About The sunny South. (Atlanta, Ga.) 1875-1907 | View Entire Issue (Dec. 17, 1887)
THE SUNNY SOUTH, ATLANTA, GA., SATURDAY MORNING, DECEMBER 17. 1887 THE PARADISE LOST; , oe, Graf Serden’s Bride. Translated from the German of M. von Reithenbath for the “Sunny South” By ■». IT. H ARBEIT, Translator afVie “Black Hose,’' 11 Brother and Sister,’’ “Parallel Lines,” Etc., Etc. CHAPTER IX. The long whistle of the locomotive announc ed that the north-bound fast train was drawing near the imperial city on the blue Danube. “At last!” cried Serden moving to the win dow of the coach. “At last! There is the bridge, there is the Kahienberg—we are in Vienna! It has been long enough, certainly !’V Hastily looking to his luggage he pressed the hackney-coachman a gulden “extra” into his hand to accelerate his speed. Finally the cab stopped before the house of his mother-in-law. "Is the Graflin Serden at borne?” he asked the footman who opened the door. “At your service, sir; but the Frau Graffin receives no visitors.” “No matter, take me to her!” “That is impossible, your ladyship, the Frau Graffin, is sick.” “Foolishness, I do not mean the i rau Graf fin Neysletten. I know she is unwell, I mean the Frau Graffin Serden—'.he young Graffin—” “Beg pardon, your lordship, the young Graffin is also sick, our old Frau,Graffin is somewhat better again, thank God!” “She sick—Irma? I am the Graf Serden, show me immediately to my wife!” But that was not so easily accomplished as Serden thought. Irma’s elder sister who was unmarried and resided with her mother en tered the salon. Comtesse Isabella received her brother-in- law with a sorrowful countenance. “You came yourself—what will you say? that we ought to have communicated with you?” she said, meeting him. “Irma is sick—since when—what ails her?” he asks greatly agitated, going towards the door. “Oh, no, you cannot go to her, it would ex cite her too much. She was sick when she reached us, but would not allow us to notify you of it. In spite of her request I wrote you yesterday evening—you did not of course re ceive the letter.” “But for Heaven’s sake what is the matter with her?” “We are at a loss to know ourselves yet. She arrived feverish, her condition since has de teriorated; the physician fears a nervous fever. He thinkB it was caused from over excitement at the sudden news of mamma’s illness—the journey—the loss of sleep, or, perhaps, the contraction of cold.” Serden stood before her for an instant as if benumbed. He shivered as with ague; then he said with a soft voice as one who is fearful of waking a sleeping person: “Let me go to her, I must see her.” “The doctor has strictly enjoined us not to allow the slightest thing to come in contact with her that would excite her.” “The doctor, where is he? What is his name? I will bring him, he shall take me to her himself,” cried he with suddenly awaken ed energy. “It is bis hour; we are looking for him every moment. You would not find him at his home now.’’ “Well, I will wait for him,” the Graf said with a sigh of resignation. “Yep, that is advisable; come, I will take you to the room adjoining hers. It is her old school-girl writing-room, and is exactly as she left it when she was married. You shall ap propriate it while you are with us, it is the best arrangement we can make just now; everything is in such a state of confusion. Serden followed his sister-in-law. They en tered a single-windowed carpeted room sep arated by a heavy portiere from the room oc cupied by his wife. Comtesse Isabella pressed her finger on her lips to signify that he must not betray his presence by a single word. She drew back the curtain noiselessly, and pointed to a large screen in Irma’s room There then lay Irma, he said in a mental aside. With noisless foot steps the form of a dun emerged from behind thsetCwaw ippf^*eWl-*A»,»p!>rUczce > - - Serden ahnddered. His glance rested anx iously on the screen, behind which he was forbidden to step, while the two ladies con ferred in subdued tones together. Then the nun disappeared in the sick room and the portiere fell behind her. “Sister Angela says that Irma is sleeping. I must go out now to await the doctor,” said Comtesse Isabella, leaving her brother-in-law by himself. He stood at the writing table near the win dow. Here had Irma sat when a girl; with ered flowers stood in a vase and dropped their crisp, crumbling fragments on the table; pret ty bisc statuettes stood near them. Serden had never been in the room before; he had met his wife in Italy and the wedding had taken place at the country place belonging to her family. The room was strange to him and the low ered curtain between him and Irma, who he could not realize was sick, because he had never seen her so, increased his inquietude. Who could prevent him from throwing the curtain aside and going to her, he mused; tut then if the surprise were really to make her worse? what if her condition were indeed critical? He shook his head, no that was out of the question. They would care for her tenderly, she would soon be restored to health; he could not conceive of it being otherwise. Mechanically his hand glided over one of the ornaments on th i wriiing table. There were little figures with dates engraved on them, “favors in the dances,” he ruminated, also some faded photographs, a group of young girls, among whom was Irma, and some well known actors and artists. Serden reproached himself for having al ways spoken to his wife of the present and never alluding to the past. If she did look like a girl of seventeen she was nevertheless twen ty-two years of age when they- were married. There might have been many alterations in the past six years. He had never looked at it that way before, and it struck him all at once with an unpleasant sensation, that be had not been in her thoughts when she had used the little room during her school days, for that was before she had meet him. “Who could have been most in her mind then?” he won dered. He took in his band a paper-weight that stood near the flower-vase and turned it over; a name was engraved in the marble base. He held it in the light and read: “Walter Weiringen.” There it was again—the name of the author of the portentious novel, then of all places, among the relics of Irma’s girlhood.. He was still holding it in his hand, when Comtesse Is abella came in with the physician. He greeted the Graf hurriedly, requesting him in business-like tones to wait until he could ascertain the condition of the Grafin. Again Serden was left alone still retaining the stone paper-weight in his hand. The mo ments seemed to grow into dragging hours as he impatiently waited. After a while the cur tain stirred; he replaced the stone upon the table and gazed anxiously into the face of the old family physician. “Is she still asleep?” he asked, almost choked with suspense. The physician answered with a negative shake of the head : “It is not sleep, Graf, and if you wish to see her it wont injure her now, your wife is not fully conscious.” “My God! Doctor is it so serious—is my wife in danger? I beg you to answer without restraint!” “You must not lose hope,” said the physi cian kindly, “but it is as I feared, a nervous fever.” Serden closed his lips tightly together and followed the doctor to Irma’s bedside. There she lay among the snowy pillows with cheeks inflamed with fever and gleaming eyes wide open. But they were gazing into space, and passed over the faces around her without show ing the slightest indication of recognition. As Serden drew near she shuddered a little and murmured a few disconnected, unintelli gible words, but her expressionless features did not lighten in the slightest as he bent over her. He sank into a chair near the bed and held the hot, throbbing, emaciated hand in his. She drew it from his clasp and turned away; Serden felt that moment as if she were to him - t forever, and a heavy pain shot through reast as if his very heart had broken with eight of sorrow upon him. later, as he was leaving the sick room and shook hands with Serden. But it was only a woeful smile that passed over the Graf’s face at the good news, and his voice sounded feeble as he expressed his grat itude to the physician. The doctor looked at him scrutinizingly and shook his head : “You have worn yourself completely out, Graf,” said he, “you look fatigued and broken down. Go at once to sleep and rest yourself up, or you will be on the sick list yourself next.” Serden tried to smile delusively, and did not reply. When the doctor was gone, he sat in the little writing room racking his brain over a resolution which was hard for him to make, but which, after deliberate reflection, he had concluded must be made. Irma was sleeping for the first time since her illness—breathing deeply and quietly. Comtesse Isabella meved softly between her convalescent mother and sick sister and threw, now and then, an inquiring look at her broth er-in-law who sat then so still and depressed in spirits, as if he had not comprehended the cheering words the doctor had spoken. At last she ventured to approach him and laid her hand gently upon his shoulder. “I believe you would like to ask me some thing, Karl? Irma must not be disturbed for a long time yet, and cannot therefore answer, but I can, and I feel that I ought to do so. We have, while standing together at Irma’s bed, heard many strange words which she has uttered during her temporary aberration of mind. I know that the name which has so often passed her lips was heard by you, be sides I have remarked how often you have had the papier-weight in your hand bearing the same.” Serden sprang up in intense agitation. “No;” he ejaculated, “never mind let it be, I have waited until now, I can just as easily bear it a few days longer. The time will come when the parting word between Irma and me will be spoken—and must, if you know all, but I cannot talk to you about it—” “But for mercy sake, Karl, the matter is not so very serious as that. I was, I admit, op posed to her keeping it from you; but Irma could not forget that you had expressed your self, soon after our meeting you, as having a detestation for ladies with literary aspirations. You said, you remember, that they were an abomination, and that you could not admire such a woman if she were the most beautiful creature on earth.” “Isabella, what in the world has all this to do with it?” “With it? That is exactly what you must be told after having heard so much of Walter WeiriDgen.” “Walter Weiringen I” “Yes; see how the name excites you. Irma would probably become sick again if she should have to confess it to you herself. So, as you know something of it already, and I am too firmly convinced of your love for her to believe that you will be offended with her, I want to explain that ‘Walter Weiringen’ is a nom deplume under which Irma wrote a few pieces of poetry and prose when a girl, and under which she recently wrote a novel which was published by a popular magazine.” “Irma—Walter Weiringen!” He put his hands over his eyes in a bewil dered sort of way, as if the idea that both should be the same were too strange to be pos sible. of character than one could suppose from her childish face; that I learned for the first time through Mr. Walter Weiringen.” Irma’s face sank deeper into his coat. “It is only since then,” he went on, “that we have come to thoroughly understand each other, and there is no use in referring to it, but I am curious to know if my little wife has really come to the conclusion to return no more to Karlsburg.” Irma raised her head, a sunny smile lighting her features. Her eyes met his as she whis pered: “No, Karl, it troubled me greatly for you to treat me so much like I were a child, and when you began to pay so much attention to Frau Armgard—I knew that she was only act ing so as to worry Leopold—there were mo ments, however, when I really pondered whether you loved me, but ” “Well, but.” “It was in such moments of doubt that I wrote “The Paradise Lost,” in which the cir cumstances were, yes, a little like ours; the characters in spite of a certain superficial re semblance were, notwithstanding, different to any one I ever knew. I allowed my heroine to express, in the strongest and most exager ated manner, all that trouoled me. I repre sented things as they would have been, if we were not—as we now are. There is much personal experience depicted in the story, I do not deny, but everything was pictured as be ing so much worse than my life was, that it had a quieting effect on me to think that it was not so bad as that between you and me. When I had to leave for Vienna I was very much excited and troubled. I was also grieved that you were not more in sympathy with me, as I felt you ought to be, and to be frank, I was childish enough to be angry with you when I found you asleep in the salon. I sat opposite to you, and in the sleep which over powered me, it seemed that I was the heroine of my novel and that I was leaving home to return no more. I remember now with what an odd, benumbed feeling, I awoke, and be lieve that it was then that I contracted the fever. I may sometimes in my dreams while sick, have thought that all was over between us, but never while awake did I lose hope en tirely. I sometimes suspected that you loved me even when you would not tell me.” “You were right.” That was all that Serden answered, but Irma was satisfied. Before them lay the castle of Karlsburg, with its towers and Gothic corners, surround ed with green fields and budding trees. “My ‘Paradise Regained,’ ” said Serden, pointing to it and drawing his wife lovingly into his arms; “how happy we will now be after having experienced how miserable we might have been.” “Happy! notwithstanding you abhor author esses 1 ” jested Irma. “Ah, with Walter Weiringen, I will be more than content,” he rejoined laughingly. “Do you know that in my opinion he is quite an interesting and intellectual young man? I will never be jealous to leave him to keep my wife company in my absence, providing that hereafter I know what you two have been talk ing about. God be praised! Twice I thought I had lost you; first through this Walter Wein- ingen, whom I mistook for an old lover, and then the next time when you were so sick. Twice have I won you, now I will know how to keep you.” The carriage ran smoothly over the drive in front of the castle. Under the wreathed door way stood the servants, dressed appropriately in honor of the occasion, with smiling, happy faces. [the end.] AN AMERICAN PENMAN “I thank you, oh! I thank you!” he exclaim ed, stretching out his hands to her; and a glow of new happiness illumined his face. “And you won’t scold her?” she questioned. “I scold her because she, herself, is Walter Weiringen? O, no!” He thought of the many troubled and sleep less hours which that name had caused; of all his doubts and jealousy; of everything that he had suffered; and the consciousness that it was all cleared away by the words Isabella nsa spokeft i*nea rrtm'WTtfe JoyonsEbSS ire had never comprehended before. Irma re stored to life to be his all, his own, with her undefiled heart. The paradise of blessed love, that seemed lost to him, was within his reach. He drew his sister-in-law into his arms im pulsively and pressed her hands in the excite ment of the new-born felicity, repeating: “Irma is Walter Weiringen? Irma herself? “Yes, and the paper weight was a present to her from her two favorite girl friends. She received it just after her first poem was pub lished. Afterwards, when you became be trothed, she exacted a binding promise from us all not to inform you. She also made a de termination as a wife never to write any more, knowing you did not approve of it. And in her letters during the first two months of her married life she wrote that she had no desire to continue it, and found it easy to relinquish writing entirely. Then for a long time she did not mention the subject until she suddenly informed me in one of her letters, about two weeks since, that a novel from her pen would shortly appear. I wrote asking if you were aware of it, and, much to my astonishment, she replied that you did not, and she preferred that you be kept in ignorance regarding it. Leopold Leinigen consummated the arrange ments with the publisher. Through him she received and answered all her correspondence relating thereto.” “I understand it all now,” said Serden. “It was better for me to have told you. Now you won’t be hard with her, will you?” asked Comtesse Isabella. “No, I am satisfied for it to be as it is,” he returned in an elated tone of voice. “Now don’t mention it to her until she is fully recovered,” requested Isabella as she left the room to go to her mother. Serden stepped lightly into the sick room, Irma was sleeping easily and peacefully. He stood several moments looking tenderly at her, his wife, that he had so nearly lost. He thought of Walter Weiringen and smiled. In the evening of the same day he was again in the little writing room, and read again the story of the Paradise Lost—this time with in tense admiration for its skillful composition and graceful style. He had the torn sheet, that he had thought was a confidential letter from Irma to some one, in his hand. Soon he found the place in the novel for which he was searching. There, in the story, were the exact words written on the torn sheet, which had caused him so much perturbation of mind, pain at the heart and jealousy. It waB merely a portion of Irma’s manu script. A Great Detective Story. From the Diary of Inspector Byrnes. BY JULIAN HAWTHORNE. [Copyrighted 1887. All rights reserved.. ] CHAPTER X. ‘ThaDk God! The crisis is past; your wife js saved, Graf,” said the doctor eight days Spring sunshine lay upon the plain as Graf Serden’s carriage bowled over the road lead ing from the railroad station to Karlsburg, to carry the young mistress of the castle for the second time to the home of her husband. She had remained in Vienna until her health was entirely restored. Smilingly she viewed the sun-lit fields. “It has a different look to what it had when I passed over this way to take the train for Vi enna,” she said, laying her hand upon Ser den’s arm. “God be praised that we are not a quarter of a year younger, and do not have to live through the last month again,” he replied with ieeling. A question I have wanted to ask about that ride has been troubling me for a long time.” “Well,” glancing smilingly into his eyes. He laid his arm tenderly around her and drew her closer to him. “You spoke so frequently, in your feverish dreams, of your journey that morning, Irma,” he said; “and it sounded to me as if you had resolved not to return to Karlsburg. Do you see, Treasure? I k-ow full well that I was altogether at fault in my fl nation with Frau Armgard, my feigned coldness towards you, and my determination not to spoil you ” “0, what a chronicle of bad deeds and thoughts,” laughed Irma. Serden continued earnestly: “Child, one can always rectify a past discrepancy more easily when he confesses it. It was foolish of me to marry a woman whom I did not know, simply because I was in love with her. I ought to have tried to understand you as you deserved to be understood.” Irma said not a word in response. She laid her head on his shoulder to prevent him from observing the pleased expression in her eyes. •‘I had in the affair more luck than judg ment, for I was fortunate enough to secure a thoughtful wife, in whom there is more depth CHAPTER XXIL Vera turned away from him and settling her self in her chair fixed her eyes upon the stage. Fedovsky did not know what to make of her words and behavior; he could not but admit that if she had been acquainted with all the circumstances of his residence in Dresden one c >uld not have spoken more to the point. Not only so, but her allusion to dangers seemed to indicate a more comprehensive knowledge of the situation than he possessed himself. _ «k\rt,u*<%,T -ne wao p!^-cs4jft ttgalObl the-vkuow'wh; forgers, he had no reason to suppose that they were aware of this fact, or were, conse quently, plotting against him. The reference, to be sure, might be merely to his antagonist of that afternoon; but, again, what insanity to imagine that Vera could know anything about the matter. It was sufficiently incon ceivable that the baron should have been ap prised of it; but Vera was out of the question. The character of Zamiel, in the drama that was enacting, though important from an ethi cal point of view to the piot of the piece, and particularly useful in the tableaux and dra matic culminations, was not marked by any originality of conception on the dramatist’s part, and had extremely l’ttle to say for him self. The Satan of the spectacular stage is generally a being whose speech smacks of the shop and who makes up for the conventionali ty of his objects and utterances by the vivid ness of his costumes and the abruptness of his appearances. So it was with the Zamiel of the present affair. He materialized unexpectedly and vanished in the same manner, generally with an accompaniment of red fire; he spoke brief apothegms in a deep bass voice, and posed, but never walked. These limitations of visible action were probably fortunate un der the circumstances; they enabled the worthy human being who had understudied the satanic part to portray it, though at such short notice, with comparative ease and accu racy. No bitch had occurred in the perfor mance so far, and there was every prospect of a prosperous continuance. But a juncture had now arrived toward which the whole plot of the piece had been tending, when a terrific struggle takes place between the good and evil principle (incarnat ed in the forms of the fairy queen and Zamiel respectively) to deteimine the fate of the lovers. The fairy queen is first on the ground and is in the act of conducting the lovers to a haven of peaceful security, when all of a sud den the ground yawns at their feet, sulphu rous flames belch forth, and in the midst of them the mighty Zamiel shoots upward out of the bottomless pit and defies them to proceed. Such, at all events, are the stage directions. Divested to the glamor of illusion, the bot tomless pit was represented by the subterra nean underneath the stage, and the yawning of the earth by a trap-door arrangement. It may also be premised for the benefit of those uninstructed in such mysteries that the shoot ing upward of the arch-fiend is managed by the contrivance of a platform, which rises swiftly on the release of a catch and forces the performer through the open trap-door into the air. The trap-door instantly closes beneath him, he comes down upon it in a heroic atti tude and the trick is done. Now, the fairy queen had appeared as afore said, and, holding above the lovers her pro tecting wand, had advanced with them as far as the center of the stage. The trap-door obeyed its cue and opentd; but Zamiel for some reason or other, delayed to appear. The fairy queen waited; the lovers waited; the au dience, including the king, waited; but it be gan to look as if his satanic majesty had been detained by some unavoidable engagement in bis nether kingdom. It was very embarrass ing, and some of the mere volatile of the spec tators showed a disposition to titter. Suddenly the suspense was ended, though in an unprecedented and amazing manner. There was a smothered cry, coming no one knew whence, but it had a strange and start ling sound. Upward into the air, out of the trap door, hurtled a human figure and fell back on the stage with a heavy jar. It moved, it struggled to its knees, it staggered to its feet, and stood, swaying from side to side, ghastly, soiled, tattered, its hair and face mat ted and smeared with blood, its eyes glaring and blinking in the light, its features quiver ing and contorted with terror and bewilder ment—surely the great enemy of mankind, in all his protean disguises, never hit upon one so erotesque and eccentric as this. The audience sat in stupefied silence for a moment and then gave vent to an inarticulate roar of astonishment and dismay. Several women shrieked and fainted. A number of men started to their feet; then some murder ous idiot in the gallery yelled “Fire!” with all his might. At that appalling cry the whole great mass of spectators were on their legs and faced about for a rush to the doors, which would have resulted in a calamity, unfortu nately too common in modern civilization. But the panic was arrested almost as suddenly as it had begun. The royal box was situated in the center of the dress-circle at the apex of the horseshoe curve, and as the audience faced around it necessarily confronted this box; and in it they saw their good King Al bert, who had fotjjght valiantly in their behalf at Sedan, reclinug comfortably in his chair and apparently al far from sharing the alarm of his subjects if if lie had been safely en sconced in his Japjhese palace up the river. And in the involuntary moment of silence that ensued they heard him say in German to his companion:" “Lend me thy lorgnette, Gretchen. I have never had an opportunity to see Zamiel in (jishabille before.” It was a triumph of common sense and pres ence of mind ovT blind fear and brute self ishness. The mob wavered, paused, broke out in confused murmurs and exclamations, fol lowed by laughter and applause and cries of “Hoch! hoch!” ia compliment to his majesty, and, for the most part, resumed its seats. Meanwhile the baron had clambered from bis box on to the stage, followed by the imper turbable Herr Klesmer, and seizing the un kempt Zamiel by the collar dragged him away behind the scenes. The fairy queen and the two lovers, though somewhat disorganized by the interruption, managed to regain their self- possession and ibe performance proceeded, in spite of the exited buzz of conversation tbat filled t* theaofc-' During the tlmult Fedovsky and Vera had quietly retaindMtheir places. The apparition of the biood-stjfd/ed man from th9 bowels of the stage La* doubt surprised them as much as it the audience; but to the count at least an explanation presently suggested it self. His wret.iing match that afternoon with his unseen assailant (who. however, could have been no other than Bolan) must have taken place near the middle of the stage, and Bolan had previously opened the trap-door with the purpose of throwing Fedovsky down there after chol» : ng and robbing him; and he probably intended to go down there afier him. finish him off with a bludgeon, and conceal the body in the rubbish of the basement. The issue of the combat had turned the tables upon the would-be assassin. When Fedovsky flung him over his head he must have fallen through the trap-door in-stead of on the stage, and com ing in contact with the ground more than fif teen feet below had been completely stunned by the crash. There he had lain undiscovered for hours, until the noise of the performance had partially aroused him. Possibly some vague recollection of his part in the drama had visited bis bewildered brain and he had crawled on the platform just at the moment when the exigtiticies of the action demanded that it should be sprung. The actor who had assumed his part, being necessarily somewhat unpracticed in The business, had been confus ed by discovering some one on the platform before him, thy darkness and the hurry had prevented investigation and explanation, and thus the grotesque incident had come to pass. The wretched Bolan had alread r received a horrowing punishment for his crimes and there was every likelihood that the baron would not allow his chastisement to stop there. . Having this i solved the matter to his own satisfaction, J tioveky felt a curiosity to know how it had afftAted Vera. She had leaned forward on Bonn's appearance with parted lips and a dilajpn of the eyes. The alarm of fire had brought a color to her cheek, but had seemed to restore rather than upset her com posure. Finally, when Bolan was led away by the baron, she turned to Fedovsky with an arching of her eyebrows. ‘ The old proverb sometimes comes te pass,” she said. “He that diggeth a pit shall fall therein.” “Do you know anything about that man?” demanded Fedovsky, abruptly. “I might as well ask you the same ques tion,” she retoxtea. “But you need not answer it. I am aware of your dealings with him.” “How did you get your information?” She shrugged her shoulders. “I might say, as I proved to you just now, that I am an as- trologist. Or I might say that I am a friend of the baron’s ” “I should reply that neither the stars nor the baron know my affairs.” “And yet,” she said with a smile, “they seem to be known!” At the same time she rose, drew on her opera-cloak, and prepared to leave the box. “You are going?” said the count. “Tell me where I can see you.” “You had better not attempt to see me,” was her reply. “If you are wise you will fol low the advice J gave you awhile ago. It would endanger both of us,” she added, in a more impassioned tone, “if I were to speak more plainly. The only chance for success of your mission was its secrecy; and the secret is out! You have escaped once, but you will not es cape a second time. Promise me that you will return.” I can give Jsou no promises, for I don’i S»s®S’"-tir3hsw'el^ef.—*,iot say you have discovered my secret. I say I will discover yours.” She looked at him, and for a moment seem 1 ed to hesitate. Then a cold, rigid expression came over her face. She bowed to him, took the arm of her companion, and turned awav. His first impulse was to follow her; but he re flected that he could easily learn her address, and meantime he went back to his hotel. As he passed the office the clerk handed him a telegraph envelope, evidently contain ing a dispatch from the New York central of fice. He put it in his pocket and went up stairs. He unlocked the door of his room, closed it behind him, and locked and bolted it on the inside. He threw off his hat and coat, and, seating himself at his desk, unlocked the drawer in which he had placed his unfinished report. The drawer had also conta’ned the package of bogus bonds and notes, with the hole pierced through them by Bolan s knife. He opened the drawer. It was empty. He started to his feet and gazed about him, half expecting to find a thief in the room. But no one was there. He went to the door and examined the fastening. There were no signs of its having been tampered with. The win dows were ail fastened on the inside. He next subjected the lock of the desk drawer to a minute examination. It, was a patent lock and no other key than the one made for it would open it. There was a slight scratch barely discernible at the edge of the aperture; but the lock itself worked freely as before. Nevertheless, his room had been entered dur ing his absence and his papers had been sto len. Those papers contained a complete ex position of all that he had done and intended to do with a view to capturing the forgers His secret wasout indeed! He sunk into a chair overcome with consternation; and the last words in Inspector Byrnes rang in his ears; “You will have to do with the cleverest and most desperate criminals in the world!” CHAPTER XXIII. Fedovsky was not long in perceiving that it would be useless to a’tempt to recover his pa pers. The report to Inspector Byrnes must already have been read and the bogus mate rial being of no use to any one, was probably destroyed. Moreover, were he to apply to the police, he would not be able to conceal the true nature of his mission; and, although that was already known to the forgers (who, he could not doubt, had committed the robbery), yet nothing was to be gained by giving further publicity to the iacts. He had been egregious- ly outwitted and he had nothing but his own carelessness and indiscretion to blame for it. When he thought of the confidence that In spector Byrnes had placed in him, and of the disappointment this defeat would be to him, he felt ready to groan with mortification. He had not only failed, but he had failed before dealing a single effective blow toward his ob ject. Nor did he know which way to turn to amend his position. He had begun to doubt whether Bolan really belonged to the gang of forgers which he was pursuing. Had he been one of them he would hardly have risked the larger objects which he and his accomplices were pursuing by a robbery and murder that would be certain to be investigated. Mr. Wil lis must have been mistaken and the baron must have been right. Bolan was following ends of his own and acting independently of the others, and in endeavoring to entrap him Fedovsky hud simply been chasing a false clew. ) He bethought him of the unopened dispatch in his pocket With a heavy heart he took it out and broke the seal. It was from the Inspector, as he had anticipated, and was ex pressed in the cipher agreed upon between them. Fedovsky referred to the key that he carried with him and spelled it out. After giving some directions on minor mat ters, the dispatch ran somewhat as follows “You appear to be on the wrong track. Yonr confidence will be solicited by those least fitted to possess it. Think over every one you have met, and suspect those who have seemed least open to suspicion. Unless you strike soon you will be too late. Look toward Italy —the denouement will be there if anywhere.” “He knows more about this affair, sitting at his desk in New York, than I do here in the midst of them,” said the young man to him self bitterly. “The only mistake he has made was in sending me after them. How did it happen that he failed to know I was a fool? What will he he say when he hears that I have failed?" He got up and paced the floor in uncontrol lable agitation. “It would have been better for me if I had jumped into the river as I intended," he ex claimed. “I have done more harm than good, and there is no chance of my ever remedying the matter. Vera was right—I may as well return before I make more blunders. And as for Sallie—well, at least I can congratu late myself on not having tied myself about her neck. Miy she never know what an es cape I have had!” There was a knock at the door. It was still early in the evening—barely 9 o’clock. The knock was repeated. Fedovsky went to the door and threw it open. A servant stood there, and said that there was a man below who wanted to see the count. “What is his name?” . “He said it was Herr Bolan,” replied the servant. “Bolan!” repeated Fedovsky, in astonish ment. “Youmust be mistaken.” Hepaused, ail manner of wild surmises running through his head. “Show him up,” he said at length. The servant retired. The count walked over to the table, took his revolver from his pocket, and laid it on the table. He stood near the table, with the revolver convenient to his hand. Another knock at the door. “Come in!” said the count. The door was pushed open, and a short, sturdy figure entered. It removed its hat from its head, and gazed earnestly at Feiovsky. The next moment, with a shout of joy, the two men ran together and fairly hugged one an other. “Tom! Tom! can this really be you!” cried the count, shaking his old valet by both hands, while tears stood in his eyes. “I thought you were dead—I thought you had deserted me— but I never thought to see you here!” “I might have died, sir," said Tom, in a voice tbat was by no means steady, “but it would take more than dying to make me de sett you—lean tell you that. I’ve been look ing for you ihese four months, and I’d never have given up the search if it had lasted a hun dred years. I served your father, and I serv ed you; and there isn’t nothing in this world is going to keep me away from you—not for long!” “Where have you been? What became of yon after you left me that day ” “Oh 1 that was a day, sure enough! I was expecting to meet my brother, who was going to put me on to a good thing, he said; but * think it’s just as well I* didn’t meet him, sir, for, from what I’ve heard since, I fancy he’ no good. And no man that’s a thief and scoundrel is a brother of mine, whether he has the same name or not.” “You did not meet him, then?” “No, sir, not I. I went dewn to the Fulton ferry that day, for it was in Brooklyn that we was to meet; there was a crowd aboard, and I got to the front, so as to be the first off when we reached t’other side. When the boat was within five foot of the slip I jumped; but my foot slipped on the edge and down I tumbled into the water. The current that was run ning underneath took me along to the paddle wheel, and then I apt a bang on the top of the head; that was tb^/st l knew of anything for a matter of six wft its of more.” “Six weeksl i^lu were not in the water all that time?” “ . “Not so far as I know, sir. I was fished out, somehow, and the water emptied out of me and as nobody knew who I was or where I be longed I was carried to the hospital. But that bang on the head had knocked me silly, so they say, and I was as daft as a monkey. What may have done or said of course I can’t re member; but I said nothing that could help to identify me, and they were for sending me to the asylum, when one of the doctors had the sense to take a look at my skull where I got hit; and he found a bit of the bone had been knocked in and was pressing on the stuff in side. So he pried the piece out and set it a' 1 smooth again, and as soon as be done that came to myself as right as a trivet; and the first thing I asked was: ‘Who pulled me out of the water?’ ” Here they both laughed, and Tom contin ued: •‘Well, then the doctors and the other folks up there they made up a purse of $20 and give it to me, and baok I started to New York to find you. Well, sir, you took a deal of finding, and that’s a fact. At last I thought I’d see if the police didn’t know anything, s) I went up to the detective office and they took me in to the inspector. Ah, sir, he's a nice man if ever there was one!” “Quite right, Tom,” assented the other, with a sigh, “Well what did he say?” “He asked me some pretty sharp questions, and when he’d found out what I was and all about me, and had sized me up from top to bottom, he told me that I’d better stay where Jjtas, for rthat-ye.?> wte.gono -to Er.ropa ?.nd you wouldn't be back till may be next spring, ‘And as you seem to be a worthy ebap,’ says he, ‘I don’t know but what I might find you some odd job to do here around the office.’ Well, I thanked him heartily, but I told him I couldn’t wait. I’d have to go after you, and that I’d take the next steamer that started. ‘And how are you going to get across?’ says he. ‘Ask a sailor that?’ says I. ‘I’d work my passage before the mast, to be sure. I ain’t no first-cabin dude!’ Well, he laughed and told me to come again the next day, and next day I went, and he told me he’d got me a place as an assistant to the steward of one of the big steamers that goes to Havre; it was to leave on the Saturday, and he tipped me a $5 bill, and said he: ‘I guess your master will be glad to see you, Tom!’ Sol thanked him again, and off I went; and to make a short story of it, sir, here I am, and right glad I am to be here!” “And right glad am I to have you here,” said Fedovsky, “though you have reached me at what is perhaps the most unfotunate mo ment of my life, I am powerless to be of any use either to you or to any one else.” “It wasn’t to have you of use to me tlat I came here, sir,” said Tom, growing quite red in the face; “the boot is on the other leg, if you please, sir I may be conceited, but it’s my idea that I can be of some use to you in this particular affair you’re busy with.” “What affair aie you talking about, Tom?” inquired the count, opening his eyes. “Now, look here, sir,” said Tom, leaning forward over the table and assuming an ex pression of vast sagacity. “I was a fool New York, and I know it. I didn’t under stand the way you ought to have carried on there, and I gave you bad advice. I see it now and sorry I am for it. But in a thing of this kind it’s different. I know my way about. You’re doing something for Inspector Byrnes, ain’t you?” “What put such an idea into your head? What should I be doing for him?” “Well, two and two make four, that’s all I can say! Thinks I to myself: How does it happen that the inspector knows so much about the count over in Europe? Then heard something about a gang of American forgers out here, and in hunting after you I found that you had been wherever they had; and, altogether, I made up my mind that you was after them, and I don’t think you’ll say I’m wrong.” “I don’t know as I shall, Tom,” said the other, with a melancholy laugh “Everybody seems to know my business better than I do, and there’s no reason why I should make it a secret from you. You are quite right; I am a member of the secret service detailed to effect the arrest of the head of this forgery scheme; and I have succeeded so well that the whole gang know all about me and my designs, and have this evening entered my room during my absence and stolen from my desk the re port that I had just been writing to the in spector.” “Thev did, did they? And who might they be, sir?” I haven’t the least idea! I thought I had identified one of them; he was no less a per son than that brother of yours, Tom, whom you had such hopes of in New York. I had an interview with him this afternoon; he tried to garrote me, and I threw him down the trap door in the stage of the theater; and now the baron has got him—the chief of police, that is. But, though he’s a thief, I don’t believe he has any connection with the forgers.” “What brought you to think he had, sir?” Tom asked. Something that an acquaintance of mine told me—that Mr. Willis, by the way, whom you and I met last year in Monte Carlo.’’ Ob, that cove!” said Tom, with a very dis tasteful air. You were mistaken about him,” rejoined the other with a smile. “He is not the same person as the swindler who cheated you on 4th street," and the count pmceeded to relate the visit of himself and Mr. Willis to the baron’s effiee and what Mr. Willis had said and done there in support of his identity. Tom listened closely, and shook his head. “Do you believe all that, sir?” he said. “I don’t; it’s a tiick of his from beginning to end! Where did you get all those papers from to prove he was Willis ard not Wilkes. Ain’t he a forget? And what’s a forger good for if not to do forgeries? All those papers wa9 for geries—letters, receipts, passports, letter of credit, and ail! Why, his game’s plain enough, it stands to reason. And he was the one that opened your desk this evening and walked off with your papers!” “That is impossible, Tom. He is in Cologne at this moment.” “Is he? Then he must travel quick to get there, for I saw him not half an hour ago a quarter of a m le from where we’re sitting!” “What’s that? You saw him?” “As plain as I see you, and he wasn’t up to any honest business, either. I’ll tell you how it was, s r. I got to this town about six hours ago, and I spent a couple of hours or so run ning about to find the hotel you was stopping at. When I found ’twas the Bellevue I came and asked to see you, and they said you was out but would be back later. So I waited around, and presently I saw a chap come along—a small, light chap, with a knowing face and an expression like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth—and he went up and spoke to the porter there at the door. I didn’t hoar what he said, but the porter said: ‘No, sir, the count has gone to the theater, and won’t be back before 9 ’ Well, the chap went r ff, and, thinks I, what does that fellow want with the count, I wonder? So, having nothing bet ter to do, I walked along after him, and lie crossed the square and turned down a side street and whipped into a house there with a big gable to it and a milliner’s shop under neath. “There was a cigar store on t’other side of the street, and I went into it and bought a cigar and stood talking with the shop-keeper and looking across at the door the fellow went in at. In about ten minutes out he came again, though at the first look I didn’t recog nize him. He had on a pair of black whiskers and no overcoat, bnt only a dirty old dress- suit like the waiters wear, and a napkin over his arm. He was carrying something ui dir his napkin—a black box about a foot long and half as broad; it looked to be made of iron, with a shiny lacquer over it. Well, he trotted along, walking with them short steps the wai ters use, as if he’d just run out to fill an order. I put after him, smoking my cigar and looki g in at all the shop windows, like I was out for a stroll to amuse my self. He got back to the hotel and trotted right in past the porter, who just gave him a look, but didn’t say nothing, supposing him to be one of the waiters that belonged there. I stood off near the bridge, about a hundred yards away, staring at the boats down in the river, but keeping an eye out on the door of the hotel just the same. And by and by out comes my man, just as he went In, with the box under his arm and the napkin over it, and starts across the square toward that big covered archway tbat leads into the town. It was dark under there, but I hurried up and wasn’t more than fifty yards away when he went into it. Just in the mid dle of it he met a man coming the other way with a big overcoat on, and they sort of run into each other and stopped a moment close together, and then went on again, each his own way; but the waiter fellow didn't have the box any longer. I turned right round then and walked along toward the bridge; and pretty soon the fellow in the overcoat passed me— he was walking fast—and I noticed two things about him—he had something under his over coat, and he was your friend, Mr. Willis!” [to be continued.] Lay of the Orange Feel. I lie supine in the soft sunshine, Where the people come and eo; I strive to wear an innocent air, Because I am humble and low; But when the heel of the proud 1 feel, Which would crush me Into the stone, Ah. woeful hour, I evolve the power That Keeley never has shown. My plaoe I bold on the pavement cold, And never move ont of my tracks. But I spurn the feet of the Indiscreet, And land ’em upon tbelr b teks. The motive mule beside me's a tool, ThouKb a dozen feet bs-nrigiu-clafm. ? I may look sick, but I’m mighty slick, Ann am loaded all the same. I floor the strong as tbey prance along, in all their princely style. One touch of a toe and away they go, Tbey Imagine a half a mile; I feel so good when I shock a dude Tbat I chuckle at my luck, While he thinks outright It Is dynamite Or swears he was lightning struck. I bid beware to the man without care, Who goes with mind on bis gains. And the poet oft takes a flight aloft— Though be comes down for bis pains. 1 was always known to bold my own, But folks I let go, yon see. And there’s plenty of fun ’neath the summer sun, When they toboggan on me. Could they utilize the power that lies lu me, they could move t he earth, They would laugh at steam as a by-gone dream, And value me at my worth. Still 1 lie supine In the soft sunshine, And the people think me asleep, But the cautious heel from the orange peel Will a courteous distance keep. “I’ll Take What Father Takes.” “What will yon take to drink?” asked a waiter of a young lad, who, for the first time accompanied his father to a public dinner, Uncertain what to say, and feeling sure that he could not be wrong if he followed his fath er’s example, he replied, “I’ll take what father takes.” The answer reached the father’s ear, and in stantly the fall responsibility of his position flashed upon him. “Waiter, I'll take water." And from that day to this strong drink has been banished from that man’s home. A man should never be ashamed to own he has been in the wrong, which is but saying, in other words, that he is wiser to-day than he was yesterday. What was it a blind maD took at breakfast which restored his sight? He took a cup and —saw, sir. A young correspondent wants to know: “What is the critical period in a man’s life?” Well, my boy, it usually begins about six weeks after he is married, and lasts all the rest of his life. v Persecution is often the wind that scatters the good seeds of the kingdom. Who Should Wear the Breeches. Now when a young man woos a girl— In wedlock with her bitches, He ought to have It understood That he’s to wear the breeches. If he’s the man he ought to be, lu poverty or rlcbes, He knows tbat he’s tbe proper one To always wear the breecnes. Ah! what a torment here on earth. For wife to leave her stitches— Against tbe husband always strive And try to wear the breeches. Bat If a spendthrift he should be, And throws away tbelr rlcbes, The wife had better stay his hand, And also wear the breeches. And if along tbe track of life, He’s olt derailed In ditches. A "mofber hubhard” he should wear— The wife suould wear the breeches. There were only seven wonders of the world in ancient days. That was before the dune was invented. “No," said the old maid, “I don’t miss a husband very much. I have trained my dog to growl every time I feed him, and I have bought a tailor’s dummy that I can scold when I feel like ii” Politeness to others is a debt due to our selves. Bystander—“Doctor, what do you think of this man’s injuries?” Doctor—“Humph! Two of them are un doubtedly fatal, but as for the rest of them, time alone can tell.” The importance of purifying the blood can not be overestimated, for without pure blood you cannot enjoy good health. At Uiis season nearly every one needs 3 good medicine to purify, vitalize, and enrich the blood, and we ask you to try Hood’s _ Sarsaparilla. It strengthens Peculiar an j builds up the system, creates an appetite, and tones the digestion, while it eradicates disease. The peculiar combination, proportion, and preparation of the vegetable remedies used give to Hood's Sarsaparilla pecul- *t-q ItSGlf iar curative powers. No other medicine has such a record of wonderful cures. If you have made up your mind to buy Hood's Sarsaparilla do not be induced to take any other instead. It is a Peculiar Medicine, and is worthy your confidence. Hood's Sarsaparilla is sold by all druggists. Prepared by C. I. Hood & Co., Lowell, Mass. 100 Doses One Dollar ‘Why, Frauky,” exclaimed a mother at the summer boarding house, “I never knew you to ask for a second piece of pie at home." “I knew ’twau’t no use,” said Franky as he pro ceeded with his pie eating. Do you suffer with catarrh? You can be cured if you take Hood’s Sarsaparilla, the great blood purifier. Sold by all druggists. FAITH CUBE fAlHLY BEATEif. Chaplain Hall Writes the FollowlBf markable Letter. | Pr»m the Albany N. Y., Express. For many years my wife had bees the victim of nervous dyspepsia, of the chronic, distressing and apparently in curable type from which so many of her sex suffer, languish and die. It was all the worse because the tendency to it was inherited. She had been under the systematic treatment of many of the best physicians in New York andBrook- lyn and elsewhere for twenty years with only temporary relief. In fact, there were few, if any, kinds of food that did not distress her, so diseased, sensitive and torpid were all the organs of diges tion. The usual symptoms of dyspep sia, with its concomitant ailments, were all present—bad taste in the mouthy dull eyes, cold feet and hands, the sense of a load upon the stomach, tenderness on pressure, indigestion, giddiness, great weakness and prostration, and fu gitive pains in the sides, chest and back. I have often risen in the night and ad ministered stimulants merely for the sake of the slight and transient relief they gave. Intermittent malarial fever set is, complicating the case and making every symptom more pronounced and intense. By this time the pneumo- gastric nerves had become very seri ously involved, and she had chronic Gastritis, and also what I may be al lowed to call chronic intermittent ma larial fever all at once. For the latter the physicians prescribed the good, old- fashioned, sheet-anchor remedy, Quin ine gradually increasing the doses, until —incredible as it may seem—she actu ally took THIRTY GRAINS A DAY IOR DAp in succession. This coujd not last. The effect of the quinine was, if possible, almost as bad as the two fold disease which was wearing away her strength and her life. Quinine poisoning was painfully evident, but the fever was there still. Almost every day there came on the characteristic chill and racking headache, followed by the usual weakness and collapse. About this time I met socially my friend Mr. Norton, a member of the firm of Chauncey Titus & Company, brokers, of Albany, who, on hearing from me these facts, said: “Why, I have been through almost the same thing, and have got over it. ” “ What cured you?” I asked eagerly. “ Kas- kine,” he said, “ try it for your wife.” I had seen Kaskine advertised, but had no more faith in it than 1 had in saw dust, for such a case as hers. * Mrs. Hall had no higher opinion, yet on the strength of my friend’s recommenda tion I got a bottle and began its use as directed. Now recall what I have already said as to her then condition, and then read what follows: Under the Kaskine treatment all the dyspeptic symptoms showed instant improvement, and the daily fever grew less and soon ceased altogether. Side by side these diseases vanished, as side by side they had tort ured their victim for ten years—the dyspepsia alone having, as I have said, existed for twenty years. Her appetite improved from week to week until she could eat and digest the average food that any well person takes, without any suffering or inconvenience. With re newed assimilation of food came, of course, a steady increase in flesh, until she now looks like her original self. ' She still takes Kaskine occasionally, but with no real need of it, for she if well. I consider this result a scientific miracle, and the “ New Quinine ’ is en titled to the credit of it, for from the time she began with Kaskine she used no other medicine whatever. | If you think a recital of these fact! calculated to do good you are welcome to make them public, j (Rev.) JAS. L. HALL, Chaplain Albany, N. Y., Penitentiary. | P. S.—Sometimes letters of this kind are published without authority, and in case any one is inclined to question the genuineness of the above statement I will cheerfully reply to any commu nications addressedto me at the Pent tentiary. Jas. L.’Hall. ! Other letters of a similar character from prominent individuals, which stamp Kaskine as a remedy of un doubted merit, will be sent on appli- cation. Price $i.oo, or six bottles, $5.00. Sold by Druggists, or sent by snail on receipt of price. | The Kaskine Company, 54 Warren St., New York, and 35 Farringdo* Road, London. j
