay the long oaken club with the iron tip, which, it was supposed, had done the dreadful deed. There were small splashes and spots on it too.

The fun of the reporters, the chat of the coroner and his friends, the readings and airy meditations of the jurors, were all suddenly checked by the appearance of Marcus Wilkeson, escorted by two police officers, and Messrs. Overtop and Maltboy, Patching and Tiffles. All five had passed the night in the station house—Messrs. Patching and Tiffles from compulsion, as witnesses, and possible accomplices, and Overtop and Maltboy as guides, philosophers, and friends. All looked seedy and criminal, as if there were something in the atmosphere of station houses to give a man the semblance of a vagabond and an outcast. Marcus Wilkeson was very pale, and, when he looked across the room, as he did upon his entrance, by a singular impulse, and saw the great blood mark and the club on the floor, he trembled with emotion.

The keen eyes of the coroner caught these signs, and he immediately brought in a mental verdict of "guilty." Some of the jury observed the same signs, and thought them suspicious. The reporters looked upon Marcus Wilkeson without emotion or prejudgment. They were so accustomed to seeing murderers, that they regarded them simply as a part of the business community—a little vicious, perhaps, but not so much worse than other people, after all. One reporter, attached to an illustrated paper, dashed off the profile of Marcus Wilkeson, under the cover of his hat, and caught the dejected expression of his face to a nicety.



CHAPTER II.

STATEMENT OF THE PRISONER.

The coroner received Marcus with that air of consideration which magistrates instinctively bestow upon persons charged with great crimes, and informed him, with some respect, that he was brought there to make any explanation that he saw fit, touching his connection with "this 'ere murder."

The party were then accommodated with seats near the jury, and facing the reporters. As Marcus looked up, and saw those practised scribes sharpening their pencils, his heart sank deeper within him. The vision which had troubled him all night, of a broadside notoriety in all the city papers, rose before his mind, clothed with fresh horror. The dull sound of sharpening those pencils was like the whetting of the executioner's knife.

The proper course was to have accepted an unsworn statement from the prisoner; but the coroner always administered oaths when prisoners were willing to take them. The repetition of that jargon with a profane conclusion (for so it seemed, in the slipshod way that it was said), which the coroner called an oath, was a positive pleasure to that official. As Marcus desired to take the oath, the coroner rattled off the unintelligible something, and handed him a Bible, which the prisoner pressed reverentially to his lips. Marcus, being now supposed to be sworn, proceeded, with what firmness he could muster, to answer the numerous interrogatories of the coroner. That official chewed hard, and, as it were, spit out his questions.

His testimony, in substance, was this:

That he was a friend of the deceased, and had loaned him one thousand dollars to complete a machine upon which he was engaged—pointing to the unfinished pile in the corner. That his relations with the deceased and his family (Marcus did not like to mention Pet's name) were entirely agreeable, until an anonymous letter, charging him with improper motives in visiting the house, had poisoned the mind of the deceased against him. [The giving up of this letter to the coroner, who read it to the jury, and then tossed it over to the reporters for copying, was a hard trial, but Marcus had resolved upon meeting all the troubles of the case halfway.]

The coroner here produced the second anonymous letter, which had been found on the person of the deceased, showed it to Marcus for identification, and then threw it to the reporters, as one would throw a choice bone to a cage full of hungry animals.

Marcus explained that he had made every effort to discover the authorship of the letters, without success; whereupon the coroner shut his eyes knowingly, rolled his quid from right to left, and said that he was "investigatin' 'em" himself.

QUESTION BY A JUROR. "Wos the letters postpaid?"

ANSWER. "They were."

The juror took the reply into his profoundest consideration.

Marcus, resuming, stated that, on his last visit—the night of the supposed murder—he had found Mr. Minford very much disturbed in mind by the unjust suspicions aroused by these letters. He had accused witness of the vile intentions referred to in them. Witness had denied the imputations with emphasis. The discussion was becoming quite warm, when the daughter of the deceased entered the room, and, being worn out with watching by the side of a sick friend, retired to bed in the adjoining chamber. The conversation, broken off by her entrance, was then continued, much in the same vein. Mr. Minford was in a distressing state of nervous excitement that evening, and talked loud and wild. Witness made an effort to keep his temper, and did so, though the peculiar injustice of the accusations were enough to arouse any man's anger. He reserved his show of wrath for the author of the anonymous letters, if he could ever catch him. He would not say that he had not replied to the deceased with some warmth of manner. But as to threatening him, or hurting one hair of his head, witness had not done it—so help him God!

QUESTION BY A JUROR. "Was the key of the door in the keyhole that night?"

ANSWER. "I don't know."

COMMENT BY FACETIOUS JUROR. "Be me sowl, I thinks that whishkay had more to do with it than the doorkay. Don't you, Harry?"

CORONER. "Bully for you!"

Clothing himself again with dignity, the coroner asked:

"Der yer mean to say, Mr. Wilkingson, that yer didn't kill this man? Remember, now, yer on yer oath!"

The horrible bluntness of the question nearly felled Marcus to the floor. He placed his hand on his brow, now pale with the acutest anguish. Then he rose, and, looking upward said:

"As God is my judge, and as I hope for heaven, I am innocent of this murder, or of any part in it."

"If you please, Mr. Coroner, this gentleman and myself are counsel for the accused," said Overtop.

"Oh! you're his counsel. Then the other two are the chaps arrested as 'complices?"

Patching writhed at this. Nor were his feelings relieved by observing, with an oblique glance, that the artist of the illustrated paper was in the act of taking him.

"I protest," said Wesley Tiffles, rising to his full height, and throwing out both arms for a comprehensive gesture, "I protest against this arrest and detention as illegal. If the coroner will give me but a short hour of his valuable time, I can—"

CORONER (puffing up). "The gentleman will be good enough to shut up for the present. When we are ready, we will hear what he has to say."

TIFFLES. "I protest, sir. I wish the gentlemanly and intelligent reporters to note that I protest—"

CORONER. "Are you, or me, boss here, hey?"

TIFFLES. "Oh! you, of course, sir." The protestant then sank into his seat, not wholly disappointed, for he had gained his object of making a little newspaper capital by tickling the reporters. He had also remarked, with pleasure, that, while he stood erect, with both arms outstretched, the artist had secured his full length. Tiffles was fond of notoriety, however achieved; and he saw a good opening for it in this case.

Overtop here suggested that it would be easy to prove their client's innocence. He would respectfully request his Honor to procure the testimony of Miss Patty Minford, if she could be found. As she went to bed in the adjoining room early that evening, she must have heard some noise in connection with the murder—if, indeed, a murder had been committed. Overtop's legal education taught him to doubt everything.

Coroner Bullfast was touched with the title of Honor, so skilfully applied by Overtop; and he answered, with uncommon sweetness:

"I am expecting Miss Minford every minute, sir. She will speak for herself. For the present, sir, I am sorry to say that it was on her testimony alone that Mr. Wilkingson was 'rested."

A look of new surprise and horror passed over the pale face of Marcus, and Overtop and Maltboy exchanged glances of astonishment.

"Now, Mr. Wilkingson," continued the coroner, taking a fresh chew, "please drive ahead with yer statement—if yer choose to. Yer not bound to say anythink, yer know."

AN INTELLIGENT JUROR. "Will Mr. Wilkeson tell us about what time he left this house that night, and where he went?"

Marcus raised his sunken head, and shook it, as if to dispel a stupefaction. Then, in a faint and trembling voice, he replied that he looked at his watch just before bidding Mr. Minford "good-night," and-observed that it was fifteen minutes past eleven o'clock.

QUESTION BY A JUROR. "What kind o' watch do you carry?"

ANSWER (exhibiting the watch). "An English hunter—- lever escapement—- full jewelled."

At any other time, Marcus would have smiled at the impertinence of the question, but he answered it gravely.

He then went on to say, that Mr. Minford had not replied to his "good-night." That he repeated the salutation, and extended his hand as a token of unbroken friendship. That Mr. Minford refused to take it, and said that he had one last favor to ask of him (Marcus), and that was, never to cross his threshold again. That he (Marcus) responded, "I forgive you, sir. When, on reflection, you think that you have done me injustice—as you will, at last—send for me, and I will still be your friend." That he received no answer to this, save a shake of the head, and immediately went down stairs into the street. He was feverish, and his brain was in a whirl. Hardly knowing what he did, he walked the streets hither and thither. He could not tell what streets he traversed, but he kept up the exercise till he was tired. Then he became calmer, returned home, entered the house with a latch key, and went to bed without waking any of the inmates. On going to bed, he observed that his watch marked one o'clock.

An intelligent juror. "You must have passed a large number of people in the streets between eleven and one o'clock. Did you see no one whom you knew?"

"No one; but at a corner some distance from here,—I could not say what corner,—I noticed a policeman sitting on a barrel in front of a grocery, smoking. He was a short, fat man, and his legs hardly reached to the pavement. I remember him the more particularly, because I stopped and lighted a cigar at his pipe. Just at that moment, the City Hall bell commenced striking a fire alarm."

"What was the district?" asked the juror who was assistant foreman of the Bully Boy Hose.

"The Seventh. I counted the strokes. I walked on rapidly, and soon came up with another policeman, who was leaning against a grocery store. I said to him, 'A cold night, Mr. Policeman,' and I think he would remember that circumstance, if he could be found. Just after I had passed him, the alarm bells struck the last round. Three or four rounds had been struck."

The assistant foreman of the Bully Boy Hose, having referred to a memorandum book which he drew from a breast pocket, here exclaimed:

"The alarm was at twenty-five minutes of twelve. Nothing but a chimney in Whitehall street. We run into Twenty's fellers, comin' back, and had a nice little row. Ever belong to the department, sir?"

Marcus answered "No;" and the pyrophilist looked compassionately upon him, as upon one who had never known true happiness.

"If you never run with the mersheen," observed the coroner, "you do' 'no' wot life is. As for me, sir, it's my boast and pride that I have been a member of the New York Fire Department for more'n twenty years. It wos the backin' of the boys that made me a coroner; and, thank God! I'm never ashamed to tell 'em so."

The coroner spoke truly. So far from being ashamed to "tell 'em so," he was always "telling 'em so," never missing an opportunity, at political meetings, to inform the firemen that he was "one of 'em," and that no mark of honor, even from the President of the United States, was equal to his fireman's badge. The continual "telling of 'em so" had aided in procuring for him his present official distinction, and was destined to earn higher honors for him at a future day.

The coroner tore off a fresh chew from a half hand of Cavendish which had been well gnawed at all the edges, and told Marcus that he might "fire away" again.

Marcus then proceeded to state that, on the morning after the eventful night, he woke up early. His dreams had been horrible, and his waking reflections were no less distressing. The thought that Mr. Minford should have suspected him, thus unjustly, of the basest of crimes, and that they, who had been such good friends, should have parted in a way that effectually cut off reconciliation; and the other thought, that this mischief had been wrought by some unscrupulous enemy, when he had always fondly believed that he never could have a foe in the world—these thoughts, occurring with great force to a nervous and sensitive man, nearly maddened him. He felt that if he remained in the house that day, as usual, and brooded over his troubles, he would grow crazy. While he was pondering what to do, his eyes chanced to fall on an invitation which he had received from Mr. Wesley Tiffles, to meet him at the Cortlandt street ferry at seven and a quarter o'clock that morning, and accompany him and his panorama of Africa to New Jersey. The day before, when this invitation came to hand, he had determined not to accept it; but it now seemed to offer him a capital chance to see some excitement and ran. As these remedies were precisely what his mental malady required, he jumped to dress himself, and hurried out of the house, seeing nobody as he made his exit, and leaving no word of explanation. He took no luggage, except a clean collar, as he intended to return the following day. He was even so careless and forgetful as to leave his purse behind him, and found, on reaching the ferry, that he had barely two dollars in his pocket.

QUESTION BY A JUROR. "Wos they bank bills; and, if so, what bank wos they on?"

Marcus answered the question to the best of his knowledge, and the juror sagely nodded, and took the reply under treatment.

"I say, Tubbs," cried the coroner, "wot's the use of askin' them kind o' questions?"

Tubbs looked up from his ruminations, somewhat confused. The politic Overtop—that model of a rising lawyer—here put in a word for Tubbs, and said that the question, in his opinion, was a very pertinent one, for it went to test the memory of his client. If Mr. Wilkeson had just committed murder, he would hardly be in that calm frame of mind which is necessary to the recollection of small facts. He hoped that the ingenious gentleman would ask many more such questions. By these judicious remarks, Overtop gained one fast friend for his client on the jury.



CHAPTER III.

JUSTICE GOES TO DINNER.

Wesley Tiffles was then examined. He commenced with an eloquent dissertation on the rights of man, and his own rights in particular, but stopped when he saw that the reporters tucked their pencils behind their ears, and waited for facts. The moment he began to talk facts—which are to reporters what corn is to crows—down came the pencils from their perches again, and went tripping over the paper.

Mr. Tiffles's testimony would have consumed two hours, or two days, perhaps, if he had been allowed to go on unchecked. But the coroner had been invited to dine at a Broadway restaurant, with a few political friends, at three P.M. So he concluded, after Tiffles had talked five minutes, that he knew nothing about the murder, and could throw no light on it, and told Tiffles that he was not wanted further.

"And you mean to tell me, sir, that I am not to be locked up in the station house to-night," said Tiffles.

"No, unless yer want ter be."

"Of course not—of course not." But the interior Tiffles was disappointed at this sudden and unromantic termination of his case. A few more nights in the station house, or in the Tombs, would have given him capital material for a book, of which he had already projected the first chapter. He sat down, and execrated his ill luck.

Patching, the artist, was then interrogated, to the extent of two minutes, and corroborated Tiffles's testimony as to the sad and strange appearance of Mr. Wilkeson on the day after the supposed murder. Patching was then informed by the coroner that his further attendance at the inquest would not be required.

Patching, on rising, had assumed the attitude of Paul before Felix, as set forth in some ancient cartoon; and in that position of mingled innocence, dignity, and defiance, the artist of the illustrated paper got a spirited sketch of him. Had Patching dreamed how capitally his long hair, peaked beard, thin nose, and bony forehead would be taken off, in a rough but faithful character portrait, he would have sunk in confusion. Happily, the newspaper artist was sitting almost behind his more pretentious brother of the canvas, and the latter knew not what had been done, until, the following week, he saw a striking intensification of himself staring into the street from numerous bulletin boards and shop windows.

Before sitting down, Mr. Patching begged to explain to the jury, and to the public through the reporters (who did not take down a word of the explanation), that he had painted the panorama of Africa to oblige his friend, "Wesley Tiffles. It was hardly necessary for him to say, in this community, that he was more at home among higher walks of Art.

"Are you a sign painter, Mr. Patching?" asked the coroner. "No, sir; I am not," said Patching, with dignified contempt.

"Perhaps you're a carriage painter, then? Them's the fellers for picturin'. The woman and flowers on the Bully Boys' hose carriage wos well done. Hey, Jack?"

"That it wos, Harry," returned the assistant foreman of the Bully Boys. "If Patching can do that sort o' thing, he'll pass."

Patching fixed looks of professional indignation on the coroner and the assistant foreman, and sat down gloomily, amid the suppressed laughter of the irreverent reporters.

The coroner then looked at his watch, and, finding that the time was within half an hour of dinner, said that the inquest would be adjourned till the following morning, at ten o'clock.

"But, your Honor," said Overtop, "—that is, if you will allow me to make the suggestion—couldn't you give us an hour longer? Nothing has yet been heard from Miss Minford, who, you said, was expected to be in attendance to-day. Will you be good enough to send to Mrs. Crull's house for her?"

"Really, I can't wait," replied the coroner. "The young lady must be sick, or she would have been here before now."

"But—pardon me, your Honor—we are anxious to have Miss Minford brought on the stand this afternoon, believing, that her testimony alone will acquit our client."

"You believe so, because you do' 'no' what it is. But, as I said before, it wos on Miss Minford's statement that Mr. Wilkingson there was 'rested. And the best advice I can give him is to take a good night's rest, and get his nerves ready for the young woman's testimony to-morrow, for it'll be a staggerer." The coroner consulted his watch again, with evident impatience, and rose from his seat.

Overtop essayed to speak again; but the coroner interrupted him with, "The inquest is 'journed till to-morrer, at ten o'clock. Mr. Policeman, you will take the prisoner back to the station house."

This speech was torture to Overtop and Maltboy, who, believing firmly in their friend's innocence, were convinced that a full investigation of the case that day would procure his acquittal. They turned eyes of exhaustless friendship and sympathy toward him.

Marcus was in that half-comatose state which is the stupid reaction from an intense and painful excitation of the nerves. He was morbidly calm. The opinion of the coroner, that Miss Minford's testimony would be a "staggerer," had no more effect on him than it would have had on the most phlegmatic reader of the case in next morning's paper.

"Then, your Honor, we must ask you to take bail," said Overtop.

"Can't take bail! Can't take anything but my dinner, to-day! For the third time, I say, the inquest is adjourned." The coroner hastily put on his spring overcoat.

Overtop was tempted to make a fierce reply; but the legal discretion in which he was educated restrained him.

The word had gone forth. The jurors rose, yawned, and grasped their hats. The reporters jammed their notes into their pockets, and precipitately fled from the room. The policeman escorted Marcus Wilkeson and his counsel, and Tiffles and Patching, to the carriage which brought them, and which still stood in front of the house, an object of tragic interest to a large crowd of men, women, and children, who had remained about the doorway during the inquest, and could not be dispersed by the policemen.

"Which is he?" "Who's the murderer?" whispered twenty voices, as the party emerged from the stairs upon the sidewalk.

"That's him! That chap with the big hat and long hair. You could pick him out of a million," said a shrewd observer.

"What ugly eyes he's got! They're sharp enough to stab ye," added a shop girl.

"I seen some pirates hung, when I was a little gal," remarked an old woman, "and they were pooty compared to him."

The object of these and other remarks was the unhappy Patching, who had not yet got over his wrath at the coroner, and was scowling and compressing his lips very like a murderer.

The policeman and his companions, all but the spell-bound Marcus, could not help laughing at these ridiculous mistakes. But Patching turned upon the crowd, and delivered among them one withering look of scorn, which fully confirmed them in the belief that he was a murderer of the deepest dye. And when the carriage rolled away, it was followed by a volley of groans, mixed with a few pebbles, handfuls of mud, and other missiles which happened to be lying around loose.

"Here, boys, don't act that way," said the coroner, who had just made his appearance on the sidewalk. "Let the poor devil go. It's a case of murder, clear, enough; and he won't slip through my hands easy, I can tell ye, if he is rich." The coroner spoke good-naturedly, for he saw several of his political adherents among the throng.

"That's the talk!" "Good boy!" "You're the feller for us!" were some of the warm responses.

The coroner smiled, as he stopped to light a cigar from the pipe of a dirty admirer, and then, bowing obsequiously to the group, he stalked off in a rowdy way in the direction of his expected dinner.



CHAPTER IV.

LIGHT IN THE PRISON.

On the return of the prisoner and friends to the station house, Marcus was gratified to find a number of old business acquaintances waiting for him in the ante-room. They were men whom he had known in his Wall-street epoch, and had always set down as good-enough friends in prosperity, but cold-shouldered creatures in an hour of trial. He was mistaken, as many men are mistaken, in judging the hearts of business men from their white and careworn faces. They came with warm hands, sympathetic words, and offers of bail money and other aid, if wanted. There were short notes from two or three other old fellows whom he had not seen for years, telling him that they were at his command.

These expressions of good will touched Marcus to the heart. He learned that, in the self-conceit of his retired and studious life, he had done injustice to these citizens of the whirling world. With a thousand thanks for the kindness of his callers, he told them that their friendly services were not needed; that his innocence would surely be made to appear; and that, to the day of his death, he should never forget them. Upon this assurance, repeated two or three times, his business friends withdrew with characteristic business impetuosity, wishing him a speedy release from his disagreeable position—which is the roundabout phrase for prison.

A policeman, who had charge of the station house during the absence of his superior officer, here informed Marcus that an old lady and a young one, an old gen'leman and a lad, had called. The old gen'leman and the lad would drop round again during the evening. The old lady and the young one were waiting for him in the captain's room.

He entered the captain's room—his companions staying outside—and saw, as he expected, his half-sister Philomela, and a young woman dressed in the height of cheap fashion, who was no other than Mash, the cook.

His sister rose, and extended her hand to him severely, and said, with a solemn voice:

"Brother Marcus, I am sorry to see you here. I hope you are not guilty of this crime?"

"Hope?" said Marcus, stung to the quick. "Why not say at once that I am guilty? It is strange that the only relative I have on earth should be the first to doubt my innocence."

"Oh, no, Marcus! You do me injustice there. I do not for a moment doubt your innocence. But you know I always advised you to give up your moping habits at home, and go into active business, like other men of your age. If you had been in business now, you wouldn't have had time to get mixed up in the affairs of this old man Minford and his daughter, and would have escaped this disgrace. I trust, Marcus," she added, emphatically, "I trust this will be a lesson to you."

Poor Mash, the cook, had been playing with her bonnet strings, and trying to check her tears. But the unnatural effort was too much for her, and she burst out crying.

"Oh, Mr. Wilkeson!" she said, between her sobs, "I—I'm so sorry to see you here; b-but I—I know yer innocent. Boo-boo-hoo!"

"Thank you, Mash," replied Marcus, quite affected at this sudden outbreak of sympathy. "You speak like a true woman. But don't cry any more, my good girl. I shall be released to-morrow." Marcus said this confidently—though he had not the least idea how his acquittal was to be obtained.

"Oh! I hope so—I—hope so, Mr. Wilkeson. Boo-boo-hoo—I—I wish I could g-go to prison in your place. Boo-boo-hoo!"

Mash had derived this preposterous idea of vicarious imprisonment from the story of "The Buttery and the Boudoir," which was now drawing near its conclusion, and gradually killing, or marrying off, its heroes and heroines.

Marcus could not help smiling at the romantic notion. Miss Philomela laughed sarcastically, and exclaimed:

"You must take pattern from me, girl, and control your feelings. My brother doesn't want crying women about him at this time."

"Don't be too sure of that, sister. Tears come naturally from a woman. They are her best evidence of sympathy, and therefore precious to one who needs it."

Mash, the cook, gave vent to a fresh shower of tears at this encouraging remark, and made Miss Philomela shrug her shoulders in disgust.

"Oh! don't be silly. Mash!" said Miss Philomela, losing all patience with the cook.

"I—I—boo-boo-hoo!—can't help it, marm."

"Nonsense!" said the superior female. "As for you, Marcus, you should not encourage such folly, when you have troubles that demand our sober and earnest attention. With reference to the past, I might say a great many things, but I forbear. To be serious, now—for once in your life—what can I do for you?"

"Will you do what I ask, faithfully?" asked Marcus.

"Yes, faithfully. I promise."

"Then, my sister, be so good as to go home immediately, and send me a spare shirt and a change of clothes. Mash can bring them. And, lest another interview should prove too severe a trial for your female sensibility, I beg that you will not come here again. If I want you very much, I can send for you."

"You are very unkind—very unkind. But I will not make any remarks. You know that nothing would give me greater pleasure than to serve my brother. For, though you have faults—I suppose you will not deny that you have some little faults—you are still my brother."

Marcus smiled, and thought how foolish it was to quarrel with the whimsical but not bad-hearted woman. "Well, sister Philomela, you can see for yourself that I am not ill used here. Comfortable bed, rousing fire, and warm meals from the restaurant round the corner! The lieutenant[1] who is in command of this station house turns out to be an old friend of my boyhood, and treats me more like a guest than a prisoner. And I must say, that, but for the idea of a prison, I could live as pleasantly here as at home. Even you can do nothing to lighten my captivity. But I promise, that if I am held by this coroner's jury—which, of course, I shall not be—and am sent to the Tombs, then I will tax your sisterly affection to the utmost."

[Footnote 1: Called sergeant of police under the recent Metropolitan Act.]

At the mention of that dreadful place, the "Tombs," Mash broke into sobs again. The touching experiences of Gerald Florville in that house of despair—as set forth in "The Buttery and the Boudoir"—were poignantly brought to her mind.

Miss Philomela looked serious as the Tombs loomed up in her mind, and she would have said something condoling, but for the irritating conduct of the cook, who annoyed her so much that she decided to leave. She abruptly shook hands with her half-brother. "It is very easy," said she, "to point out how certain mistakes might have been avoided. But let the past go. If you are not acquitted to-morrow, I shall call here again, notwithstanding you don't seem very desirous to see me. Now, good-by. Come, hurry up, Mash!"

Marcus shook hands with his half-sister, and also with Mash, who wept afresh.

In the ante-room, Miss Philomela saw Overtop and Maltboy, upon whom she bestowed a half smile, and Tiffles, whom she treated to a cordial grimace, not unmingled with a blush. Tiffles, on his part, was profoundly polite, and inquired if she were going home. Learning that she was, he remarked that he had occasion to walk in the same direction, and accompanied her as she left the station house. Mash followed at a short distance behind, not because she did not think herself fully as good as Miss Philomela, but because she wished to indulge unchecked in the mild luxury of tears.

A new visitor was now announced. He was a curly-headed, neatly dressed boy of nineteen years. His face was one that is handsomer in promise than in fact. Marcus recognized him as the boy Bog, whom he had not seen for several weeks. The boy had developed a remarkable talent for making money honestly. For two months he had attended a night school, and was fast correcting his awkward English, and attaining to other knowledge. Prosperity and schooling together had given him quite a polish. The rough boy was coming to be a presentable youth.

He advanced timidly toward Marcus, who shook hands with him. He sat down before the fire, and commenced fumbling his cap in the old way. "With the exception of that trick, and his shyness, there was little of the original boy Bog about him,

"Mr. Wilkeson," said he, giving his cap a twirl, "I am very sorry to see you here; because, I may say, I know you are innocent."

The positive manner in which the boy asserted this, charmed Marcus, "I thank you, my dear Bog," said he; "but how do you know it? For, though I am innocent, I may have some trouble in proving it."

The boy drew a small folded note from his pocket. "I'll explain, sir," said he.

Marcus here called in his counsel, Messrs. Overtop and Maltboy, and his good friend the lieutenant of police, who had just arrived in the outer room, in order that they might hear the explanation.

The boy was embarrassed by his audience; but the anxious look of Marcus, and a few kind words from the lieutenant of police, reassured him. Bog then proceeded to tell what he knew of the strange young man's acquaintance with Miss Patty Minford—which was very easily told, since it did not amount to much—and concluded by opening the letter given to him by the young man for delivery to Miss Minford, and handed it to Marcus.

Marcus glanced at the writing, expecting that it would resemble that of the first anonymous letter addressed to Mr. Minford, which he drew from his pocket for comparison. But the writing was totally different in inclination, thickness of the downward stroke, and all other respects. He read it aloud, his counsel and the lieutenant of police listening attentively.

"I don't know much about the case yet," said the lieutenant, "but, jumping at a conclusion, I should say that this sneaking chap was jealous of your intimacy with the Minford family; that he wrote the anonymous letters to the old man, in a different hand, and that he either committed the murder, or knows something about it. His motive for annoying Miss Minford I can understand—for this city is full of just such well dressed scoundrels; but the motive of the murder I can't comprehend. But mark me—- this fellow has some knowledge of it; and we must hunt him up. And, first, let us compare the letters."

Marcus handed the two letters to the lieutenant, who, with Overtop and Maltboy, gave them a close examination. One was written on faint blue paper in a buff envelope; the other on white paper in a white envelope. Every curve, cross, and dot was minutely compared; but not the faintest resemblance between the two letters could be discovered. "No more like than chalk and cheese," said the lieutenant. "My theory is knocked on the head."

"Let me examine the envelopes again," said Overtop. They had inspected them less carefully than the contents.

As soon as Overtop had placed the two envelopes side by side, his eyes lighted up with the pleasure of a great discovery. "What fools we are!" he exclaimed. "There it is! Don't you see? Don't you see? A regular Hogarthian line of beauty under the name on each."

All stared at the envelopes, and at once recognized the similarity between the graceful curved lines. They looked somewhat like the letter S laid on its side; and more like the arm of a rocking chair.

Marcus had a sudden inward vision of the writer. One of those convictions which defy all logical analysis flashed upon his mind.

"Do you know where this strange young man lives, Bog?" asked Marcus.

"No, sir. I follered—I should say followed—him two or three times, because I thought he wasn't acting just right toward Miss Minford (here Bog blushed). He always went into drinking houses and billiard saloons, and once into a place where they say the worst kind o' gambling is allers—I mean always—going on. But he knew me by sight, and I was afraid he would ask me about that letter which I didn't deliver for him. So I had to follow him a good piece behind; and sometimes I lost track of him. Then, again, he would keep a tramping round from one drinking place to another—but never getting drunk that I could see—till twelve or one o'clock at night. By that time I felt I ought to go home, and so I never tracked him to his lodgings, if he has any. But it's my belief he travels in the night, and sleeps in the daytime, like the cats."

"Good, so far," said Marcus. "You have already given us a general description of this fellow's dress and appearance. Now, tell me whether his face is pale, his mustache small and curved up in points, his eyes light gray, and never looking straight at you; his nose small, thin, and sharp; and, now I think of it, has he not got a small scar on one of his cheeks?"

"Why, Mr. Wilkeson," exclaimed the boy Bog, "that's the very chap!"

"Who is he?" asked the lieutenant of police, "that I may have him arrested at once."

"He is the son—"



CHAPTER V.

THE SORROW OF WHITE HAIRS.

At that moment the door opened, and the venerable form of Myndert Van Quintem appeared before them. Marcus cast a hasty glance, importing silence, at his companions, and rose to receive his old friend.

Mr. Van Quintem's face expressed the tenderest compassion. He clasped Marcus's hand, and said:

"My young friend, it deeply grieves me to see you here; for I feel—I may say I know morally—that you are innocent of any part in this murder."

"Thank you for your confidence," said Marcus. "I hope, when Miss Minford and certain other witnesses are examined to-morrow, to prove my innocence conclusively."

"So you will, I am sure. When I say that I know you are innocent, I found my belief on my short but pleasant acquaintance with you. But I cannot guess, from the evidence at the inquest yesterday and that of to-day—just published in the afternoon papers,—who committed the murder, or what was the motive of it. Have you any clue to the mystery?"

"Yes—yes," replied Marcus. "We think we have a clue; but so slight, that it is hardly worth mentioning. My friends here are going to follow it up."

"And in order that we may do so without any delay," said the lieutenant, "please give us the name of that sneaking letter writer."

Marcus coughed, looked at the lieutenant knowingly, and said, "Oh, that's no consequence. It's a false scent. Depend on it."

The old gentleman, as he entered the room, had caught Marcus Wilkeson's words. "He is the son—" and had observed the slight confusion with which Marcus had stopped saying something. He now noticed the glance enjoining silence, which Marcus had directed at the lieutenant of police.

Mr. Van Quintem turned pale, as a harrowing suspicion came into his mind. "Mr. Wilkeson," he said, in a trembling voice, "will you answer me one question truly?"

"I—I will," replied Marcus.

"Then tell me, in Heaven's name, do you know of anything that connects my son with this monstrous crime? I have had a dreadful presentiment, all along, that he had something to do with it. The end of his wrong career will be the gallows. I have dreamt of it for years. O God! that I should have begotten such a profligate and miscreant into the world!"

The old man made another pause, and then said, with a calmness that surprised his hearers. "Now I am ready to hear all."

"And you shall," said Marcus, "though it pains me, my dear friend, to tell you what we know of your son. I will say, however, that there is no proof directly connecting him with the murder."

"He is cunning and covers his tracks," said the wretched parent. "I know him well."

Marcus then exhibited the letters. Mr. Van Quintem compared them carefully, but could not detect the least trace of resemblance. But, on examining the envelopes, at the suggestion of Fayette Overtop, he at once recognized the Hogarthian curve as a mark which he had always observed on his son's letters.

"I could almost swear to this mark; and yet it is possible that he did not write the letters. Bad as he is, I will wait for further proofs. Please tell me all else that you know, Mr. Wilkeson."

"With regard to the letter written to Miss Minford," said Marcus, "there is, unhappily, but little doubt; as this lad, who was well acquainted with the Minford family, can inform you."

The boy Bog, very reluctantly, and with many awkward breaks, and swingings of his cap, repeated the history of the first letter, and described the young man's person most minutely, and told how he had followed him in his wild rambles about the town.

The old man listened sadly and quietly; only now and then interrupting the boy's narrative with questions that were seemingly as calm as a judge's interrogatories.

"He is a murderer. Something in the air tells me that he is," murmured the old man. "And he is my son."

The inexpressible heart-broken sadness, with which he uttered these words, brought tears to the eyes of his hearers.

"It may be, my dear Mr. Van Quintem, that your son did not write the anonymous letters to Mr. Minford, notwithstanding the point of resemblance which we think we have detected. While sitting, at my window, I have often noticed him in his room scribbling at a desk, as if he were practising penmanship. Perhaps, if you examine the contents of the desk, you may get some further light on the subject. It is wonderful—most people would say impossible—that a man should write two letters so entirely dissimilar as these."

"My son always excelled in writing. It was one of the branches that he took prizes in at school. I will examine the desk; but I fear I shall only confirm my strong suspicions that he is a murderer. O God! O God! Why did he not die with his sainted mother! Far better would that have been. It is a hard thing, gentlemen—it is a very hard thing; but if this boy of mine does not surrender himself to the hands of justice to-morrow, I shall—I shall—myself denounce him to the—"

The afflicted man, overcome with the terrible conflict between a sense of public duty, and a lingering, inextinguishable parental affection, fainted and fell into the arms of Marcus, who sprang to catch him.

While he was still insensible, the lieutenant of police, and the boy Bog, slipped out of the room, and started off on a search for Myndert Van Quintem, jr.



CHAPTER VI.

WHAT PAPER, TYPES, AND INK CAN DO.

When Marcus and his counsel, accompanied by the faithful lieutenant of police, arrived in a close carriage at the scene of the inquest, at the hour of adjournment next morning, they saw a convincing illustration of the power of paper, types, and ink.

The morning journals, with whole leaded pages of evidence, and new diagrams of the house and fatal room; and the enterprising illustrated weekly, with portraits of the deceased, the prisoner, his counsel, Tiffles, Patching (great hat and all), Patty Minford, the coroner, the foreman of the jury, a full-page design of the murder, as it was supposed to have taken place, representing the infuriate Wilkeson, club in hand, standing over the prostrate body of the inventor, from whose forehead the gore was pouring in torrents—all these delightful, provocatives of sensation had done their full and perfect work.

At that moment, Marcus Wilkeson was known to the world of readers in New York and the whole country round about, as the murderer of Eliphalet Minford.

On the second morning of the inquest an immense crowd of people were assembled in front of the house. They had been collecting since five A.M., when a party of six Jerseymen, having sold off their stock of nocturnal cabbages at Washington Market, had taken position of vantage before the house, from which they and their wagons were afterward dislodged with great effort by a squad of police. Some butcher boys, also returning from their night's work at market, were next on the ground, and selected adjacent awning posts and trees, as good points of observation. Mechanics and shop girls, going to their labor, recklessly postponed the duties of the day, and stopped to stare, awestricken, at the house.

A knot of people in a street, is like a drift of wood in a river. It chokes up the stream, and catches all the other wood that is floating down.

The police had in vain tried to clear out this human throng. They had waged the following contests with their fellow citizens, since six o'clock A.M.:—first, they had driven the Jersey market wagons to the street corner below; second, they had tumbled the butcher boys out of the trees, where they hung like a strange species of fruit; third, they had cleared a space of ten feet square in front of the house. Having done thus much, the police paused from exhaustion, and endured the jokes of the populace with philosophic disdain.

Three policemen guarded the door, within which no one was admitted but the coroner, the jury, witnesses, a few political friends of the coroner, who exhibited passes from him, and about twenty-five reporters, fifteen of whom really belonged to newspapers, and the remainder had a general connection with the press, which could never be clearly defined and established. To the magic word "reporter," accompanied by the flourish of a pencil and a roll of paper, the three policemen smiled obsequiously, and unbarred the way. Seeing how well this plan worked, two gentlemen of inelegant leisure, and at least one pickpocket, provided themselves with rolls of paper and pencils, and, giving the password, were admitted.

As the carriage rolled round the corner of the street, bringing Marcus in full view of these acres of men, women, and children—all waiting for him—the little courage which he had plucked up failed him, as plucked-up courage generally does. The sound of mingled laughter, jokes, oaths, and exclamations of impatience reached his ears.