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JPART TWO.
THE GRBAT UHL STREET MYSTERY.
B-y ADELIITE SERn-TH A isrrp
Author of “Jacobi’s Wits,” “Rot’s Repentance," “Dkveril’s Diamond,” “Under
False Pretences.” Etc.
[ALL RIGHTS RESERVED J
CHAPTER XXXI.
INVESTIGATION.
Dr. Price’s surgery was never very cheer
ful, but Alice Drew knew the place well,
and was not disturbed by .visions of
strange creatures in glass jars, and the
scent of unknown drugs, as poor Jess had
been upon her first visit. Dr. Price had
been out on the evening when be had in
vited her to visit him, but she did not wait
for the following evening, 6he went to him
early next morning, and was fortunate
enough to find him at home.
“Is that you, Alice Drew?” he called out
to her. “Wait a minute. I’ve only got a
patient or two to attend to, then I’ll come
to you.”
Alice nodded and waited quietly. While
the doctor dispensed advice and medicine
to his patients he stole a glance at her now
and then, and was struck afresh by the
magnitude of the change that had passed
over her. She stood quietly, as we have
said, and looked neither to the right hand nor
to the left: her eyes were those of a self
absorbed person—of one whose thoughts
were intent upon some object or purpose of
her own mind, undisturbed by the world
without. This expression made her face
different from the face that Dr. Price had
known of old; and it made him curious to
learn what wave of emotion had passed
over the girl’s life and left such indelible
traces of its presence in those weary eyes
and saddened lips.
“There is more than I understand in that
woman’s face,” he said to himself, with a
doubtful shake of his head.
“Come in here,’’ he said, when the last of
his patients had depaited. “I’ve half an
hour or so to spare before I go out, and I
want to have a chat with you.”
He led the way into an inner sanctum—a
dark little place which contained a wooden
arm-chair, a table, a stool and a fireplace,
and an army of pipes, aud motioned Alice
to the chair.
“Sit down,” ho said, brusquely. “I want
to stand. I can think better standing.
Look here, do you know much about that
Mill Street Mystery, as they call it}”
“I know what all the world knows,” said
Alice, turning pale and setting her lips
firmlv. “Nothing more.”
“But you knew the Eyres very well
once?’
“Yes. I did. But I don’t know how they
came to their death. I would to God I
did!”
“It’s my belief,” said Dr. Price, looking
her steadily in the face, ‘ ‘that you might
help me to find out.”
He saw at once that he had given her a
great shock. The color rushed in a bright
flood to her very throat and temples, then
it receded suddenly, leaving her white ns
ashes. She sat still aud looked at him
helplessly, her hands folded in her lap.
“Do you want to see the murderers pun
ished?’ he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“‘You— don’t know?’
“I don’t know."
The answer was unexpected.
“I don’t know.”
“But, my good woman, the interests of
justice demaud that murderers should be
punished,” said the doctor, in a dictatorial
tone.
“There is no doubt about that,” said
Alice Drew. “God will bring them to jus
tice, if man does not. They will not go
unpunished. But you asked me if I
■wanted tp see them punished, and that’s
different”
The doctor stared hard at her.
“You know how to split hairs, at any
rate,” he said.
“I don’t know what you mean, sir. But
I can very well afford to leave the matter
of punishment in God’s hands.”
“Ob. Then you don’t want to assist? You
are so sure of the murderer’s ultimate fate
that you don't even want to know who he
is?’
Anew light suddenly flashed from Alice’s
eyes.
“Yes,” she said, in a constrained voice,
“I do.”
“You do?’ queried the doctor, with the
air of one pursuing a scientific inquiry.
“You surely would not wish to know who it
was. and see him go unpunished ?’
Alice moved her hands nervously, and
seemed to answer with an effort.
"You don’t see things in tho same way
as 1 do, doctor. I can quite well afford not
to trouble myself ab ut the punishment of
the person who did that wicked murder,
because he is sure to be punished sooner or
later, and I haven’t to concern myself
with what God does. But I should like to
know who it was—so that —so that—”
“Well,; what?’ said the doctor, curiously.
Her face worked with agitation, and she
brought out her words with greater diffi
culty than before.
“I’d try aud do what I could for him. I’d
try to bring him to a s nse of what he had
done. Maybe the Lord would save his soul
after all. ’There’s beeu murderers saved be
fore now.”
"And you would try to save him?” said
Dr. Price, lifting his chin.
“Yes, I would. If I’d the strength. And
I think the strength would bo given me.”
“Well,” said the doctor, “you’re one of
the most remarkable women I ever met in
all my life. And I don’t believe there’s an
other woman to match you in the whole
length and breadth of England. So
there 1”
Ho pushed up his round spectacles, ran
his hand through his short black hair, arid
surveyed her fiercely from his superior
bight, as if h3 wanted to convey an accusa
tion rather than a compliment. But Alice,
with her eyes gazing on a dream-iike fu
ture of work and blessedness, did not seem
to heed.
“And now to business,” he went on,
smartly, when the silence between them had
lasted for a minute or two, and he had be
gun to feel it somewhat oppressive. “We
seem to be both bent on the same object,
although for different reasons—you, be
cause you want to convert the sinner, and I,
because I w-isb to punish him and satisfy my
own,curiosity at the same time. I fancy
you can help me materially if you will,
there was some talk about a young woman
♦hat Stephen Eyre wanted to marry, was
there not? W"hat was her name?”
“Her name was Jess Armstrong,” said
Alice, changing color.
“Jess—Jess; H’m. I’ve hea _ and that
name very lately. WeU, why didn’t he
marry her*”
“Sue cared for someone else. A fine
gentleman. He took her away—for several
months. She came back at last; and
Stephen took her to her grandmother, and
fbc |ojjfnino Httog.
we all lived together for some time. Then
she had a baby. When the baby was a little
more than a year old, the grandmother
died, and Stephen thought we’d better di
vide; so he and Dick went to live in Bald
win’s court, and Jess and I and the baby
had a room In Buck street—until just be
fore the murder.”
“Until just before the murder?’ Dr.
Price repeated meditatively. “How long
before?”
“Not two days. The whole of one day
and the night before. I wont out on the
Tuesday morning, and when I went back
on the Tuesday night she was gone. The
murder was done on the Wednesday
night. ”
“Did you ever associate her with it in
you mind!”
A little quiver passed through Alice’s
whole frame.
“Jess wouldn’t have hurt a fly, sir, as far
as I could see. But one rover knows. They
say that when a woman has once gone
wrong there’s no limits to the evil she’ll do.
I don’t altogether hold with that. Bat it’s
hard to say.”
“You have some suspicion of Jess Arm
strong, then?”
“No, no,” said Alice, writhing undor the
cross-examination. “I don’t believe she
would do any harm to any one. She was as
gentle and loving a3 a girl cnuld be.”
“So gentle and loving that she’d do any
thing to screen the man she eared for, sup
posing that be had committed a terrible
crime?’ suggested Dr. Price, shrewdly.
“Welf, yes”—with a heavy sigh—“l dare
say she would. But I don’t know anything
against her.” •
“Did she care for the man who cast her
offf’
“The man who—O. the gentleman. Yos,
she did.”
“What was his name, by the way?”
“Eastwoed. George Eastwood.”
The doctor meditated.
“Eastwood—Wood,” he murmured to
himself. “She called him George, and I’m
sure 1 heard him call her Jess or Jessio. It’s
thevcrypair.no doubt; and they are in
biding, for fear of being implicated ia
Eyre’s death. This is a queer piece of busi
ness.”
“Why did Eastwood leave her?” he asked
aloud.
Alice hesitated, aud a hot, painful blush
came to her cheeks.
“Leave her? She—she—left him."
“Whewl” The doctor whistled. “Now
we’re get ting at it. Laft him—for Stephen
Eyre? This is a nicely mixed little drama.
Love—jealousy—rovonge—we’re ge: ting in
all the emotions. And Stephen Eyre—
why, 1 thought he was one of the White
chapel saints 1 He was the baby's father,
1 suppose?’
“No, no, no!” cried Alice. “0, I can”t
bear this! I must tell you all! It wasn’t as
you think in the very least.”
“Not as I think ? Wtiat do you mean ?”
Alice burst into tears, aud for some min
utes sobbed unrestrainedly.
‘ ‘lf I tell you everything,” she said at
lost, “will you promise mo not to blame
poor Stephen ? For he was only trying to
do what he thought right.”
“Men think very queer things right,
sometimes,” answered tbo doctor, dryly.
“ Well, go on, my dear. 1 won’t bo hard on
Stephen Eyre. I believe he was a good
man according to his lights.”
“He was one of iho be6t men that ever
lived 1” exclaimed Alice, firing up in defense
of the man whose slave she had beeu ever
6ince she came in contact with him after
his “conversion.” “Only I always did
think him a little hard on Jess,” she added,
faltering.
“Why, what did he do to Jess?”
“You see,” said the girl, rather falter
ingly, "Jess says Mr. Eastwood made her
perfectly happy, aud gave her everything
she wanted, aud just worshiped the ground
she trod on. And she never wanted to
leave him. I do believe now that she
thought herself his wife, although I didn’t
at the time. And when she one day came
to see old Mrs. Flint, her Granny, with
money and brandy and tea, and all sorts of
good thiugs in her basket, she meant to go
back the same evening. And Stehpen, ho—
he—never let her go!”
“What! kept her away aganist her will ?”
“Yes. I had as much to do with it as
Stephen. I thought she was a wicked girl,
aud that we might be the saving of her.
Stephon had taken rooms in Baldwin's
court for the old woman and me, and his
brother, and he always said Jess would
come back to us. I think he expected ler
to come in rags, one day—miserable an l
neglected, you know. Ho used to go up to
her Granny’s old room in Mill st oet and
pray for her return every evening.”
“Regular case of fanaticism!” snarled the
doctor. “Wish I had boon there with a
lancet.”
“And one night she came. But not mis
erable. O, no. Wanting to go back to
her fine home, and only anxious to give
money and things to Granny. And
Stephen said to her, ‘No, you don’t go back.
You must stay here and promis > to re
nounce your sin.’ And he locked the door
on her, and would not let her go.”
“Good heavens!” said Dr. Brice. “And
he called.himself a Christian man, did he?’
“It was to save her soul, doctor,”
pleaded Alice, very piteously. "He
thought that she was leading a life of sin.
And so did I. Else I wouid not have helped
him.”
“You helped him?”
“Yes, 1 did. I talked to her and tried to
make her more contented. And I took off
her wedding ring, which Stephen then sent
to Mr. Eastwood with a message—”
“A message from the girl? A false mes
sage ?”
• ‘O, don’t be so angry, sir,” said Alice,
covering her face; “indeed, we thought wo
did it for the best. It, was to say tnat she
had gone away with—witn—somebody
else. 0, I know it was wrong, but he
would not let me sneak, and what could I
do?”
“One thing you could have done,” said
the doctor, seriously; “you could have given
notice at toe nearest police station tnat a
woman had been kidnapped and detained
against her will—a most felonious proceed
ing. You could not have informed
against Stephen, you say. Well, allow me
to point out to you that if you had done so,
in ail probability Stephen and his brother
would haye been alive and well at the
present day. It seams evident that the
events of which you tell me now have a
good deal of bearing on the reason of
Stephen's murder. There—mercy, girl!
don’t sob like that; are you going into hys
terics?’
It seemed almost as if she was, for her
sobs were violent, although not loud. Not
until the doctor had brought her a dose of
salvolatbe and threatened to throw a bucket
of cold water over her head—which was
his usual mode of treating hysteria in
YYhitechapel—did she recover her self-corn
SAVANNAH, GA., SUNDAY, MAY 4. 1890.
mand at all. But by and by she was able
to control her ga-piug sobs and to speak in -
tellieently.
‘H know Tm to blame—l’ve fait It so for
many a long day—but it seemed like blam
ing Stephen to say it even to ravself. I’m
sorry for the wrong I did; but as for Stephen
—God knows be meant no harm by Jess and
did it for the best."
“As he thought,” said Dr. Price, rather
grimly. “But it’s a fearful responsibility
to take tho care of other people’s souls on
his own shoulders. W e may make a terrific
hash of tho whole business, you know.
Well, go on with your story. Did the girl
take this separation from Eastwood very
easily?’
"No, indeed. She was like a madwoman.
She raved and v ept, and begged us to let
her go.”
“And you stood all that? You womeu
have hearts of stone to one another."
Alioe wrung her hands.
“O. no, no! I was very sorry for her.
But Stephen told me what I was to do—”
“And of course you had to obey him.
What relation was Stephen to you ?"
“No relation, sir.”
“Then what authority had ho to com
mand you ?”
Alice was silent, but her lips twitched
and the color rose in her tear-stained
cheeks.
“Speak out,” said the doctor, not un
kindly. “Wby did you obey him so im
plicitly?”
The answer came in low, clear tones:
“I loved him, doctor.”
“Ah, I thought so,” said the doctor.
“Love makes a fool of overyono sometimes
—oveu of a saint. Now will you go on
with your story?’
CH AFTER XXXII.
FIVE MINUTES TOO LATE.
Alice went on, almost without a pause.
“She fretted dreadfully at first, but she
grow quiet ands; iritless-like when we told
her that she couldn’t get away. Stephen
had made inquiries, and ho said there was
no doubt about it—she wan’t his wife; Mr.
Eastwood had deceived her, and would have
tired of her very coin, if he hadn’t tired
already. But I don’t know. For she told
me lots of things afterward that didn’t look
as if he was tired a bit. Ho used to have a
governess for her, to teach her how to
speak and play the piano and all that; and
although he had her called Miss Strong
while she lived at Maida Vale, and he came
near her only now and then, I believe he
meant to marry her soon if he hadn’t mar
ried her already. And Jess thought for a
long time that she was his wife, and when
the ha y came she wouldn’t have her called
anything but Goorgina—after Mr. East
wood, you know—because she said the baby
should have it’s father’s name. And that
didn’t look as if she had any cause for being
ashamed, did it, doctor?’
“No; perhaps not,” said tho doctor.
“Well, after the baby’s birth, she gave
in. Sue promised not to look out for Mr.
Eastwood nor go back to him, and to be a
good girl. And then she was allowed to go
out—first with me or Stephen, or
Dick, and then by herself. And she
seemol a changed girl—so wrapped up
in her baby, and anxious to lea"n about
good thiugs. So that Stephen thought that
she might take to mission work, and he
took her with him one night when he was
going to preach ia Mill street, and made
ner give her experience.”
“Poor soul!”
“She did it very sweetly,” said Alice,
“and I thought sho would be a burning and
a shining light amongst us; but then—just
when sho had finished—up comes George
Eastwood, and calls out some words to her
that made her faint away, and then she
would never consent to speak another word
iu public.”
“What did he call out? Some terms of
reproach?"
“I supp >se so,” Alico answered, hesita
tingly. “I couldn't say. I didn’t hear the
words, but 1 saw him look as if he could
havo killed her, he was so angry. And
then he went away, and I never saw him
again. Bit I fancy sue did.”
“And Stephen—what did he do?”
“He looked all white and black together,
somenow—l can’t tell how. I know he
aked her to marry him anil bo kept from
Eastwood’s clutches; but sho refused.”
“Stephen was very much in love with
her*”
“Yes. O, ves.”
“And his love made him cruel?’
“He didn’t think himself cruel,” said
Alico, simply. “He thought he was kind.
Even when he cut off her hair—which she
thought cruel, you know—ho meant to be
kind.”
“Cutoff her hair? Had she fine hair?’
“Lovely. It came down to her knees and
more. Aud it was the color of gold—shin
ing as bright as gold. He cut it short
shorter than a child’s—almost like a luna
tic’s —close to the head.”
Dr. Price thought of a certain shining
head which he had seen of late; of a fair,
pale face, with an aureole of curling golden
locks, anil a peculiar sweetness in the largo
gray eyes. Was that the woman of whom
Alice spoke? Was it that woman’s hair
which had fallen beneath the fanatic’s
ruthless shoares?
“The man must have been mad,” he said,
thinking aloud.
Alice sighed.
“HD father died mad,” she answered in
a low voice. “And several of his rela
tious.”
"Had you any reason to believe that East
wood really loved the girl, and was tr.vin g
to find her again?’
“Yes. X know he was. He would have
dene more if he hadn’t be- n taken ill. Dick
Eyre told me that he nearly went out of his
mi ad with grief.”
“And you took upon yourself to separate
the two —when they had livod together and
had a child?’
Alice winced.
“We thought it better that Jess should do
right, than continue au evil life," she said,
patiently.
“But you hadn’t any evidence that it was
an evil life that I cau seel Well, of all
unscrupulous sc'.femes! So the girl quieted
down at last aud agreed to live with you?’
“Yes; and we thought she was safe,” said
Alice, with tears in her eyes. “She seemed
quiet aud gentle enough. The last few
days she w as with me, I thought she looked
rather thoughtful and troub.ed, but that
was all. i never dreamt that she was go
ing back to him.”
“And you think she did go back to him.”
“Black Sal told Stephen on the Wednes
day tnat ho would find her and her man—
meaning Eastwood, I suppose—ia that
empty nouso in Mill street. And they say
that S ephen went there that evening to
find them."
“Who says so?’
“O, people in the street,” said Alice,
rather vaguely.
“And why did not all this come out at
the inquest?’
“There was nobody to tell it, sir—except
me and Black Sal—for nobody could say
anything of their own knowledge except
us. And I didn’t see any good in telling it,
aud Hal hates to come before gentle folks
lest she should get sent to prison. Mr. Hel
mont mu.-t nave known something, but he
seems to have held his tongue too.”
“That’s suspicious. Wasn’t he a great
friend of Eastwood’s.”
“Yes, sir. But I believe he’s a real good
man,” said Alioe, rather nastily.
“Tnat may be. Did you go to him?’
“Dick Eyre went to him. He declared,
then and afterwards, that Mr. Eastwood
was out of England, and hadn’t been in
London, to his knowledge, for some time."
“I think the parson was wrong,” said
Dr. quietly. “I believe t at Mr. East
wood was the person who fought with Ste
phen Eyre in that empty house and flung
him from the window to the road, and that
Je-s Armstrong was there with him. Ste
phen e as maddened, you may depend on it,
by the thought that she was about to return
to Eastwood, and Eastwood hail no mercy on
him because of the wrong that had been
done to himself and Jess. That’s the true
account of the matter, you may depend on
it”
Alice shuddered a little, but did not apeak.
It seemed to the doctor that she looked
years older since she entered the room.
The weight of responsibility, of which the
doctor had spoken, was heavy upon her
shoulders now.
"Tell me,” said Dr. Price, “what Jess
Armstrong was like.”
“She was fair and pale,” Alice answered.
“Delicate looking, as if she were a lady.
She was very pretty made, and dainty in
her ways. Her eyes were grey. Her hair
was the most noticeable thing about her—
a sort of red golden color, ail w aving and
curling whenever it got a ouance.”
The doctor nodded.
“Just no. You say she was delicato look
ing. But she was pretty strong in reality.
Strong in the muscles, perhaps?”
AlicJ shook her bead.
“I think she was wiry: she could bear a
good deal when it came to a piucb, but she
wasn’t strong in the hands at all. You
mea ”
"Nothing. I was only wondering how
s’, e and Eastwood could have got away if
they were up-stairs. Could t.iey get into
the next house?’
"Yes, easily. But the next house was
searched aud watched, aud taoy wore not
there.”
“The people are all a sot of thieves—all
in league together. They might have helped
Jess Armstrong out of her difficulty.”
“They might,” said .Alice, shaking her
head, “but it is not likely that they would
never have been found out.”
“And the man—Eastwood?’ said the doc
tor, abruptly. “Let me describe him to
you: is he like this? Me Uuin hight, rather
slightly made, brown hair, dark brown eyes,
a pointed b -ard. a quick, nervous way of
talning—is that George Eastwood?”
"I only saw him once,” said Alico, but I
believe ho is like that.”
“Should you know him again?’
“I believefthat I should know him again.”
“Then come with tne,” said the doctor, in
some excitement, “and we’U havo this mat
ter cleared up b ‘fore we are muon older. I
have a patient in that lodging bouse who
strikes me as being the man you moan.
He’s had a dose of fever, and I was called
in to him a day or two after the murder.
Never saw him before, and can’t make out
who he is, except that ho’s a gentleman.
He calls hiuisslf Wood. And he’s been
nursed by . No, I won’t tell you that.
Come with me and see for yourself. Aro you
ready?’
Alice rose and followed him without a
word. She was perplexed by his vehemence,
by his haste, but she had a good deal of trust
in the little doctor, and she was disposed by
nature to obedience. As they wout along
tho street together, he explained to her the
plan that had occurred to his inincL
“I don’t particularly want y .u to show
yourself,” ho said to her. “If ho is tho man
we think he is, ho will be alarmed by your
appearance—at least it he is guilty, and if
he is not guilty why should he lurk iu Mill
street? 8j wait on tlie landing until I open
the door, and then look in gently, so that
neither he nor his nurse may observe you.”
“Aud what thon?”
“Then,” said the doctor, with something
of a smirk, “we’ll be guided by circum
stances.”
“Dr. Price,” said Alice, stopping short,'
and looking at him with anxious gravity,
“I do not wisu to take part in the arrest of
any man.”
“Noteven for Stephen Eyre’s murder?”
“No.”
“But you will have to give evidence some
day—you may be sure of that. Well, never
mind. I don’t ask you to do it. I don’t know
that Eastwood had anything to do with the
murder. I only want you to say to me
whether you ku >w this* man or not.”
Thus reassured Alico wont on, although it
was evident that she was uot quite easy in
mind. As they reached Mill street, which
they entered by tho Baldwiu’s court end,
sho noticed that Dr. Price became once
more violently excited.
“Heaven aud earth!” ho cried. “They
haven’t stolen a morca uoonus, have they",
after all?”
“Who?"
“Who? Why, the man that we are In
search of. Look, there’s a cab driving
away.”
“Well”
"You are very douse this morning, Alice
Drew. Don’t you see that this man may
have ruu away from us?’
"It is not very likely,” said Alioe, sooth
ingly. “You say that he is an invalid; he
wou.d not be likely to go away so suddenly;
aid ho does not suspect anything, so why
should ho go?’ Hho began to think that
the doctor did not show his usual good
sense.
“I don’t know why; that’s just wbat I
should like to find out, observed her com
panion, slackening his pace, however. “I
suppose I can’t overtake t iat cab, so I may
as well tako it easy. Well, here we are; we
shall soon find out.”
"That is Mrs. Birch, the landlady, at the
door,” said Alice, iu a significant under
tone.
“So it is. Fine day, Mrs. Birch. Business
good, I hope.”
“Just lost a lodger, if that’s good,” said
the woman with a scowl. “A g xid paying
one, too. Weut away iu a cab like a gentle
man, too.”
"Eh? Who was that? My patient?”
“The man Wood,” said Mra. Birch. “llopj
he paid you.”
“Not he,” said tho doctor, endeavoring to
look jaunty, aud at his ease. “But I sup
pose he’s coming back again."
"You’d bettor ask his young woman up
stairs,” said Mrs. Birch, gruffly. “He’s left
hor behind. I don’t kuow a lything about
It.”
She turned away. The doctor and Alice
exchanged looks of comprehension and dis
may.
“Is it Jess—up-stairs?” Alice ventured to
"I believe it is.”
“O, let me go to her. She will be in
trouble now.”
“I’ll go up first,” said the doctor, “Wait
for me. But I believe we are five minutes
too late.”
The parting between Jess and her hus
band had taken place with extraordinary
quietness. They had scarcely interchanged
a word since the long conversation of the
preceding day, and it was almost a surprise
to Jess to find that George had made up his
mind to go so soon next miming. She helped
him to dress before 11 o’clock; and when
Mr. Field arrived, with a ca aud a nurse,
and a trunk containing certain things which
he had thought necewa y to provide at
once, Eaitwood was waiting impatiently.
He greeted Mr. Field briefly, and spoke to
him a few minutes apart.
The banker nodded two or throe times,
and then turned to Jess, who was standing
pale and silent in the middle of the room.
Mr. Field strongly disapproved of Jees, but
he was struck at that moment by the ex
pression of utter misery upon her lovely
face. It softened him, aud made his voice
almost kindly when ho spoke.
“Now, my good girl," he said, “I shall
have something to say to you by and by.
You must wait here for me until 1 come to
you this afternoon, or at latest to-morrow
morning. A comfortable home will be
provided for you; so you need not fear for
the future. Aud here are fifty pounds in
notes; you can get what yon like with.them
for yourself—and your child.”
Ho held out the notes to her, but she did
not take them. He put them on a table
beside her, apd looked at her, puzzled and
uncomprehending. George Eastwood came
up to his friend aud laid his hand upon bis
arm.
"Come away, Fieid,” he said. "What are
you stopping for? You can explain it all to
Jess lat roil. Good-by o, Jess, You under
stand our arrangements— they will lie all
right as far as you aro concerned. Good
bye. Field, you’ll take care of my wife
w’hilo I am away.”
He went hurriedly towards her add
touched her forehead with his lips. Mr.
Field looked on, frowning. He had not had
the position explained to him exactly, and
ho was inclined to take a dark view of it.
Yet Jess’ pathetic eyes were sweet in their
vory sadness, and did not betray any pecu
liar wickedness or weakness.
Having kissel her and providol for her
welfare, as he thought, he did not fool that
any further demonstration could be required
of him. He hastened out of the room, was
carefully as isted down stairs by his friend
and helped into the cab. J as had not the
strength or the courage to follow them. She
heard the wheels of the cab rolling over the
uneven stouei o' tho narrow street, and
stood Usteniug, witn fixed eyes, as if her
vei s had b>e n struck to ice.
Thus she stood, unsooing and motionless,
when Dr. Price, eager and curious, put his
head in at the door. One glance showed
him tho state of things, lie turned at once
ami ailed to Alice Drew.
“Come up,” he said. “Hero is somebody
that wants your help.”
Alice came in. Bhe started when her
eyes fell upon Jos? face, and for a moment
she seemed to hesitate. Then she advanced
aud took the poor, strained, white figure to
her breast.
“My poor Jess,” she said.
And Jess clung to her, trombling, shiver
ing, sobbing—the frozen calm broken at
last by her old friend’s words of lovo.
[TO BE CONTINUE!?).
THE FAT MEN OF ’FRIBCO.
A 532 Pound Police Captain and a 250-
Pound Newsboy!
NVom the Son /Vancisco Chronicle.
A forty-niner of prominence, who him
self turns the scale at 291 pounds, said in
reply to inquiries as to our prominent
heavy-weights: “If you give me time I
can name 300 men easily who will weigh
over 300—yes, 250. Let me see—you just
take them down as I give them to you. 1
don’t know all their weights to a pound,
but you will find 1 am not far out in any
of them, and some are correct, for they
were told me by tho parties themselves.”
Ho then proceeded to name: Judge Wal
lace, 330 pounds; Dr. Merritt, 320; Judge
Baker, three times elected police judge in
tlie oarly days, 349 pounds; John D. Sta
ples, president of the Firemen’s Fund Insur
ance Company, 395 pounds; Senator Stan
ford, 390 pounds; ex-Shenff Peter Hopkins,
300 pounds; A. E. Davis, railroad agent,
340 pounds; William Alvord, president of
the Bauk of California, 380 pounds; ex-
Gov. Lowe, president of the Anglo-Call
fornia Bank, 280 pounds; J. F. Chapman,
2919 pounds; Commodore T. H. Allen of
Allen & Young, stevedores, 280 pounds;
Capt. A. F. Greonleaf of the ship Fanny
Tucker, 440 pounds; C ipt. Oliver Eldridgo,
surveyor aud agent for New York under
writers, 213 pounds.
“Theu,” he continued, “there aro a lot of
prominent heavy men whoso weights I
never guessed at; for instance, N. Lohse, as
sistant city superintendent of the Spring
Valley water works; Capt. White of the fire
patrol; James N. Reynolds, agent of the
Westchester Fire Insurance Company of
New York; IVard N. Smith, secretary
Deming-Palmer Flour Milling Company; E.
P. Grace, pork merchant; George H. Whea
ton of Wheaton & Luhrs, pork dealers;
Charles Dexter, steward of the Han Fran
cisco Club at Sausahto, and a great number
of others 1 could name. The heaviest man
we ever had iu San Francisco was Police
Capt. Kentzol, who died a littlo over two
years ago. He weighed 533 pounds the last
time 1 asked him. I have not given you
auythiug like a full list of tbo heavy men in
the city; It would take time to think of all
I kuow, and, uf course, I do not know them
all, anyway. The weights I have given
aro correct in Borne cases, as I said, and the
others 1 bnve judged as closely as possible,
but you’ll find them pretty near the correi: t
figure on an average.
“Do I do anything to keep my weight
down? Yes, I havo to diet myself. The
others mostly have to do the same thing,
and they are nearly all following some sys
tem or other to keep down their flesh.”
Accepting the forty-niner’s figure.? as
correct, the average weight of the first
named fourteen San Franciscans would be
336 pounds—a respectable figure.
A list of city heavy-weights would hardly
be completed without Willie Bolodo, tho
mammoth newsboy who makes bis head
quarters at tho corner of Market and Btock
tou streets. Willie’s ago is only 18 years
and some months, yet his weight must be
about 250 pounds. His exact weight no
one kno was, as lie has not been on a scale
for eighteen months, aud cannot be induced
to.
Asiatic Child Wives.
From the London Society Gossip.
Tho Indian reformers who have taken in
hand t ie remarriage of girl widows find no
difficulty in btaiaing plenty of candidates.
Where trouble c ones in is as to the disposal
of these rnatrirnoni and disputed Tidies pend
ing the discovery of suitable partners. No
sooner does a widow announce her intention
of securiug another husband, if she can,
t an she is disowned by all her kith and
kin, cut by her acquaintances, and in some
cases sent adrift to pick up a living for her
self.
The reformers feel under an obligation,
therefore, to soften the severity of the
martyrdoln to tho Test of their ability, and
with that object widow homes have been
established here and there. The expedient
is, perhaps, as good a one as could be de
vised, but the managers of the homes are
not to envied. In order to carry out the
rest of the scheme suitors have to be ad
mitted to make ohoice among the bereaved
beauties, and then, of course, a certain
amouut of philandering m 1 be allowed to
enable the high contracting parties to come
to terms.
Ail maternal heads of families well know
that even when only one affair of this sort
is going on in a household a deal of finesse
and circumspection has to be exercised.
Dire, then, must have been the perplexitiei
of the native matron at the Julpigori home
lately, when twenty-five amorous youths
were daily courting as many skittish widows.
The bridegroom’s expectant actually had the
audacity to apply for lodging in toe house,
but this respect was, of course, sternly
refused. Since, however, the system
appears to bring about a considerable num
bsr of marriages, these little imperfections
in the mac hi lery may be pardoned. There
is no fate more torrible than that of the
Indian child widow, doomed to an isolated
and hopeless existence while yet in her
teens.
MALLISTKR OX FORM.
HE DISCOURSES ON THE IMPORT
ANCE OF TRIB LEB.
The Proper Way to Write a Note —
How it is Possible to Give Offense
by Ignoring Unimportant Detaile.
(Copyright.) .
New York, May 3. —It certainly seems
to me, said Ward McAllister, recently .that
everybody should give studious and delib
erate attention to the minor details of
fashionable life. There is more chance of
making mistakes here ad ia giving serious
offense than anywhere else. IVhen it comes
to matters of importance, tho fact of their
importance seoures thought and eare, aud
if mistakes are made i comes from deliber
ate stupidity and wrongheadedness. The
mistakes which are made about trifles,
however, come largely from thoughtless
ness, and very frequently do not admit of
satisfactory explanation.
It is no umisual thing, for example, to
find a man or woman sending a note to an
acquaintance or a friend, and addressing
the envelope Mr. John Smith instead or
John Smith, Esq.
It would bo difficult to tell, perhaps, wby
it is so, but Mr. John Smith is felt to be a
mean aud dorogatory wav of subscribing
the envelope, aud it is a fashion never used
by careful people. John Smith, Esq., is the
accepted formula, and unless the envelope
is addressed to a tradesman or a mi in a
fiistmetly inferior walk of life, it is the
formula which must be used. It is not
even permissible to use Mr. Smith when
tlie first name of the gentleman for whom
tho letter is intended it unknown. The
proper formula in such a case as this is,
Smith, Esq. I need scarcely say, how
ever, that tlie man who is driven to this
disagreeable necessity will inform himself
as to bis correspondent’s first name at the
first favorable opportunity, bocauso ttie
m ist good-natured person will tako it as a
slight if the people whom he knows do not
remember his full name, and that consider
ation for the rignts and feelings
of others, which wo are bound
to have, demands enough attention to
this point'to secure accurate knowledge.
I state the nractioe iu this matter ns I
would in any other matter, and do not pre
tend to explain or justify it. One obvious
reason, however, wby it is better to writ*
John smith, Esq., than Mr. John Htuitb, is
because Mr. and Mrs. are so much alike
when written that tlie letters for u husband
and wife are vory apt to get mixed up. If
John Hmitii, Esq., is written, however, and
the letters to his wife are odd roused Mrs.
John Smith, there is no chance of any
such mistake occurring. In England,
where the lines between classes are drawn
perhai>s more distinctly than they are
hero, the uie of Mr. and Esq. is more
carefully distinguished. I remember par
ticularly that my friend Joseph Loubat was
very much annoyed when he entered his
yaont, the Dauntless, for a race on the other
side, that his name was entered simply ou
the programme as Joseph Loubat, while the
English owners uf other yachts were distin
guished by the supplementary Esq. When
he called the atteniioii of tlie regatta com
mittee to this fact, they tol 1 him that Esq.
in England was only affixed to the name of
a man who held property, and as he owned
no property in England that description
could not be accorded him.
The blundering writer of a letter is very
opt to offend a sensitive correspondent
when he comes to write the note itself.
This is particularly the case if tho corre
spondent who receives ttie letter fancies
that the writer of it thinks himself superior.
It is no umisual thing for writers to address
correspondents as Dear Madam or Dear Sir,
even when their feelings are of the kind
liest. This it not allowable under any cir
cumstances. If you have any acquaintance
with Mr. Smith at all you aro
bound to address him ns Mv
Dear Mr. Smith, or simply Dear
Mr. Smith. If you are roally intimate with
him, Dear Smith or My Dear Smith is
permissible. Of course, in the intimacy of
long friendship or of Unship, more affec
tionate matinors of address are appropriate.
As between Dear Mr. Smith and My Dear
Mr. Smith, some authorities hold that Doir
Mr. Smith is lesi formal and more intimate
than the longer and more elaborate phras
ing of the address. Dut this is a matter
wliich is not really of great importance,
and may be determined each one for him
self or herself.
The only case where the beginning of a
note with “Sir" or “Dear Sir” is not indi
cative of a feeling of superiority on the
nart of tho writer, mid his desire to keep
the correspondent at a social distance, is
whore the uoto is hostile in its character. If
you have been unfortunate enough to get
into entanglements with some man or other
with whom you have held social relatious,
and you are addressing him concerning a
serious difference between you, even
amounting to a differe ;ce which can only
bo settled by a meeting on the field of honor,
you address him as “Sir,” or even “Dear
Sir.” The phrasing of such a note is, of
course, something like this:
"Slit: Your last note leaves me nothing
to say except that my friend, Capt. Hwift,
will call on you to arrange the details of a
meeting between us, which I hope will be
fixed for as early a dale as possible. Yours
truly, Tom Jones.”
I need scarcely say, rosum-d Mr. McAllis
ter, that when a person is writing to some
body wbonghe does not know at all. and has
not known, ttie only way to get around the
difficulty, continually presented in such
cases, is to put the letter iu the third person
and present tho compliments of the writer
to the corresp indent, and inclose a personal
card. This also is a fsvori e mode for men
and women to address peopln with whom
they have business relations and no social
relations whatever. Of course this formula
will not do for a dueling formula. It would
not do to write to a mortal enemy as fol
lows:
“Mr. Smith’s compliments to Mr. Jones
and hopes to meet him at the Elysian Fields
to-morrow morning at 10.”
That is positively Gilbertian in its ab
surdity.
Having disposed of the addressing of an
envelope, which, by the wav, is a very good
thing to do first and to do before you have
written the note, and having said what
was necessary concerning the proper way
of beginning your note, the next
matter after the contents, which, of
oourse, must be determined in each
case by the writer himself or herself,
is the subscription of tne note. Yours
Truly is the most formal and perfunctory
wav of introducing tho signature. Yours
Sincerely is coming into use iu England to
a certain extent, aud of course will be
taken up here. Faithfully Yours is also a
formula which is securing some English in
dorsement, and that ia the long run means
an American indorsement. The old form
of Your Obedient Servant, etc., has gone
out altogether. Yours Respectfully is ouiy
used when addressing a man in an official
position ou a matter of first importance.
It is worth while to say something re
garding the use of R. 8. V. P. „These initi
als are still used to some extent by the en
gravers of invitation cards, but in nearly
every case wlnre 3uch invitations are used
t.jey are either unnecessary or impertinent.
If a manor woman sends out iuvitations
for a dinner and appends R. 8. V. P, it is
unquestionably an intimation that the per
PAGES 9 TO 12.
son receiving the invitation has not sense
enough to answer it. An invitation to din
ner. after all, ia nothing more nor leas than
a personal note, and a personal
note demands an immediate re
sponse and nobody who has any knowledge
of good form would fail to make that an
swer just as promptly as crcumstancea per
mitted. If the invitation is for a larger
entertainment than a dinner, for a recep
tion as an example, the hostess does not re
quire an answer, because if she invitee
anybody to call on her it is taken for
granted that they will call. The call
may not be made In fact, bub
it is made in effect. There
may be a hundred reasons why actually
it cannot be made, but these reasons can
not be formulated, and tho invitation musk
be taken ns accepted. R. 8. V. P. is now
almost obsolete, and when it is finally
relegated to oblivion I tremble to think of
what will become of those ingenious gen
tlemen who have beeu filling outthe initials
at their own sweet pleasure for the funny
columns during the long succession of years
since it was first introduced.
A man of my acquaintance once said to
mo, said Mr. McAllister, thoughtfully, that*
a gentleman can afford to walk, but he can
not afford to drive in a shabby carriage.
The man I have quoted was not only a
shrewd man of the world, Ho was a man
who, all his life, had compared his observ
ations and drawn fr m them philosophical
reflections. The axiom just quoted had
a much wider and deeper significance
than appears on the surface. What he
meant to say was that a gentleman can
do almost anything if he does it as well as
any body else. In other words, a gentle
man must not attempt to do anything and
fail. But just as toon as a man appears in
in a shabby equipage, and the coachman
has a battered, bat, he demonstrates that
ho is ineffectually reaching out for some
thing which he cannot grasp, either because
of want of moans or want of taste and in
telligence, and it immediately puts the man
in a ridiculous position.
What is true of the equipage is of course 1
true of the clothes which n man or woman
wears. Clothes do not make the man, and
in consequence a gentleman can afford to
wear shabby clothes if he can afford no
other, hut if ho does so he refuses at once to
bring his shabby clothes in comparison
with the handsome costumes of other people.,
Ho knows what he is without reference to,
his olottie* at all, and his good sense
teaches him that he cannot afford to chal
lenge comparison with a man who does not
compare with him in point of manhood,
but who outshines him so far os his coat
aud vett aro concerned. That is to say he
may not outshine him bocauso the older and
shabbier the coat the more shine there is to
it, but the new coat outshines the old ona
by throwing it in the shade.
"Wbat is the attitude,” I asked, “of the
fashionable man toward men whom he con
siders bis social equals and men whom he
considers his social inferiors?’
“Well,” responded Mr. McAllister, with
a smile, “a very accomplished leader of the
german in town, who is deemed by many
people to be one of our most fashionable
men. is credited with the statement that he
would cut his own grandmother on the
street if she was shabbily dressed. Thl*
was, of course, an exaggerated way of say
ing that no man of fashion cau be seen
bowing to people ou the street whose
appearance proclaims them ns belonging
outside tho fashionable world. Tbs rule that
a fashionable man shall not be seen in pub
lic places except with moa aud women as
fashionable as he is is a rule to which he
accords tho strictest allegiance. If a man or
woman aceosts him on tlie street and he is
slightly acquainted with them he will stop
and hear what they have to say. If they aro
shabbily dressed, or their inferior social
position is indicated in any way whatever,
lie will not under any circumstances permit
them to walk along tlie street with him,
even to the extent of half a dozen steps.
If tho man thus stopped answers the
questions addressed to him and thinks the
conversation is over and resumes Ids walk
and tlie person who has accosted him starts
to walk with him, ho will immediately stoD
attain; or, if he finds it necessary, will hail
a passing stage or car or go into a conve
nient shop. He will not porinit himself for
a moment to be seen walking along the
street with anybody whoso appearance
would excite criticism among his friends.
This of course states his attitu !o while out
in tho world to people uf inferior social po
sition. The idea of accompanying suoh peo
ple to public restaurants or to theaters, or
indicating iu any such unmistakable way
that lie holds social relations with them is
out of the question altogether.
H. 8. Hewitt.
HE SAW THOSE BYES.
The Brief Romance of a Gallant Barber
of the Chicago Stock Yards.
From the Chtcago Tribune.
Edward D. Bradley is a polite stock yards
barber, and when William O’Day dropped
Into his shop on Forty-seventh street, near
Center avenue, Saturday night nnd told
him that a young woman across the street
wanted to see him, Bradley put his strops
and razors and shears away and locked up
his shop. O’Day said tho young woman
was from Geneva Lake, nnd she had gazed
upon tho dazzling barber from a distance
until her heart was fairly eaten up with a
longing to meet him. She was standing in
the shallow of a house at the corner with a
shawl ever her head when Bradley came up.
“H’m, good evening, lady,” said the bar
ber.
"Good evening," said the girl.
"It is a baduiglit. Can’t lseeyou home!"
said the polite barber.
“On, you are so kind,” murmured the
girl.
“Not at all,” said the polite barber, and
he took the young woman’s arm and walked
down Aberdoen street with her. The barber
said nice things and the young woman
blushed under her shawl. The barber
asked her to remove the shawl and let him
see her face.
“Let me look into those eyes but once,”
pleaded the polite barber.
“All right,” said tho young woman from
Genova Lake. When they reached the
corner of a dark alley she whipped off the
shawl and dexterously threw it over the
polite barber’s head, while threo young men
wno had followed them went through the
polite barber and gathered in his SBS. gold
watch and $lB in greenbacks and silver.
Tho barber struggled hard, and in the
struggle he caught a glimpse of the young
woman from Geneva Lake. The young
woman had several inohes of beard and
othor masculine peculiarities which few
young women who are not in dime museum*
boast, and when she had punched tho polite
barber iu the jaw he knew he had been de
ceived.
After the young men and the
young woman had escaped, the
barber went to a police station
and told his story. The police ar
rested James Morrisey, William O’Day,
aud Barney Wood. He says Barney Wood
is the young woman from Geneva Lake,
and Morrisey and O’Day are two of the
three young men who helped her. Wood
had Bradley’s pocket piece ia his pocket
when he was arrested.
“Hay,” said the polite barber yesterday,
“if Mr*. Langtry was to come down to the
yards ami say, 'Brad, I’m stuck; let’* take a
walk,’ I’d say, ‘Excuse me, ma’am; I have
a haircut and a shampoo here that needs
tendin’, and you’ll have to let me out. 1 ”
