It has come at last; that night, almost the last in August, which I and others, with varying motives and interests, have so anxiously looked forward to.
It has come, and the moon, so lately banished from the heavens, had she been in a position to overlook the earth, would have witnessed some sights unusual to Trafton at the hour of eleven P. M.
A little more than a mile from Trafton, at a point where the first mile section crosses the south road, not far from the Brookhouse dwelling, there is a little gathering of mounted men. They are seven in number; all silent, all cautious, all stern of feature. They have drawn their horses far into the gloom of the hedge that grows tall on either side, all save one man, and he stands in the very center of the road, looking intently north and skyward.
Farther away, midway between Trafton and Clyde, six other horsemen are riding southward at an easy pace.
These, too, are very quiet, and a little light would reveal the earnest faces of Messrs. Warren, Harding, Benner, Booth, Jaeger and Meacham; the last mentioned being the owner of the recently stolen matched sorrels, and the others being the most prominent and reliable of the Trafton vigilants.
A close inspection would develop the fact that this moving band of men, as well as the party whose present mission seems "only to stand and wait," is well armed and strongly mounted.
The Hill, Miss Manvers' luxurious residence, stands, as its name indicates, on an elevation of ground, at the extreme northern boundary of Trafton.
It stands quite alone, this abode of the treasure-ship heiress, having no neighbors on either hand for a distance of more than a quarter of a mile.
The road leading up the hill from the heart of Trafton, is bordered on either side by a row of shade trees, large and leafy. All about the house the shrubbery is dense, and the avenue, leading up from the road, and past the dwelling, to the barns and outhouses, is transformed, by two thickly-set rows of poplars into a vault of inky blackness.
To-night, if the moon were abroad, she might note that the fine roadster driven by Arch Brookhouse had stood all the evening at the roadside gate at the foot of the dark avenue of poplars, and, by peeping through the open windows, she would see that Arch Brookhouse himself sits in the handsome parlor with the heiress, who is looking pale and dissatisfied, and who speaks short and seldom, opposite him.
The lady moon might also note that the new telegraph operator is not at his post, in the little office, at eleven o'clock P. M. But then, were the fair orb of night actually out, and taking observations, these singular phenomena might not occur.
At half-past ten, on "this night of nights," three shadows steal through the darkness, moving northward toward the Hill.
At a point midway between the town proper and the mansion beyond, is a junction of the roads; and here, at the four corners, the three shadows pause and separate.
Two continue their silent march northward, and the third vanishes among the sheltering, low-bending branches of a gnarled old tree that overhangs the road, and marks the northwestern corner.
At twenty minutes to eleven Arch Brookhouse takes leave of the treasure-ship heiress, and comes out into the darkness striding down the avenue like a man accustomed to the road. He unties the waiting horse which paws the ground impatiently, yet stands, obedient to his low command, turns the head of the beast southward, seats himself in the light buggy, lights a cigar, and then sits silently smoking, and waiting,—for what?
The dull red spark at the end of his cigar shines through the dark; the horse turns his head and chafes to be away, but the smoker sits there, moveless and silent.
Presently there comes a sound, slight but distinct; the crackling of a twig beneath a man's boot, and almost at the same instant the last light disappears from the windows of the "Hill House."
One, two, three. Three dark forms approach, one after the other, each pauses for an instant beside the light buggy, and seems to look up to the dull red spark, which is all of Arch Brookhouse that is clearly visible through the dark. Then they enter the gate and are swallowed up in the blackness of the avenue.
And now, a fourth form moves stealthily down the avenue after the others. It does not come from without the grounds, it starts out from the shrubbery within, and it is unseen by Arch Brookhouse.
How still the night is! The man who follows after the three first comers can almost hear his pulses throb, or so he fancies.
Presently the three men pause before the door of the barn, and one of them takes from his pocket a key, with which he unlocks the door, and they enter.
As soon as they are inside, a lantern is lighted, and the three men move together toward the rear of the barn, the part against which is piled a monstrous stack of hay.
Meanwhile the watcher outside glides close to the wall of the building, listening here and there, as he, too, approaches the huge hay pile.
And now he does a queer thing. He begins to pull away handfuls of hay from the bottom of the stack, where it is piled against the barn. He works noiselessly, and very soon has made an opening, into which he crawls. Evidently this mine has been worked before, for there is a long tunnel through the hay, penetrating to the middle of the stack. Here the watcher peeps through two small holes, newly drilled in the thick boards of the barn. And then a smile of triumph rests upon his face.
He sees a compartment that, owing to the arrangement of the hay against the rear wall, is in the very heart of the barn, shut from the gaze of curious eyes. On either side is a division, which our spy knows to contain a store of grain piled high, and acting as a complete non-conductor of sound. In front is a small room hung about with harness, and opening into a carriage room. The place is completely hidden from the ordinary gaze, and only a very inquiring mind would have fathomed its secret.
The spy, who is peering in from his vantage ground among the hay, has fathomed the secret. And he now sees within six horses—two bay Morgans, two roans, and two sorrels.
The three men are there, too, busily harnessing the six horses. They are working rapidly and silently.
The watcher lingers just long enough to see that the harness looks new and that it is of the sort generally used for draft horses, and then he executes a retreat, more difficult than his entrance, inasmuch as he can not turn in his hay tunnel, but must withdraw by a series of retrograde movements more laborious than graceful.
A moment more, and from among the poplars and evergreens a light goes shooting up, high and bright against the sky; a long, red ribbon of fire, that says to those who can read the sign,
"The Trafton horse-thieves are about to move with their long-concealed prey. Meacham's matched sorrels, Hopper's two-forty's, and the bay Morgans stolen from 'Squire Brookhouse."
It was seen, this fiery rocket, by the little band waiting by the roadside more than a mile away.
"There it is!" exclaims young Warren, who is the leader of this party—"It is the red rocket. They are going with the wagons; it's all right, boys, we can't ride too fast now."
The seven men file silently out from the roadside and gallop away southward.
At the four corners, not far from the house on the hill, where, a short time before, a single individual had stationed himself, as a sentinel in the darkness, this signal rocket was also seen, and the watcher uttered an exclamation under his breath, and started out from underneath the tree that had sheltered him.
He could never remember how it happened, but his next sensation was that of being borne to the ground, clutched with a tiger-like grip, crushed by a heavy weight.
And then a voice, a voice that he had not heard for years, hissed above him,
"Lie still, Joe Blaikie! I've waited for this opportunity for eight long years, and it won't be worth your while to trifle with Harvey James now."
And something cold and hard is pressed against the temple of the fallen sentinel, who does not need the evidence of the accompanying ominous click to convince him that it is a revolver in the hand of his deadliest foe.
"You did not use to be a horse-thief, Joe," continues the voice, and the speaker's words are emphasized by the pressure of a knee upon his chest, and the weapon at his forehead. "They could not trust you to do the fine business, it seems, and so you are picketed here to give the alarm if anything stirs up or down the road. If it's all right, you are to remain silent. If anything occurs to alarm you, you are to give the signal. Now, listen; you are to get up and stand from under this tree. I shall stand directly behind you with my revolver at your head, and I shall not loosen my grip upon your collar. When your friends pass this way, you had better remain silent, Joe Blaikie."
Arch Brookhouse, waiting at the avenue gate, has not seen the red rocket. The tall poplars that overshadow him have shut the shooting fiery ribbon from his vision; besides, he has been looking down the hill. Neither has he seen the form that is creeping stealthily toward him from behind the tree that guards the gate.
Those within the barn have not seen the rocket, of course; and presently they come forth and harness the six horses to two huge wagons that stand in readiness. Four horses to one wagon, two to the other. The wheels are well oiled, and the wagons make no unnecessary rumbling as they go down the dark poplar avenue.
At the gate the foremost wagon halts, just long enough to enable the driver to catch the low-spoken word that tells him it is safe to proceed.
"All right," Arch Brookhouse says, softly, and the two wagons pass out and down the hill, straight through the village of Trafton.
At the foot of the hill, where the four roads cross, the drivers peer through the darkness. Yes, their sentinel is there. The white handkerchief which he holds in his hand, as a sign that all is safe, gleams through the dark, and they drive on merrily, and if the sound of their wheels wakens any sleeper in Trafton, what then? It is not unusual to hear coal wagons passing on their way to the mines.
Should they meet a belated traveler, no matter. He may hear the rumble of the wheels, and welcome, so long as the darkness prevents him from seeing the horses that draw those innocent vehicles of traffic.
Meanwhile, his duty being done, Arch Brookhouse heaves a sigh of relief, gathers up his reins, and chirrups to his horse.
But the animal does not obey him. Arch leans forward; is there something standing by the horse's head? He gives an impatient word of command, and then,—yes, there is some one there.
Arch utters a sharp exclamation, and his hand goes behind him, only to be grasped by an enemy in the rear, who follows up his advantage by seizing the other elbow and saying:
"Stop a moment, Mr. Brookhouse; you are my prisoner, sir. Gerry, the handcuffs."
The man at the horse's head comes swiftly to my assistance, Arch Brookhouse is drawn from his buggy, and his hands secured behind him by fetters of steel. Not a captive to be proud of; his teeth chatter, he shivers as with an ague.
"Wh—who are you?" he gasps. "Wh—what do you want?"
"I'm a city sprig," I answer, maliciously, "and I'm an easy fish to catch. But not so easy as you, my gay Lothario. By-and-by you may decide, if you will, whether I possess most money or brains; now I have more important business on hand."
Just then comes a long, low whistle.
"Gerry," I say, "that is Long. Go down to him and see if he needs help."
Gerry is off in an instant, and then my prisoner rallies his cowardly faculties, and begins to bluster.
"What does this assault mean? I demand an explanation, sir!"
"But I am not in the mood to give it," I retort. "You are my prisoner, and likely to remain so, unless you are stolen from me by Judge Lynch, which is not improbable."
"Then, y—you are an impostor!"
"You mistake; I am a detective. You shot at the wrong man when you winged Bethel. You did better when you crippled widow Ballou's hired man."
"What, are you?—" he starts violently, then checks his speech.
"I'm the man you shot, behind the hedge, Mr. Brookhouse, and I'll trouble you to explain your conduct to-morrow."
My prisoner moves restlessly under my restraining hand, but I cock my pistol, and he comprehending the unspoken warning, stands silent beside his buggy.
Presently I hear footsteps, and then Gerry comes towards me, lighting the way with a pocket lantern, which reveals to my gaze Dimber Joe, handcuffed and crest-fallen, marching sedately over the ground at the muzzle of a pistol held in the firm clutch of Jim Long, upon whose countenance sits a look of grim, triumphant humor.
"Here," says Gerry, with aggravating ceremony, "is Mr. Long, with sentinel number two, namely: Mr. Dimber Joe Blaikie, late of Sing Sing."
"And very soon to return there," adds Jim Long, emphatically. "What shall we do with these fellows?"
"We must keep everything quiet to-night," I say, quickly. "If you and Gerry think you won't go to sleep over the precious scamps you might take them to the barn and let them pass the night where they have hidden so many horses. We will take them there now, and bind them more securely. Then one of you can look after them easily, while the other stands guard outside. All must be done quietly, so that they may not take the alarm in the house. If your prisoners attempt to make a noise, gag them without scruple."
"But," gasps Brookhouse, "you can not; you have no power."
"No power," mocks Jim Long. "We'll see about that! It may be unparliamentary, gentlemen, but you should not object to that. If you give us any trouble, we will convince you that we have inherited a little brief authority."
Ten minutes later we have carried out our programme. The two prisoners are safely housed in the hidden asylum for stolen horses, with Jim Long as guard within, and Gerry as sentinel without, and I, seated in the light buggy from which I have unceremoniously dragged Arch Brookhouse, am driving his impatient roadster southward, in the wake of the honest coal wagons.
It is long past midnight. A preternatural stillness broods over the four corners where the north and south road, two miles north from Clyde, intersects the road running east and west, that bears westward toward the coal beds and the river.
There are no houses within sight of these corners, and very few trees; but the northeastern corner is bounded by what the farmers call a "brush fence," an unsightly barricade of rails, interwoven with tall, ragged, and brambly brush, the cuttings, probably, from some rank-growing hedge.
The section to the southwest is bordered by a prim hedge, thrifty and green, evenly trimmed, and so low that a man could leap across it with ease.
And now the silence is broken by the sound of wheels coming from the direction of Clyde; swift running wheels that soon bring their burden to the four corners, and then come to a sudden halt.
It is a light buggy, none other than that owned by Mr. Larkins, of Clyde, drawn by his roans that "go in no time," and it contains three men.
"There!" says the driver, who is Larkins himself, springing to the ground, and thrusting his arm through the reins, "here we are, with nothing to do but wait. We always do wait, you know."
"Yes, I know," assents a second individual, descending to the ground in his turn. "We're always on time. Now, if a man only could smoke—but he can't."
And Ed. Dwight shrugs his shoulders and burrows in his pockets, and shuffles his feet, as only Ed. Dwight can.
"Might's well get out, Briggs," says Larkins, to the man who still sits in the buggy.
"Might's well stay here, too," retorts that individual, gruffly. "I'm comfortable."
Larkins sniffs, and pats the haunch of the off roan.
Dwight snaps a leaf from the hedge and chews it nervously.
The man in the buggy sits as still as a mummy.
Presently there comes again the sound of wheels. Not noisy wheels, that would break in upon midnight slumbers, nor ghostly wheels, whose honesty might be called in question, but well oiled, smooth running wheels, that break but do not disturb the stillness.
These also approach the cross roads, and then stop.
The first are those of a coal wagon, drawn by four handsome horses; the second, those of a vehicle of the same description, drawn by two fine steeds.
Two men occupy the first wagon; one the next.
As the foremost wagon pauses, Larkins tosses his reins to the silent man in the buggy, and advances, followed by Dwight.
"Anything wrong?" queries Larkins.
"Not if you are all right," replies a harsh voice, a voice that has a natural snarl in it.
"All right, Cap'n; give us your orders."
The two men in the wagon spring to the ground, and begin to unharness the foremost horses. The other wagon comes closer.
"You and Briggs are to take in these two teams. Tom is to go on with the Morgans. Dwight is to take us back to Trafton," says the rasping voice.
Dwight comes closer, and then exclaims:
"By George, Captain, it's you in person."
"Yes, it's me," shortly. "Simpson failed to come, and I wanted to have a few words with you and Larkins. Hark! What's that?"
Wheels again; swift rushing, rattling wheels. Six heads are turned toward the north, whence they approach.
Suddenly there is a whistle, short and shrill.
Men are bounding over the low hedge to the left! Men are rising up from the long grass by the roadside!
Oaths, ejaculations, cracking of pistols, plunging of horses—
"The first man who attempts to run will be shot down!"
I hear these words, as I drive the Brookhouse roadster, foaming and panting, into the midst of the melee.
In spite of the warning one man has made a dart for liberty, has turned and rushed directly upon my horse.
In spite of the darkness his sharp eyes recognize the animal. What could his son's horse bring save a warning or a rescue?
He regains his balance, which, owing to his sudden contact with the horse, he had nearly lost, and springs toward me as my feet touch the earth.
"Arch!"
Before he can realize the truth my hands are upon him. Before he can recover from his momentary consternation other hands seize him from behind.
The captain of the horse-thieves, the head and front and brains of the band, is bound and helpless!
It is soon over; the horse-thieves fight well; strive hard to evade capture; but the attack is so sudden, so unexpected, and they are unprepared, although each man, as a matter of course, is heavily armed.
The vigilants have all the advantage, both of numbers and organization. While certain ones give all their attention to the horses, the larger number look to the prisoners.
Briggs, the silent man in the buggy, is captured before he knows what has happened.
Tom Briggs, his cowardly brother, is speedily reduced to a whimpering poltroon.
Ed. Dwight takes to his heels in spite of the warning of Captain Warren, and is speedily winged with a charge of fine shot. It is not a severe wound, but it has routed his courage, and he is brought back, meek and pitiful enough, all the jauntiness crushed out of him.
Larkins, my jehu on a former occasion, makes a fierce fight; and Louis Brookhouse, who still moves with a limp, resists doggedly.
Our vigilants have received a few bruises and scratches, but no wounds.
The struggle has been short, and the captives, once subdued, are silent and sullen.
We bind them securely, and put them in the coal wagons which now, for the first time, perhaps, are put to a legitimate use.
We do not care to burden ourselves with Larkins' roans, so they are released from the buggy and sent galloping homeward.
The bay Morgans, which have been "stolen" for the sake of effect, are again harnessed, as leaders of the four-in-hand. The vigilants bring out their horses from behind the brush fence, and the procession starts toward Trafton.
No one attempts to converse with the captives. No one deigns to answer a question, except by a monosyllable.
'Squire Brookhouse is wise enough to see that he can gain nothing by an attempt at bluster or bribery. He maintains a dogged silence, and the others, with the exception of Dwight, who can not be still under any circumstances, and Tom Briggs, who makes an occasional whimpering attempt at self-justification, which is heeded by no one, all maintain a dogged silence. And we move on at a leisurely pace, out of consideration for the tired horses.
As we approach Trafton, the Summer sun is sending up his first streak of red, to warn our side of the world of his nearness; and young Warren reins his horse out from the orderly file of vigilants, who ride on either side of the wagons.
He gallops forward, turns in his saddle to look back at us, waves his hat above his head, and then speeds away toward the village.
I am surprised at this, but, as I look from one face to another, I see that the vigilants, some of them, at least, understand the movement, and so I ask no questions.
I am not left long in suspense as to the meaning of young Warren's sudden leave-taking, for, as we approach to within a mile of Trafton, our ears are greeted by the clang of bells, all the bells of Trafton, ringing out a fiercely jubilant peal.
I turn to look at 'Squire Brookhouse. He has grown old in an instant; his face looks ashen under the rosy daylight. The caverns of his eyes are larger and deeper, and the orbs themselves gleam with a desperate fire. His lifeless black locks flutter in the morning breeze. He looks forlorn and desperate. Those clanging bells are telling him his doom.
Warren has done his work well. When we come over the hill into Trafton, we know that the news is there before us, for a throng has gathered in the street, although the hour is so early.
The bells have aroused the people. The news that the Trafton horse-thieves are captured at last, in the very act of escaping with their booty, has set the town wild.
Not long since these same horse-thieves have led Trafton on to assault, to accuse, and to vilify an innocent man. Now, those who were foremost at the raiding of Bethel's cottage, are loudest in denouncing those who were then their leaders; and the cry goes up,
"Hand over the horse-thieves! Hand them out! Lynch law's good enough for them!"
But we are fourteen in number. We have captured the prisoners, and we mean to keep them.
Once more my pistols, this time fully loaded, are raised against a Trafton mob, and the vigilants follow my example.
We guard our prisoners to the door of the jail, and then the vigilants post themselves as a wall of defence about the building, while Captain Warren sets about the easy task of raising a trusty relief guard to take the places of his weary men.
It is broad day now. The sun glows round and bright above the Eastern horizon. I am very weary, but there is work yet to be done.
I leave Captain Warren at the door of the jail, and hasten toward the Hill.
I am somewhat anxious about this coming bit of work, and a little reluctant as well, but it must be done, and that promptly.
Just outside of the avenue gate I encounter a servant from the Hill House, and accost him.
"Is Miss Manvers at home, and awake?"
"Yes, she is at home; she has been disturbed by the bells," and has sent him to inquire into the cause of the commotion.
She does not know, then! I heave a sigh of relief and hurry on.
I cross the avenue, and follow the winding foot-path leading up to the front entrance. I make no effort to see Jim or Gerry, at the barn; I feel sure that they are equal to any emergency that may arise.
Miss Manvers is standing at an open drawing-room window; she sees my approach and comes herself to admit me.
Then we look at each other.
She, I note, seems anxious and somewhat uneasy, and she sees at a glance that I am not the jaunty, faultlessly-dressed young idler of past days, but a dusty, dishevelled, travel-stained individual, wearing, instead of the usual society smile, a serious and preoccupied look upon my face.
"Miss Manvers," I say, at once, "you will pardon my abruptness, I trust; I must talk with you alone for a few moments."
She favors me with a glance of keen inquiry, and a look of apprehension crosses her face.
Then she turns with a gesture of careless indifference, and leads the way to the drawing-room, where she again turns her face toward me.
"I have before me an unpleasant duty," I begin again; "I have to inform you that Arch Brookhouse has been arrested."
A fierce light leaps to her eyes.
"Is that all?" she questions.
"The charge against him is a grave one," I say, letting her question pass unanswered. "He is accused of attempted abduction."
"Abduction!" she exclaims.
"And attempted assassination."
"Assassination! ah, who?"
"Attempt first, upon myself, in June last. Second attempt, upon Dr. Carl Bethel."
A wrathful look crosses her face.
"I wish they could hang him for it!" she says, vindictively. Then she looks me straight in the eyes. "Did you come to tell me this because you fancy that I care for Arch Brookhouse?" she questions.
"No."
"Why, then?"
"Because I am a detective, and it was my duty to come. There is more to tell you. 'Squire Brookhouse and his gang were arrested last night in the act of removing stolen horses from your barn."
Her face pales and she draws a long sighing breath, but she does not falter nor evince any other sign of fear.
"So it has come," she says. "And now you are here to arrest me. I don't think I shall mind it much."
"I have come to make terms with you, Miss Lowenstein, and it will be your fault if they are hard terms. I know your past history, or, at least—"
"At least, that I am a counterfeiter's daughter, and that I have served a term as a convict," she finishes, sarcastically.
"I know that you are the daughter of Jake Lowenstein, forger and counterfeiter. I know that you were arrested with him, as an accomplice; that immunity was offered you if you would testify against your father, the lawyers being sure that your evidence alone would easily convict him. I know that you refused to turn State's evidence; that you scoffed at the lawyers, and rather than raise your voice against your father, let them send you to prison for two years."
"You know all this?" wonderingly. "How did you find me out here?"
"Before you were taken to prison, they took your picture for—"
I hesitate, but she does not.
"For the rogue's gallery," she says, impatiently. "Well! go on."
"You were fiercely angry, and the scorn on your face was transferred to the picture."
"Quite likely."
"I had heard of your case, and your father's, of course. But I was not personally concerned in it, and I never saw him. I had never seen you, until I came to Trafton."
"I have changed since then," she breaks in, quickly.
"True; you were a slender, pretty young girl then. You are a handsome woman, now. Your features, however, are not much changed; yet probably, if I had never seen you save when your face wore its usual serene smile, I should never have found you out. But my comrade, who came to Trafton with me—"
"As your servant," she interposes.
"As my servant; yes. He had your picture in his collection. On the day of your lawn party, I chanced to see you behind a certain rose thicket, in conversation with Arch Brookhouse. He was insolent; you, angry and defiant. I caught the look on your face, and knew that I had seen it before, somewhere. I went home puzzled, to find Carnes, better known to you as Cooley, looking at a picture in his rogue's gallery. I took the book and began turning its leaves, and there under my eye was your picture. Then I knew that Miss Manvers, the heiress, was really Miss Adele Lowenstein."
"You say that it will be my fault if you make hard terms with me. My father is dead. I suppose you understand that?"
"Yes; I know that he is dead, but I do not know why you are here, giving shelter to stolen property and abbetting horse-thieves. Frankly, Miss Lowenstein, so far as your past is concerned, I consider you sinned against as much as sinning. Your sacrifice in behalf of your father was, in my eyes, a brave act, rather than a criminal one. I am disposed to be ever your friend rather than your enemy. Will you tell me how you became connected with this gang, and all the truth concerning your relations with them, and trust me to aid you to the limit of my power?"
"You do not promise me my freedom if I give you this information," she says, more in surprise than in anxiety.
"It is not in my power to do that and still do my duty as an officer; but I promise you, upon my honor, that you shall have your freedom if it can be brought about."
"I like the sound of that," says this odd, self-reliant young woman, turning composedly, and seating herself near the open window. "If you had vowed to give me my liberty at any cost I should not have believed you. Sit down; I shall tell you a longer story than you will care to listen to standing."
I seat myself in obedience to her word and gesture, and she begins straightway:
"I was seventeen years old when my father was arrested for counterfeiting, and I looked even younger.
"He had a number of confederates, but the assistant he most valued was the man whom people call 'Squire Brookhouse. He was called simply Brooks eight years ago.
"When my father was arrested, 'Squire Brookhouse, who was equally guilty, contrived to escape. He was a prudent sharper, and both he and father had accumulated considerable money.
"If you know that my father and myself were sentenced to prison, he for twenty years, and I for two, you know, I suppose, how he escaped."
"I know that he did escape; just how we need not discuss at present."
"Yes; he escaped. Brookhouse used his money to bribe bolder men to do the necessary dangerous work, for he, Brookhouse, needed my father's assistance, and he escaped. I had yet six months to serve.
"Well, Brookhouse had recently been down into this country on a plundering expedition. He was an avaricious man, always devising some new scheme. He knew that without my father's assistance, he could hardly run a long career at counterfeiting, and he knew that counterfeiting would be dangerous business for my father to follow, in or near the city, after his escape.
"They talked and schemed and prospected; and the result was that they both came to Trafton, and invested a portion of their gains, the largest portion of course, in two pieces of real estate; this and the Brookhouse place.
"Before we had been here a year, my father grew venturesome. He went to the city, and was recognized by an old policeman, who had known him too well. They attempted to arrest him, but only captured his dead body. The papers chronicled the fact that Jake Lowenstein, the counterfeiter, was dead. And we, at Trafton, announced to the world that Captain Manvers, late of the navy, had been drowned while making his farewell voyage.
"After that, I became Miss Manvers, the heiress, and the good Traftonites were regaled with marvelous stories concerning a treasure-ship dug out from the deep by my father, 'the sea captain.'
"Their main object in settling in Trafton, was to provide for themselves homes that might afford them a haven should stormy times come. And, also, to furnish them with a place where their coining and engraving could be safely carried on.
"Then the 'Squire grew more enterprising. He wanted more schemes to manage. And so he began to lay his plans for systematic horse-stealing.
"Little by little he matured his scheme, and one by one he introduced into Trafton such men as would serve his purpose, for, if you inquire into the matter, you will find that every one of his confederates has come to this place since the first advent of 'Squire Brookhouse.
"The hidden place in our barn was prepared before my father was killed, and after that—well, 'Squire Brookhouse knew that I could be a great help to him, socially.
"I did not know what to do. This home was mine, I felt safe here; I had grown up among counterfeiters and law-breakers, and I did not see how I was to shake myself free from them—besides—"
Here a look of scornful self-contempt crosses her face.
"Besides, I was young, and up to that time had seen nothing of society of my own age. Arch Brookhouse had lately come home from the South, and I had fallen in love with his handsome face."
She lifts her eyes to mine, as if expecting to see her own self-scorn reflected back in my face, but I continue to look gravely attentive, and she goes on:
"So I stayed on, and let them use my property as a hiding-place for their stolen horses. I kept servants of their selection, and never knew aught of their plans. When I heard that a horse had been stolen, I felt very certain that it was concealed on my premises, but I never investigated.
"After a time I became as weary of Arch Brookhouse as he, probably, was of me. Finally indifference became detestation. He only came to my house on matters of business, and to keep up the appearance of friendliness between the two families. Mrs. Brookhouse is a long-suffering, broken-down woman, who never sees society.
"I do not intend to plead for mercy, and I do not want pity. I dare say that nine-tenths of the other women in the world would have done as I did, under the same circumstances. I have served two years in the penitentiary; my face adorns the rogues' gallery. I might go out into the world and try a new way of living, but I must always be an impostor. Why not be an impostor in Trafton, as well as anywhere else? I have always believed that, some day, I should be found out."
When she has finished her story there is a long silence, then she says, with a suddenness that would have been surprising in any other woman than the one before me:
"You say you have arrested Arch Brookhouse for the shooting of Dr. Bethel. Tell me, is it true that Dr. Bethel is out of danger?"
"He is still in a condition to need close attention and careful medical aid; with these, we think, he will recover."
"I am very glad to know that," she says, earnestly.
"Miss Lowenstein, I have some reason for thinking that you know who is implicated in that grave-robbing business."
"I do know," she answers, frankly, "but not from them. The Brookhouses, father and sons, believed Dr. Bethel to be a detective, and to be candid, so did I. You know 'the wicked flee when no man pursueth.' They construed his reticence into mystery. They fancied that his clear, searching eye was looking into all their secrets. I knew they were plotting against him, but I had told Arch Brookhouse that they should not harm him. When I went down to the cottage with Louise Barnard, I felt sure that it was their work, the grave-robbing.
"Tom Briggs was there, the fiercest of the rioters. Tom had worked about my stable for a year or more, and I thought that I knew how to manage him. I contrived to get a word with him. Did you observe it?"
"Yes, I observed it."
"I told him to come to The Hill that evening, and he came. Then I made him tell me the whole story.
"Arch Brookhouse had planned the thing, and given it to Briggs to execute. There were none of the regular members of the gang here to help him at that work, so he went, under instructions, of course, to Simmons and Saunders, two dissolute, worthless fellows, and told them that Dr. Bethel had offered him thirty dollars to get the little girl's body, and offered to share with them.
"Those three did the work. Briggs buried the clothing and hid the tools. Then, when the raid began, Briggs told his two assistants that, in order to avoid suspicion, they must join the hue and cry against Dr. Bethel, and so, as you are aware, they did."
This information is valuable to me. I am anxious to be away, to meet Simmons and Saunders. I open my lips to make a request, when she again asks a sudden question.
"Will you tell me where and how you arrested the Brookhouse gang? I am anxious to know."
"I will tell you, but first will you please answer one more question?"
She nods and I proceed.
"I have told you that Arch Brookhouse is charged with attempted abduction; I might say Louis Brookhouse stands under the same charge. Do you know anything about the matter?"
"I? No."
"Did you ever know Miss Amy Holmes?"
"Never," she replies, emphatically. "Whom did they attempt to abduct?"
"Three young girls; three innocent country girls."
"Good heavens!" she exclaims, her eyes flashing fiercely, "that is a deed, compared with which horse-thieving is honorable!"
I give her a brief outline of the Groveland affair, or series of affairs, so far as I am able, before having heard Carnes' story. And then I tell her how the horse-thieves were hunted down.
"So," she says, wearily, "by this time I am known all over Trafton as the accomplice of horse-thieves."
"Not so, Miss Lowenstein. The entire truth is known to Carnes and Brown, the two detectives I have mentioned, to Jim Long, and to Mr. Warren. The vigilants knew that the horses had been concealed near Trafton, but, owing to the manner in which the arrests were made, they do not know where. I suppose you are aware what it now becomes my duty to do?"
"Assuredly," with constrained voice and manner. "You came here to arrest me. I submit."
"Wait. From first to last it has been my desire to deal with you as gently as possible. Now that I have heard your story, I am still more inclined to stand your friend. The three men in Trafton who know your complicity in this business, are acting under my advice. For the present, you may remain here, if you will give me your promise not to attempt an escape."
"I shall not try to escape; I would be foolish to do so, after learning how skillfully you can hunt down criminals."
"Thanks for the compliment, and the promise implied. If you will give your testimony against the gang, telling in court the story you have told me, you shall not stand before these people without a champion."
"I don't like to do it. It seems cowardly."
"Why? Do you think they would spare you were the positions reversed?"
"No, certainly not; but—" turning her eyes toward the foliage without, and speaking wistfully, "I wish I knew how another woman would view my position. I never had the friendship of a woman who knew me as I am. I wish I knew how such a woman as Louise Barnard would advise me."