New York dispatch. [volume], January 11, 1885, Image 1

About New York dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1863-1899

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Entered at the Post Office at New York,
N. Y., as Second Class Matter.
THE DISPATCH, ;
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THEATRIC REMINISCENCES.
THE MAN IN THE GRAY ULSTER.
The Gathering in “The Criterion”—Ent er
the Survivor of a Wrech—A Little Game
of Draw Poker—The Private Bottle
Imp—A Long Wait Between Drinks
-Studley’s Job—A Diwy with
Dittenhoctfer, Etc.
BY JOHN CARBOY.
In camo a now addition to tho transient popu
lation of tbo Hon. Charles Collins’s Oasis, otherwise
and more familiarly known as “TheCriteri n.”
Mr. John Matthews sat near the window gazing
meditatively upon a miniature portrait in oil of his
only love, “ Dorcas,” painted on ivory and set in a
diamond-encrusted medallion, presented him on last
New Year’s day by Gus Williams.
Mr. Tom Morris was leaning over a table commit
ting to memory a leading Herald editorial, as a spe
cially funny gag to be used at some future time in
a low comedy part.
Mr. Jerome Eddy was embracing his devoted
friend and boon companion, Fred. Warde, in a far
corner.
Charley Gaylor and George Clarke were hobnob
bing over a sociable game of cassino within easy
reach of the free lunch end of the counter.
John B. Studley and John having a
Jolly time in the back room playing draw-poker—for
a pot of Injunctions—Dittenhoeffer running the
table.
Jim Collier looking in at the door and asking if
anybody had seen Buchanan lately with a society
drama marked "for the Union Square Theatre
received on account in advance, seven hundred dol
lars”—in his coat tail pocket.
Cazauran, near the bar counter, pronouncing a
panegyric upon the intellectual greatness of his
dear friend Roche.
A group of half-a-dozen professional deadheads
concocting a series of resolutions thanking Joe
Brookes for refusing them permission to look upon
the remains of Riston during their late exhibition
at the Star Theatre.
The Hon. Charles Collins in his little den recover
ing from
A SUDDEN ATTACK OF MENTAL PARALYSIS,
caused by tho appearance of a dollar bill in the
hand of a disengaged fake.
Into this picturesque tableau came the new ad
dition to tho transient population of the Criterion.
Ho camo in arrayed in a long gray ulster, the tails
of which fanned the run down heels of his worn
gaiters, which wero apparently covered with the
dust of miles upon miles of good walking.
His gait upon entering, was of that lively
quality, which usually attends the locomotion of a
debtor dodging into a blind alley to avoid a coming
creditor; his facial expression was as bright,
joyous and hopeful, as that of a wedding guest
making a bolt for tho reception banquet, but his
gloves and hat had tho appearance of having come
down to him as an heirloom from the funereal
wardrobe of an undertaker of a century ago.
In this sudden apparition there were combined
ihe dash of Alfred Jingle, tho melancholy dignity of
an Irving, and an obtrusive suggestion of a Robert
Macairo mourning the loss of his snuff-box.
•• Ha I’* As he uttered this not uncommon excla
mation, Matthews hastily thrust the Dorcas medal
lion into his pocket; Tom Morris stood bolt up
right, Jerome Eddy dropped his cigar, and Charley
Collins braced up with nervous expectancy behind
tho counter.
♦‘Ha! Home again. Howaro you Tom—how's
Dorcas—John—why, hello, Eddy—by Jove, Charley,
you’re looking as bsigbft as a circus poster—how’s
things anyway ?”
The Tableau of Transients closed in around the
roan in tho gray ulster as he uttered his greeting
and $o adroitly pulled off hie «lovps tb’t nn* th*
ehafffest could dekcteS their dilapidation
and age,
Evidently ha was about to do somethings
A * cl he did.
He cheerily added as the fitting appendix (o his
query in reference to tho condition of things, the
familiar and always welcome chestnut, «* Its a long
limo between drinks—
LET’S HAVE SOMETHING—Eft
Seven of tho members of the Criterion tableau
ranged themselves at the counter in the usual stand
Mt ease variety of attitude indicative of each one’s
dead letter perfect knowledge of the business of
the drinking act at somebody else’s expense.
For this act very few rehearsals are necessary.
Collins, with the alacrity, ease and grace, acquired
by long experience, placed a glass fn front of each
man.
The glasses glistened no brighter eyes.
The man in the gray ulster smiled as his eyes ten
derly rested upon a knot mark in the counter im
mediately in front of-Collins.
“ You’ve forgotten—one more glass Charley—one
for yourself you know.”
The glass came up from under tho counter with
lightning rapidity.
A flash of mental calculation told Charley that
with this addition to the sum total for this round
of drinks—he would be—at the average rate—one
dollar and thirty-five cents the winner.
Another flash cheered him with the expectancy
that.with Studley, perhaps Stetson and probably
Eddy keeping up their end of the rouse his day’s
business would be glorified by an increase of Jour
orfiv dollars of solid cash.
The third flash was a blessing upon
THE MAN IN THE GRAY ULSTER.
So Collins stood waiting for the order. There
was ’ta beer drinker nor a Sarsaparilla dyspeptic in
th.‘. crowd.
“Now gentlemen nominate your poison,” mildly
suggested Collins.
The man in the gray ulster thrust his right h and
into the side pocket of the long storm-beaten coat;
his left hand rested upon the counter, grasping his
dilapidated gloves.
••Now, gentlomon—old fels—it’s good to meet
once more upen one’s native shore, and I’m the
only survivor washed up, high and dry and safe,
from tho wreck of our 'Star Combination.’ I tell
you, we had a rcugh voyage. The Presidential
cyclone struck us at Kalamazoo, and swept away
our baggago; thon tho hurricane of strikes came
and blew us out of cur reckoning, and a cold wave
carried off our manager and treasurer between two
days, and at last wo wont to pieces.”
Collins fingered his empty glass impatiently, and
there was something of an exhaustive drought
visible in tho facial expression of the listeners as
they gave visual pantomimic hints in their alternate
glancos from tho speaker to their as yet untouched
glaspes.
“New, then,” began Collins.
“Oh, beg pardon,” continued tho occupant of the
gray ulster. “Yes, I see. As I was saying, I got
away from the wreck; caught on with a property
watch, warranted to go as long as anybody carried
it; stuck a gawk with it nine miles west of Tiffin,
Ohio; met him in the only ‘tavern’ in the place; he
was a rural sport; asked me ff I knew poker; I said
yes; wo sat down in the bar-room for a little game;
told him I had no small bills—nothing but century
cases—but put up my watch, oroide chain and all
fine gold-watch to equal twenty dne-dollar chips—
fi.ve-dollar raise tho limit—one dollar the ante—
didn’t let him examine the super too closely, you
know. Well, ho put up his dollars, and, not to en
ter into details, when wo quit, after five hours’
close attention to tho game and a bottle of
whisky, I had cleaned out tho sportive gawk, and
had in my pocket one hundred cases. I saw venge
ance in his eye.’ I said: ‘Wait a minute; be back in
two minutes.’ Went ont of the back door; made a
straight cut for the railroad station; just in timo to
board a Cleveland train, and Eastward, the star of
escape, led the way, and here I am. The play’s the
thing wherein we’ll catdJ&he boodlo of the gawks. ’
“ Come, come,” began Collins.
“It’s a long time between drinks,” gasped Tom
Morris.
“Nover knew such a wait between acts,” mur
mured Mathews.
“Except when there was a heavy set of Injunc
tion,” put in Studley, putting up his eye-glasses*
The man in tho gray ulster looked at his ex
pectant friends and then at tho row of empty
glasses.
“ Great Scotthe exclaimed ; “now see here, it’s
too bad. Well, I’ll make it up for you. You don’t
suppose I’m going to let you off with one round,
do you ? You know me better than that, don’t yoU,
Gaylor? You remember the old time, don’t you—
years ago when we used to meet down there ?’ —
“ Oh Lord ! what have I done ?” groaned Gaylor
drooping Lis leonine head.
“ Begorra ! I’ll collapse soon,” sighed Roche.
“Charley,” continued the owner of the gray
ulster, “you drink whisky—and—lets all—-just for
a lark—tackle whisky. It goes—does it ? All right.
Hold on a minute, Charley.”
Charley paused in the act of handing down the
bottlo of whisky which his hand had grasped.
“ Hold on, Charley,” and here the Man in tho
gray ulster drew the right hand out of the pocket,
and in its grasp was
A QUART FLASK
from which he dexterously twisted the cork.
“There, boys, try that whisky. It’ll make your
hair curl. Don’t be afraid of it—its as free as air—
help yourselves.”
Collins’s face blanched—bleached white.
“I say,” he gasped, “I”—
Mathews grabbed the bottle recklessly; then
Morris, then Gaylor, and every man of the crowd
had his boozo poured out and swallowed before
Collins had uttered the three words.
The gray ulstered man of destiny smiled. “Drink
hearty, boys ; its the clear juice. Charley, what’s
the matter—try it—eh? Now then, one more
round ” —
Collins was himself again.
He cast off the seductive suavity of the landlord
and assumed the wrathful dignity of an insulted
man. And he made the air blue, and the glasses
blister with about the choicest lot of profanity ever
heard outside of the composition-room of a morn
ing paper.
“ What in blankety-blank do you mean. Who in
are you, anyhow ? What do you take me for
coming in here and bringing the crowd up to the
bar—talking them into a paralysis of thirst and—
and—dammit—fetching out your own bottle to
treat ’em with. Where in blankety-blank do I get
in ? What do I run this place for, anyhow ?”
“Sir,” said the man in the gray ulster, with a
calmness which was as exasperating as wormwood
and gall, “ I came in here to treat my friends. Not
being able to pay for even a single drink at-retail
rates without depriving myself of a square meal, I
carry my own bottle—twenty-five cents a quart.
Your drink, which you didn’t take, ought to be an
equivalent for tho use of the glasses and ”
Collins, like Gloster, when King Henry had
reached the lines—“ And if the rest bo true I’ve
heard, thou earnest”—could hear no more. He did
not cry out, “Die, prophet, in the midst of thy
speech,” but he made
A SUDDEN PLUNGE
under the counter; he bobbed up suddenly—not
serenely, but freshly; there was a sudden hish—and
splash, as of the bursting of a flat-house water-pipe,
and the man in the gray ulster was deluged with a
shower-bath of seltzer water. ♦
“Get out, you infernal ” roared Charley.
He did get out, and as the green doors closed on
his gray ulster, his parting words floated in ;
“ It’s a good snap—if it works.”
•' The next bum fake that brings his own bottle in
here ’ll be murdered,” puffed Charley. “Who in
is he, anyhow ?”
“I guess it’s a joke, Charley,” soothingly sug
gested Studley. “ Well, it’s all circus—let’s have
some out of your bottle this time, as a CQftgoler.”
Once again the crowd ranged in file, Charley
smiled again.
I?b a joke, CHariey. 7 0U to know
who put it up on you ?” **' *
“A bottle of wine for the crowd.’*
“ It’s a go. Bring out your Mumm, dry, 1
the job up. That ulster lad is my dresser and in
junction bouncer. 1 posted him in this raid, and he
did the biz up to the handle—and so did you with
the seltzer bottle,” said Studley.
Charley put out the wine.
“Nowthen,” said Studley, leaning over toward
Charley with a serious and half apologetic expres
sion of face—“ Charley, I’ll have to owe you for the
round of drinks till I come again.”
“Well, I’m d d. What next?” moaned Col-
lins. “ Won’t you take the entire shop ?”
And half an hour later Studley capped the climax
by throwing upon the counter a thonsand-dollar
greenback.
“Take the drinks out of that, Chirley.”
“ Godelmitey, is there that much money in the
universe?”
“That's the regular weekly salary Stetson pays
me—as long aslallowjhim to injunct me—as a
standing advertisement for his ‘Monte Cristo.’ I
divy up with Dittenhoeffer, too, you know. It’s a
big thing, my boy.”
Charley Collins is not likely to forget Studley’s
dresser. It was a good scheme, and it worked.
• —■... ■
Stopped to I£eai' a Story.
AN ANECDOTE OF THE BEV. HOW
LAND HILL.
Two strangers passing Rowland Hill’s church one
day entered, walked up the aisle, and, finding no
seat, stood for a while, and listened to the sermon.
Presently they turned to walk out. Before they
reached the door the preacher said:
“ But I will tell you a story.”
This, of course, arrested the strangers, and they
paused, turned again, and listened.
“ Once there was a man,” said the preacher, “ who
, said that if he bad all the axes in the world made
into one great ax, and all the trees in the world
made into one tree, and he could wield the ax and
cut down the tree, he would make it into one great
whip to thrash those ungodly mon who turn their
1 backs on the gospel and stop to hear a story.
i Served Him Right. —Jessie Lewis
’ keeps a little fancy store at No. 563 First avenue.
> Because she is an unprotected woman, loafers get in
» front of her door and annoy her. She wont out to
> remonstrate, and Luke Riley hit her with his fist
twice, knocked her down, and when she cried mur-
l der, he ran. She knew him well, as he lived close
i by, and she had often seen him. Her daughter was
> also assaulted when she camo to save her mother.
) Tho young fellow claimed that it was a ease of
I mistaken identity, but he did not prove it.
The Court sentenced him to the Penitentiary for
a year.
JANUARY 11, 1885.
A FRATERML AFFAIR.
The Events that Occurred to
the Delpuit Brothers.
Coi’rect Robert and Scapegrace
Daniel.
INFLUENCE OF A PRETTY BRITISH BLONDE
TREACHERY AND REVENGE.
SPANISH ADRIANA’S KNIFE.
When old Antoine Delpuit died in Paris, in 1827,
he left his large estate to be equally divided be
tween his two sons, Robert—then a man of thirty
years of age—and Daniel, who still lacked five years
of attaining his majority. Robert was also made
tho guardian and principal executor in charge of
his brother and his brother s interest in the estate.
The elder brother was a serious, grave, saturnine
sort of fellow, who professed to bo religious and
who, so far as the world could see, lived a very cor
rect and upright life. Ho was a notary, as his
father had been before him. Daniel was a thought
less, rockless young chap, entirely too fond of wine
and women even before he reached the age of man
hood. When his father died he indulged in his
favorite excesses to a greater extent than ever be
fore, aud it was with difficulty that Robert could
keep his expenditures within the bounds of reason.
The frequent discussions on Daniel’s prodigality
made some dissensions between the two brothers,
but they amounted to little. The elder was a man
of strong will and over-awed his spendthrift brother
by the solemn correctness of his life and manners,
so that he easily
MAINTAINED HIS SUPREMACY
and retained Daniel’s confidence in his probity,
good judgment and affection. Thus it was that even
when Daniel reached his majority, Robert con
tinued to manage his affairs, handle his money and
exercise a sort of control over him, almost as much
as in the days of his minority, and that without
the junior even thinking of rebelling against the
arrangement.
This continued until, in 1852, when Daniel was
twenty-five years of age, an event occurred that
made a violent and eventually fatal change in the
relations of the brothers.
The year before this, Florence Aktell, an English
girl, went over to Paris. She was not a “ good girl ”
and did not pretend to be one, but she was very
jolly, very pretty, very dainty and possessed to the
fullest extent that dangerous but charming fem
inine accomplishment of either earnestly and hon
estly being deeply in love with every good-looking,
able-bodied young fellow she met, or at least of
pretending so to be, to each in succession, so nat
urally that each believed himself “the only man
she ever loved.”
In the summer of 1851 Daniel Delpuit began to
feel confident that he only was beloved by her. By
early autumn he had attained that still more dan
gerous conviction, that she was the only woman he
ever had loved or could love.
From that time he could not do enough to demon
strate his affection. He furnished a house for her,
gave her costly dnesses and jewels, was indeed ruin
ing himself for her when the good idea occurred to
Robert of endeavoring to interpose to stop the
downward course to ruin. It was with serious
doubt of the result that he did so, for he had never
had to encounter any such violent passion in Dan
iel’s previously erratic career of amours as that now
controlling him.
A DESPERATE NECESSITY,
existed however, known to Robert alone at that
time. He had been using Daniel’s share of the
estate as his own. Having been so long accus
tomed to handling it without ever being called to
an account, he had come to regard it as really his
own.
Not only had he suffered severe losses in specula
tions on the Bourse, but he had secret vices, and by
no means inexpensive ones, that K no one in the
society he customarily moved in would have sus
pected of such an eminently proper and conspicu
ously good man.
He viewed with alarm the extraordinary and ever
increasing demands made upon him for money by
Daniel. True, the money was really Daniel’s, but
it was very inconvenient and disagreeable to give it
up and he feared that any day his inability to meet
some excessive requirement might force upon him
the catastrophe of having to render an account of
his stewardship. So it was that Robert Delpuht
went to Florence Aktell, Daniel’s mistress, with the
purpose of offering her a round sum that he deemed
would be of sufficient magnitude to buy her aban- ,
donment of his brother and her return to England.
When he saw her, he changed his purpose in one
very material point. He resolved still to break off
the connection between her and his brother, but he
would keep her for Tj’uly
"Tiftssl” WAS a mmiSation,
even for the sternest anchorite, and Robert Delpuit
was by no means an anchorite. He was secretly a
very licentious man. His victims wore ordinarily
poor girls, whom he allured to their ruin by treach
erous promises of affectionate protection and even
of marriage, ana whom he heartlessly cast as
soon as he wearied of them, indiffetefct to the life of
shame to which he doomed them.
One exception to that rule was a Spanish girl
named Adriana Cordalias, who had borne him [a
child and who maintained her hold upon him sim
ply through his well-grounded fear that she was
very likely to drive a knife into him if he ever gave
her what she might choose to consider sufficient
cause for so doing.
But he forgot all about Adriana when face to face
with Flossy’s blonde, bewitching beauty. She re
ceived him graciously, listened to him encourag
ingly, resisted his approaches gently—just enough
to incite him to more fitrious desire—and gave him
finally a conditional acceptance of his proffers. The
fact was that Flossy was as cold-bloodedly merce
nary as she was pretty, and had already conceived
the idea that Daniel was a pretty well squeezed
orange. In the very nick of time, his brother, the
chief of the Delpuit Exchequer, presented himself.
He could not be said to have coma
“ TO FILL A LONG FELT WANT ”
—as the prospective newspapers say—but he was
just as welcome as if he had.
Within three days Flossy had secretly sold out the
furniture of the house in which her establishment
had been set up by Daniel, and had disappeared,
leaving no trace.
In another and distant part of Paris, Robert had
established her, in better style than she had before
enjoyed, and was squandering both his own money
and Daniel’s upon her even more recklessly than
the younger brother would.
It was a fortnight before Daniel found out what
had become of his faithless love. When he did, his
amazement at learning of his brother’s treachery
to him was mingled with rage at the cold-blooded
hypocrisy with which Robert had listened to his
lamentations over Flossy’s loss, and had even con
doled with him, while still warm from her arms.
Having fully satisfied himself as to the facts in the
case he went to his brother and vehemently de
nounced him.
“Were you not my brother,” he said, “I would
kill you. As the tio of blood forbids my doing that,
your life is safe; but I warn you that I will well
avenge myself. I know you now as you are—a
licentious and, I do not doubt, a thievish hypocrite.
All the time that you were lecturing me about mo
rality and a decent life, you wore
A WORSE LIBERTINE
than I was. First, you shall give up to me my
share of our father’s estate, which * will no longer
trust in your keeping. Then I shall have some
other matters to claim your serious attention.”
Daniel found, to his great disgust, that he eonld
not force his brother to that speedy accounting that
ju his impetuous way ho fancied would have to be
Fearless and Independent.
rendered in a few hours. Cunning Robert found
ways to invoke in his behalf tho delays of the law,
with which ho was well acquainted, and Daniol
learned with astonishment from his lawyer, that
months would probably elapso before ho could got
a settlement.
His vongoanco would not wait that long, so he
slightly changed his programme. Already ho had
found where Flossy was established and had com
municated with Adriana Cordalias, who was ne
glected by Robert since his acquisition of the Brit
ish charmer, and who, without knowing the cause
of his coldness to her, was suspicious and chafing
with jealous fury. To her went Daniel with the
full story of Robert and Flossy, which ho colored, as
Britons are wont to say, “ to the queen’s tasto.”
She seemed so calm that he feared she would do
nothing but submit in silence, and when, with
merely languid interest, apparently, sho asked where
Flossy lived, he told her, with a feeling that the in
formation was altogether thrown away. Little he
knew her. Under that placid exterior was raging
A HELL OF DESPERATE RAGE.
“Would she go and see Flossy and satisfy her
self?” he asked.
“ Yes.”
“When ?”
“That same evening, probably.”
Possibly she might, he thought, and then again
perhaps, sho might not. At all events it would do
no harm to his pretty projects to inject another
certain element of disturbance into the interview,
if it took place, or to insure another probably pro
ductive interview for the discomfiture of his hypo
critical brother, if Adriana failed to appear.
The person upon whom his mind was fixed in
that reflection was Robert’s wife, a plain, home
keeping, submissive little woman, who was habitu
ally ill-treated by him, and who, so far as the world
saw of her, entered as little into his life, as she thus
far has into this story.
Daniel very mu-ch doubted if “tho crushed worm
would turn,” even under extremest provocation,
and rather gloomily feared that his plans for re
venge were likely to prove abortive. Had he known
women better, he would have been more prepared
to appreciate the magniiude of the storm he had
raised, and more apprehensive of its serious conse
quences.
At nine o’clock that evening, Adriana forced her
way past the servant who opened the door of Flos
sy’s apartments, and abruptly that young
woman’s private boudoir. Flossy, in a fascinating
deshabille, sprang up, with a startled exclamation,
from the knee of a man who, in his shirt sleeves
and slippers, as if thoroughly at home, was seated
in an easy chair before an open fire.
For a few moments the intruder was silent; then
began pouring forth
A TORRENT OF INVECTIVE
upon tho man who had deceived and betrayed her.
Flossy appealed to him to protect her from the
strango woman’s attack, for sho saw with instinct
ive dread a threatening glitter in the basilisk-like
black eyes of Adriana, who was slowly advancing
into the room, and nearing her. The man in his
shirt sleeves, who was Robert Delpuit, stepped for
ward, and laid his hand upon the Spanish woman's
shoulder to expel her.
“You need not fear me,” said Adriana to her
rival. “I have nothing against you. You never
promised me anything; never broke faith with me.
You were simply pursuing your trade. I only de
spise you. But as for you, traitor,” turning to
Robert, “ I have an account to settle with you. You
swore to marry me: and, believing you, I became
the mother of your child. You would have deserted
me long ago, if you had not been a coward. Do you
think I have not read you well, and known you for
a long time ? At last you desert me for a mercenary
prostitute, neglect to provide even for your child,
and your punishment comes upon you—thus 1”
With a movement quick as a flash of light, her
hand darted from beneath her shawl and crossed
before his face. He uttered a hoarse cry of
AGONY AND HORROR,
as, releasing his hold upon her, he tottered back
ward, blind, and with a cataract of blood pouring
down over his lace and front. With one vigorous
slash of a keen knife, she had split open both his
eye-balls, and made a hideous gash across the bridge
of his nose.
“It serves him rightly,” exclaimed an agitated
voice behind Adriana, who, turning, saw behind
her, in the curtains covering the doorway, a little
pale woman, dressed in black.
“ Who are you ? ’ she demanded.
“ I am his wife,” answered the woman.
That voice broke upon his ear even through his in
tense pain and loud lamentations. Its tone revealed
to him that the end of her endurance had come, and
that all the fair, outward seeming of morality and
pioty, that he iiad so carefully built up for years,
was gone, along with his sight, his wealth, his
mistresses, and all that He held dear, in both his
private aud public lives.
He fell unconscious upon the floor, where he was
left, with contemptuous indifference, by both Adri
ana and his wife. Flossy, too, quickly made her
escape, in unreasoning fear and dread of other
awful surprises, aud, but for the kind attention of a
servant, who ran for a doctor, he might have bled
to death where he lay.
His sight was irretrievably lost. His wife easily
obtained a judicial separation from him, and, under
the influence of the exposure of his real character
that was made in her suit for that separation, the
civil courts, with unusual celerity, adjudged in
Daniel’s favor his suit for a settlement of the estate.
Blind, beggared, and 'lone, Robert did the most
decent thing of his whole career—he hanged him
self.
PLU'KGWfTBiisnKE.
A Father’s Plot to Secure a
Wealthy Son-in-Law.
A FAMILY AFFLICTED WITH BIGAMY.
Some Very Clever Detective Work which
Restored a Missing Son.
.. prg w .
The writer finds in his noto-toook tho subjoined
story as related to him byjthe Detective, from whose
diary many narratives already published in these
columns have been taken :
“The Rev. Dr. Gleig was the son of a man of good
family, but poor. Dr. Gleig went into the church
and had to content himself with a small living. He
married an amiable but portionless girl and the re
sult of the marriage was one son.
“ About a year before the beginning of this nar
rative, Dr. Gleig had been smitten with paralysis,
two strokes in succession depriving him of the use
of his limbs and leaving him an almost helpless im
becile. The physicians were at first in hopes of his
restoration, provided he could be tided over a year
or two without another attack; but at the expira
tion of nine months an unfavorable change occurred
and it was evident he might bo taken off suddenly
at any time.
“ When Dr. Gleig married he was about the tenth
remove from the heirship to a large estate. One by
one the nearer Loirs died off’. The sickness of Dr.
Gleig had diverted his family’s thoughts from all
other subjects aud they were therefore somewhat -
astonished when they were notified that there was
but one person between him and a vast property,
and that one an old man of seveuty-nine.
A DISAPPEARANCE.
“ George, the Doctor's son, was at Oxford, where
he had only recently matriculated, being in his
nineteenth year. On February 25, 1863, he disap
peared, leaving behind him no clew. His mother
used every means to discover the whereabouts of
the boy, without, however, giving the ma th er pub
licity. Three weeks later, Dr. Gleig came into pos
session of tho estate worth £20,000 sterling a year,
with a fine mansion in Yorkshire and another in
Leicestershire. From that time his wife spent large
sums of money to find ont their missing son. In
June sho employed me, through a London attorney,
to undertake the task and I at once went to work.
“The first thing I did was to go to Oxford aud
make among bis assoeites there.
They knew positively nothing and referred me to
tho servant who had waited upon the young man.
I found him living in a comfortable dwelling, and
answering to the name of Linker. Ho bad a shy
way with him and did not seem to enjoy my ques
tioning him.
A SPECIAL MAN.
‘“To tell you the truth, sir,’ he said, ‘I was very
sick at the time Mr. Gleig disappeared, and had
been r or over a month, so that I was relieved from
duty and another man was put in my place. That
is to say, another man did bis own work and part
of mine, too, but as Mr. Gleig was very particular,
I employed a special man to attend to him.’
“ ‘ Who was he ?’ 1 asked, thinking it very strange
at the outset that George Gleig, whose father had
had to scrape and hoard to send him to the Univer
sity and who was described by all as a youth of
such modest and careful ways, should have gone
to the expense of another servant—for of course he
would have to pay him.
“ • His name,’ said Binker. ‘ I forget. Tie was rec
ommended by a particular friend of mine, and that
was all I knew of him.’
“ • Who was the friend who recommended him ?’
I inquired; ‘perhaps he might know more about
the man.’
“ • Ah,’ said Binker, 'mv friend went to London,
where he got a situation about the docks.’
A SLIGHT DIFFERENCE.
“•What sort of a looking man was this person
who waited on Mr. Gleig ?” I asked.
“ ■ He was short and thin, I believe,’ replied Bink
er, ‘and about twenty or thirty years ot age, with
red hair and a clean shaven face, and spoko like a
foreigner.’
“I w’ent back to the college and saw one of
George’s most intimate associates. The description
he gave of Binker's substitute was the very reverse
of that furnished by Binker. The man, said the
student, was over fifty, tall and stout, with black
hair and a full black beard, and spoke excellent En
glish.
“I went to Binker’s once more and asked him
when he resumed his duties aftex* his sickness.
Singularly enough it was the very day alter George
Gleig had disappeared—February 26.
‘“Did you seo your substitute after your re
turn ?’
“ ‘No, I did not,’ was tho answer.
“'And you have never seen him since or heard
of him ?’ I asked.
“ ' I have not,’ ho answered.
A LETTER.
“Farther inquiry showed that Georgo Gleig and
Binker’s substitute disappeared from public gaze
at the same time. After some trouble I found the
place where the substitute had lodged, and discov
ered that he passed under tho name of Brown. A
crown piece put mo on pleasant terms with the old
lady who kept the house. She said that all tho time
Brown stayed there with his daughter, Binker was
a frequent visitor, sometimes staying late into the
night. She allowed mo to see the room occupied by
Brown, and you may depend upon it I rummaged
for some fragment that might help me to a clew.
But I didn’t find any. On leaving tho house, how
ever, I found the old lady with a letter in her hand.
“ ‘This,’ said she, ‘camo for Mr. Brown the very
day after he left.’
“I examined the envelope. It was in a lady’s
hand, and bore the Shrewsbury post mark. I
should have liked to seethe inside, but that couldn’t
be, and so I gave it back to the old lady, after a
very careful scrutiny. I went to my hotel and sot
to work to reproduce that envelope and all it con
tained. With a little ingenuity, I made an envelope
that would pass muster. Thon I manufactured an
inside, and the same evening called again on the
old lady. I asked her to allow me to examine the
letter once more. She did so, and tho letter I re
turned to her was the counterfeit. When I reached
my hotel, I slit the envelope, and drew forth the
paper it contained. It was a blank ! I scrutinized
it closely, and finally held it up to tho light. The
riddle was solved. These words were distinctly vis
ible:
“‘ We are very anxious about you. Why don’t
you write ? Jane.’
“ This told me nothing, but the envelope showed
me that the letter came from Shrewsbury. Thither
I went—of course I was not such a fool as to be
lieve that Mr. Brown at Oxford would be Mr. Brown
at Shrewsbury, but I was in hopes that something
might turn up at tho latter place to throw light
upon the mystery, I was attempting to solve. The
day after my arrival, I saw a gentleman enter a
bank whom I determined to examine a little more
closely. On his returning to tho street, I scrutin
ized hifti, and thought ho
“ANSWERED BROWN’S DESCRIPTION.
“I ascertained that his name was Brignail,and that
he resided in the suburbs. I found further that he
was formerly a strolling dentist, going from one
town to another practicing his profession, and that
while at Shrewsbury he had had for a patient a
widow, who resided with her sen and two daughters
in the outskirts of the town, where her husband
had left her an annuity oi six hundred pounds a
year. He had married the widow and resided there
ever since. I laid a little plot. I wrote a note to
Mr. Brignall and signed it Binker, telling him that
business of the utmost importance to him had
brought me to Shrewsbury, and that he must meet
Binker at the Red Cross Inn at seven o’clock that
evening. True to the minute, Mr. Briguall appear
ed, and seemed greatly perturbed when no Binker
was forthcoming. After making many inquiries,
and waiting for over two hours, he went away.
“ Naturally after he was gone, the townspeople in
the bar began to talk about Mr. Brignail.
“ ‘lt was a lucky thing for him when he married
the widow Gleig,’ some one said:
“ I started and unwittingly exclaimed, ’ the widow
Gleig !’ Then it was explained, and I soon learned
that Mrs. Brignall was the widow of the younger
brother of the Rev. Dr. Gleig. Here was
“A MOST UNEXPECTED DISCOVERY,
and, be sure, I made the most of it. On Dr. Gleig’s
death, which might occur at any moment, his son,
George, would fall heir to the property, and if
George was removed, the next heir would be the
son of Mr. Bignail’s wife!
“ I felt now that I was on the right track. I went
to Leicestershire, whither I heard Dr. Gleig and his
wife had removed, and saw Mrs. Gleig. Had she a
photograph of George ? Unfortunately she had not.
Could she describe him accurately ? She thought
she could, but sadly blundered over it. Was he like
her or Dr. Gleig ? Like her? Yes; she had a photo
graph of herself taken, just before her marriage, to
which George bore a striking resemblance. I got
the likeness, went to Leicester, and hal a dozen
copies made. I took with me to Dr. Gleig’s resi
dence, near Sileby, the best portrait painter I could
find in Leicester. He cut out the face of the photo
graph, and pasted it on card-board. Then he drew
and painted the bust of a young man to match the
head, using a coat of George’s to go by; next, follow
ing Mrs. Gleig’s description, ho added the hair as
George was accustomed to wear his, and painted it a
light brown; a touch here and there, and Mrs. Gleig
declared that it was the image of her son. Domes
tics recognized it instantly, and when shown to Dr.
Gleig, his dim eye brightened, and he made a pain
ful effort to clutch it. There was no doubt iu my
mind that I had got
“ A GOOD LIKENESS OF THE MISSING YOUTH.
“Half a dozen likenesses were prepared in the
same way, and I departed. I went straight to
Shrewsbury, to find that Mr. Bignail had left by
train that very morning for London. He was throe
hours ahead of me. I rushod to the telegraph office,
and sent this message to my assistant:
“'Look out for a man; 6 feet; stout: black hair;
full black beard; well-dressed, with a prominent
nose. Follow, and watch. He will reach London &
N. W. Depot by train due at 3:48. 1 will be on by
6:08. Send word so that I may find you.’
“I had an hour or so to spare, and so I went to
Mr. Bignail’s residence, and asked to see him. He
was not at home. Mrs. Bignail wanted to know my
business, and I said it was private. She grew fld
getty, and put many clever questions, but all to no
purpose. Then she said she didn’t expect Mr. Sig
nal! home for a week. I bade her good-day, and
went to the depot. The train was on time, and I
reached the Rondon depot at the hour specified.
Sere a messenger Awaited me with a note. Mr.
Bignall had gone to No. — Chapel street, Islington,
and my assistant was on the watch. At that num
ber I ascertained lived a Mr. Brown and his wife
and daughter. The daughter had recently got mar
ried and gone away, said the grocer. Had he seen
the bridegroom? 0, yes; wag yery youogj
good-looking fellow. Anything nxe ih's fcorlrait?
That was the man, without a question ? What like
a man was Mr. Brown ? Tall, stout, dark hair and
beard, and so forth. Was he much away from
home ? A great deal, and he had just returned that
afternoon, after a long absence.
THE LITTLE PLOT.
“ Thon Mr. Bignall was Mr. Brown iu reality, and
had two wives, and he had married tho heir to a
handsome estate to his daughter ! That was the
little plot.
“I called on Mr. Brown, and saw Mr. Bignall.
His son-in-law, I said, requested me, as I was com
ing to town, to hand Mrs. Brown that likeness of
him. Mrs. Brown was delighted. Mr. Brown
smiled all over, and offered me gin. I was going
back that evening—had they anything to send ?
Yes. certainly, if I would be so kind. A parcel was
put up and handed to me.
“ • Suppose, now,’ I said, ‘ I was to forget this on
the train. It has no address, and would be thrown
aside or appropriated.’
“ ‘That is so,’ said Mr. Brown, and he wrote an
address upon it in a bold hand :
“ • Mrs. Gleig,
“ ‘No. 23 St. George’s Terrace,
“ ‘ Gravesend.’
“I bade them good-by, and was on my way to
Gravesend in two minutes. I caught the 7:30 train
at London Bridge, and at 8:15 was standing at the
door of No. 23 St. George’s Terrace.
FOUND.
The next minute I was in the presence of George
Gleig. Fortunately his wife was not present.
“‘Mr. Gleig,’l said, feeling justified in lying,
‘ your father is dead, and your presence at home is
required immediately.’
“ The young feilow burst into tears and upbraided
himself bitterly for not being at his father’s bedside
in the last moments. I urged him to control him
self and come away with me at once.
“‘But my wife,’he said; ‘I must take my wife
with me.’
“‘You must not,’l said: ‘/know you are mar
ried, but your mother does not, and iu hex* present
condition it would be unkind to inflict upon her
more pain than you have already done by your un
explained disappearance.’
“ ‘ 1 cannot leave her here to starve,’ he said.
“•I have made ample provision for that,’l said;
•you can leave with her a couple of hundred pounds
which I will give to you.*
•“But she is out, and won’t return before mid
night,’ he said, almost peevishly.
••• Write a note and enclose tho money. Here is
paper. Now sit down aud I’ll tell you what to say.’
“He sat down and wrote from my dictation. The
notes were enclosed and the letter sealed and deliv
ered to the landlady. Then we started for the depot
and reached London in time to catch the express
train north. Wo stayed in Leicester till the morn
ing and then went over to Sileby.
“I can’t describe the meeting between mother
and son. He was somewhat surprised to find that
his father was still alive, and still more gratified lo
see that his father recognized him.
THE SEQUEL.
“Well! Can’t you guess the rest? Bignall or
Brown was a bigamist, to begin with. After he mar
ried Mrs. Gleig, bo learned all about the estate to
which Dr. Gleig, her brother-in-law, was heir, and
his condition toward the last. When he was gone
George would inherit, and suppose before then he
married Miss Brown?' Brown went to Oxford, put
up the job with Binker, and once with George
Gleig under his eye, be soon managed the rest. He
brought his daughter, who was a dashing blonde,
to Oxford, and took care that George should see her.
The girl had learned her lex Hon and knew what a
big fish she might hook. She led the youth on
until at last she yielded and made him her abject
OFFICE, M 11 FRANKFORT ST.
elave. Thon in came the outraged father, weeping
and forgiving, and was about to tear away his
daughter and send her to an institution. She wept
and clung to George, and George swore he would
never leave her, and then it was proposed ho should
marry her. They took the midnight train for Lon
don, disguised, and next day the father took care to
see his daughter safely married. That done, ho
dispatched the new couple to his sister,'s at Grave
send, to await developments.
“ What became of George’s wife ? Well, it so
happened that she had another husband with a
prior claim to George’s. In hunting up testimony
against Bignail for bigamy, I found it ran in the
family. We let the girl go, but the father was con
victed at the old Bailey and went into retirement
for seven years/’
HIGH ART CHEAP.
The Pictorial Craze which has
Possessed our Daily Press.
NEWS AT A DISCOUNT.
How a Bad Artist is Made to Replace a
Wood Reporter.
THE ARTISTIC PORTRAIT PIRATE
There was a time when a daily newspaper’s staff
consisted of editors and reporters. Nowadays, how
ever, the artist is another essential to its effective
ness. That is to say, what is by courtesy called
an artist, to judge him by his works the mini
mum of art required of him. As long as he can
produce certain crude marks upon paper to desig
nate certain facts with sufficient clearness not to
completely stupefy the average readers intelligence,
his work is considered done. In effect, the draw
ings which nowadays embellish the columns of the
daily press, might be direct translations from a
schoolboy’s slate.
The New York daily which indulges most exten
sively in the pictorial feature employs two artists,
whose united salaries are close upon SIOO a week,
and its bill for reproducing their drawings is more
than that sum. Another paper employs two men,
who between them receive SSO a week, and pays $75
for engraving. An artist imported from Europe for
an evening paper receives $l5O a week. This, with
the cost of reproducing his pictures, makes the ar
tistic expense to the paper about s2uo weekly.
The drawings for these papers are made with the
pen, on smooth cardboard. A special ink, of the
glossiest blackness, is used, so that every line is
clean and perfectly clear. The reproductions are
made by photo-engraving, and one photo-engraving
company, which uses the electric light, and is
therefore independent of tile weather, can turn out
a cut, by night or day, within four hours. Ordina
rily it takes twenty-four hours of clear weather to
prepare a cut, and in dark or cloudy weather*.twice
or three times as long. But with true journalistic
enterprise the newspapers defy the elements. One
newspaper cartoon which was widely distributed
during the campaign, and which contained some
fifty portraits, was drawa between three o'clock in
the afternoon and seven in the evening, photo en
graved by midnight, and set before the public next
morning. Two mon worked at if—one drawing the
heads, which he passed over as he finished them, to
the other, who pasted them on a large cardboard on
which the design was sketched in pencil, and put
the figures in. It is scarcely necessary to add, after
explaining how it was made, that this alleged pic
ture was
MOST ATROCIOUSLY EXECUTED,
A short time ago oue of these journalistic Michael
Angelos produced nineteen large portrait cuts in a
single day, and from ten to fifteen is a common
number with him. The quality of work produced
in such haste can be as readily imagined as de
scribed.
The first work of the daily paper artist was por
trait work. His pencil was used to give more or
less vivid representations of such heroes of the
hour as the events of the day brought forward. He
sketched the murderer in the Tombs and the swin
dler in the prisoner’s dock. But the new departure
in journalism proved to possess much the same
characteristics as an indulgence in opium or any
other vice. The appetite grew with its gratifica
tion, and rivalry created the necessity for a
variety of novelties. Subjects could no longer be
taken from the news of the day, but had to be in
vented. The artist was sent sketching in the slums
just as the reporter, when sensations are scarce, is
dispatched to work up new ones on his own hook.
Portraits, however, remain the pet material, and
there is an especially heavy demand for them, their
interest being most directly personal and attract
ive. The contest among the papers for these, and
the shifts they are put to to obtain them, are al
most incredible.
As every intelligent observer will have remarked,
all manner of mon and women have been illustrated
by the daily newspaper artist. Aldermen and art
ists, fops and frauds, millionaires and mu-rderers,
society beauties and scandal heroines, have con
tributed to the pictorial hodge-podge. Some of
these have gone into print quite willingly—so much
so, indeed, that not a few have tendered the re
porter, the editor or the publisher a handsome tes
timonial of gratitude for the artistic publicity con
ferred upon them.
But there have been instances in which the pic
tures were secured by trick and device, and which
aroused a storm of indignation on the part of the
parties thus
SURREPTITIOULY MADE FAMOUS.
The celebrated case of the Brooklyn beauties will
be recalled by every reader of the Dispatch. The
photographs of these ladies, all leaders in social
life across the river, were stolen by some enterpris
ing and unscrupulous reporter from the private al
bum of a fashionable photographer in the City of
Churches, and printed in a Now York daily with an
accompaniment of the silliest kind of taffy para
graphs. The affair created a hurricane, and it
would probably have fared badly with the hero of
this monumental episode of journalistic enterprise
had his identity become known. But it did not,
and tfie storm died away.
Only a week later there was another uproar in
our political society. The portrait of a millionaire
banker’s son, who was going it very fast, and of his
injured wife, herself a pink of opulent propriety,
found their way into print. There were only two
pictures of these persons known to be in existence,
and these were in the family album. It was learn
ed afterward that they had been taken out, carried
to a photographer and copied, and then put back in
their places, but by whom could not be definitely
ascertained.
Even this feat was cast in tne shade a few weeks
later by the appearance in print of a number of our
swell society you sig women who had enjoyed what
they supposed to be a perfectly private garden
party in the grounds of one of our monopolist kings
up the Hudson, They had been captured by the
process of instantaneous photography, the operator
being concealed in a tree overlooking the grounds
where the festivities occurred, with what is known
as a detective camera under his arm. The sensation
caused by this exploit was something terrific, and
some of the victims threatened the terrors of the
law upon the offending journal. But the law proba
bly proved incapable of coping with this special
species of turpitude, for, it was after all this prelimi
nary bluster not'invoked, and the pictorial journal
ist was left to go further
AND SIN WORSE. 4
How far he is capable of going is shown in a case
which rendered the holiday season pleasant for one
of our pictorial dailies by forcing from it a heavy
sum for a compromise in damages. A local swell
had a serious difficulty with his wife, based on his
predeliction for the society of other ladies in prefer
ence to her own. This difficulty resulted in a free
fight, which broke up their housekeeping and sent
the lady in search of a divorce.
The affair was kept out of the courts, as is cus
tomary in such aristocratic cases, but the referee’s
operations became whispered about, and the inevi
table artist turned up in search of portraits. He
got that of the festive husband all right, and the
wife’s as well. Then an evil spirit impelled him to
make a sketch of a lady who sat with the defendant,
and who, it was whispered, was none other than the
fair and frail- object of the injured wife’s jealousy.
The three sketches were printed next day, and
before night the editorial room was invaded by one
of the foremost lawyers in New York. Then the
editor learned, to his horror, that the lady credited
with being the bold, bad man’s brazen paramour,
was the wife of his legal visitor, who had accom
panied her husband, who was employed in the
case, out of curiosity to hear the evidence.
Mrs. X. enjoyed a splendid Christmas present from
the offending journal—if rumor is to be credited—
no less than $2,500, and that journal never prints a
lady’s portrait now without an affidavit, duly at
tested to before a notary public, as to its genuine
ness.
The of the average reporter is more
than discounted by the artist. There are a few
things the reporter respects, even in search of news.
The artist respects none, however. One of our
embellishers of the daily press now sports an atro
cious black eye, which he picked up quite naturally
in the.pursuit of duty. Ho had gone in search of
a photograph of a young man of the upper crust
who had figured in a club fracas, and gone directly
to that person to demand it. The latter said :
“ I haven’t got a photograph, and if I had I cer
tainly would not give it to you.”
"Oh, very well,” was tne cool reply, “I can
sketch you.”
And he began to scribble in his sketch book. He
was promptly knocked down and kicked out; but
the picture appeared in print and he was happy,
especially as it gave his chastiser a face that would
have made Judas Iscariot ashamed of himself.
It may be remarked in conclusion that the mania
for art has not improved the New York press as a
standard of news. The most insignificant and con
temptible papers in the city are those which rely
on their wretched cuts to attract the public. The
bad artist has been made to replace the good re
porter, and the resuit has not been beneficial to
metropeli tan jo u rnalism.
PRICE FIVE CENTS.
AN EVENING TIME. .
One talks to us at evening time.
Of all the quaint old ways,
And all the things that used to be
Once iu her girlhood days.
She says the lads were twice as true.
The maids more shy and sweet,
And not afraid of work or play
Were those she used to meet.
A simpler life contented them.
And simpler songs were sung,
And one would think ’twas Edcn«tirnty
Long since, when she was young.
She talks to us at evening time
Of how her lover came
To woo her first; how shy she was
To call him by his name.
She says his eyes were bright as start.
His hair was like the crow—
I saw him once—his eyes were dim.
His hair was white as snow;
She tells us with a touch of pride.
He on her accents hung,
And ne’er was lad so true as he,
Long since, when she was young.
She talks to us at evening time,
And tells us that we know
How dear we are, but still she feels
’Tie nearly time to go.
We stoop to touch her silvery hair,
Or softly kiss her brow; a
They did not love her more, long since,
Than we all love her now;
But she would fold her weary hands.
And go to rest among
Tho silent crowd of those she know
Long since, when she was young.
(Onsfmas Storg.
IN LUCrirUST.
BY WALTER BESANT.
CHAPTER XII.
IS THIS HIS PHOTOGRAPH?
The best way to got a talk with his cousin waH
to dine with her. Arnold therefore went to
Chester Square next day with the photograph in
his pocket. It was half an hour before dinner
when he arrived, and Clara was alone.
“My dear,” she cried with enthusiasm, “I
am charmed—l am delighted—with Iris.”
“I am glad,” said Arnold mendaciously.
“I am delighted with her—in every way. She
is more and better than I could have expected
far more. A few Americanisms of course ”
“No doubt,” said Arnold. “ WJien I saw her
I thought they rather resembled Anglicisms.
But you have had opportunities of judging.
You have in your own possession,” he contin
ued, “ have you not, all the papers which estab
lish her identity ?”
“ Oh, yes ! they are all locked up in my strong
box. I shall be very careful of them. Though,
of course, there is no one who has to bo satis
fied except myself. And lam perfectly satis
fied. But then I never had any doubt from the
beginning, How could there be any doubt ?”
“How, indeed?”
“ Truth, honor, loyally and candor, as well as
gentle descent, are written on that girl’s noble
brow, Arnold, plain, so that all may read. It is
truly wonderful,” she went on, “ how the old
gentle blood shows itself, and will break out
under the most unexpected conditions. In her
face she is not much like her father; that is true;
though sometimes I catch a momentary resem
blance, which instantly disappears again. Her
eyes are not in the least like his, nor lias she his
manner, or carriage, or any of his little tricks
and peculiarities—though, perhaps, I shall ob
serve traces of some of them in time. But
especially she resembles him in her voice. The
tone, tho timbre, reminds me every moment of
my poor Claude.”
“I suppose,” said Arnold, “that one must in
herit something, if it is only a voice, from one’s
father. Have you said anything to her yet
about money matters, and a settlement of her
claims ?”
“No, not yet. I did venture, last night, to
approach the subject, but she would not hear ot
it. So I dropped it. I call that true delicacy,
Arnold-native, instinctive, hereditary delica
cy.”
“Have you given any more money to ths
American gentleman who brought her home ?”
“Iris made him take a hundred pounds
against his will, to buy books with, for he is not
rich. Poor fellow! It went much against the
grain with him to take the money. But she
made him take it. She said he wanted books
and instruments, and insisted on bis having at
least a hundred pounds. It was generous o'
her. Yes; she is—l ain convinced—a truly gen
erous girl, and as open-handed as the day. Now,
would a common girl, a girl of no descent, have
shown so much delicacy and generosity ?”
“By the way, Clara, here is a photograph.
Does it belong to you ? I—l picked it up.”
He showed tho photograph which Lala Roy
had given him.
“ Oh, yes ! it is a likeness of Dr. Washington,
Iris’s adopted brother and guardian. She must
have dropped it. I should think it was taken a
lew years back, but it is still a very good like
ness. A handsome man, is he not ? He grows
upon one rather. His parting words with Iris
yesterday were very dignified and touching.”
“ I will give it to her presently,” he replied,
without further comment.
There was, then, no doubt. The woman was
an impostor, and tho man was tho thief, and the
papers were the papers which had been stolen
from the safe, and Iris Deseret was no other
than his own Iris. But ho must not show tho
least sign of suspicion.
“What are you thinking about, Arnold?”
asked Clara. “ Your face is as black as thun
der. Yov are not sorry that Iris has returned,
are you ?”
“ I was thinking of my engagement, Clara.” '
“ Why, you are not tired of it already? An
engaged man, Arnold, ought not to look co
gloomy as that.”
“I am not tired of it yet. But lam unhappy
as regards some circumstances connected with
it. Your disapproval, Clara, for one. My dear
cousin, I owe so much to you, that I want to
owe you more. Now, I have a proposition—a
promise—to make to you. lam now so sure,
so very sure and certain, that you will want mo
to marry Miss Aglen—and no one else -when
you once know her, that I will engage solemnly
not to marry her unless you entirely approve,
Let mo owe my wife to you, as well as every
thing else.”
“Arnold, you are notin earnest?”
“ Quite in earnest.”
“But I shall never approve. Never—never— i
never 1 I could not bring myself, under any
circumstances that I can conceive, to approve of
such a connection.”
“My dear cousin, I am, on the other hand,
perlectly certain that you will approve. Why,
if I were not quite certain do you think I should
have made this promise ? But to return to your
newly-found cousin. Tell me more about hw "