New York dispatch. [volume], July 18, 1886, Image 1

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

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PUBLISHED BI A. J. WILLIAMSON’S SONS.
VOL. XLI.-NO. 40.
Entered at the Post Office at New York,
N. Y., as Second Class Matter.
THE NEW YORK DISPATCH,
PUBLISHED AT
NO. 11 FRANKFORT STREET.
The NEW YORK DISPATCH Is a journal of light, agree
able and sparkling Literature and News. One page is de
voted to Masonic Matters, and careful attention is given
to Music and the Drama.
The Dispatch is sold by all News Agents of the city and
suburbs, at FIVE CENTS A COPY.
TERMS FOR MAIL SUBSCRIBERS:
SINGLE SUBSCRIPTIONS ..$2 50 a year
TWO SUBSCRIBERS 400 “
FIVE SUBSCRIBERS .’ 900 “
ALL MAIL SUBSCRIPTIONS MUST BE PAID IN AD
VANCE. POSTAGE PAID EVERYWHERE BY THE
DISPATCH OFFICE.
Address NEW YORK DISPATCH,
Post Office Box No. 1775.
playslndTlTyers.
THE NEXT SEASON.
Taylor’s “Theatrical Exchange ’’—The
Romance of a House—The Toilers at
the Desie—Booth and Lawrence Bar
rett—Keller's First Play—Tho
Combinations—Poole’s New
Eighth Street Theatre—
Coquelin’s Coining.
BY JOHN CARBOY.
Heaven and the managers know that the pres
ent is dead enough for the majority of the people
of tho stage.
But how stands the record of the coming season
—as far as it is made up ?
The season, from the present outlook, promises
to be lively—and what with the host of combina
tions with and without capital to keep them moving
on, the "road” will, toward the close of the year,
be strewn with the usual amount of wrecks.
But for the survivors, let us hope that the walk
ing will be good.
And the chance to “ catch on for a snap,” on the
homeward tramp, here and there, will provide
tnem with a dash of pocket money.
If any one wants to get an idea of the busy
skirmishing now in progress preliminary to the
advance of the entire army of mimes, he wont find
it on the Morton House block, nor in the uptown
cafes, saloons and haunts of the profesh.
Nor will he get more than vague paragraphic
hints in the press.
The place to go is the headquarters, where all the
generals commanding, with their aid de camps, are
gathered, arranging the details, plana and move*
meats of the campaign.
This headquarters is over there in Fourteenth
street in a building in which long years ago there
resided a wealthy old gentleman and his family—a
nob among the nobs—Si man of high degree, high
shirt collar, voluminous cravat, big, bone-handled
cane, and a tortoise snuff-box which in dimensions
suggested its near relationship to a cheese-box. This
old gentleman had a
HANDSOME, BRIGHT* EYED, VOLUPTUOUSLY
FORMED DAUGHTER,
who one day forgot her blue-blooded social rank
and listened to a tale of love told her by an amor
ous but energetic journeyman tailor, who at that
time was working the goose and shaking tho shears
for a weekly—it was weakly—stipend in the fash
ionable establishment of eccentric old George P.
Fox, on Broadway.
One day the wealthy old gentleman caught the
journeyman tailor and boss lover kissing his lovely
daughter in the parlor. There was a scene. The
parental foot and the lover's coattails momentarily
joined issue ; the young man "lit” on the side
walk ; the daughter was locked up in her bedroom
and—next day she escaped. An hour later the pair
were married.
In his unrelenting rage the old man sold out bag
and baggage—skipped the tra-la-100 for England in
an old tub of a sailing vessel ; the vessel sailed
away from Coenties slip, and was never heard of
after ; the journeyman tailor bridegroom in a few
years went to the bad ; the girl wife died broken
hearted ; their only child—a boy—well, he is to be
seen occasionally in the haunts of the actors, an old
man now, a veteran of “the palmy days,” who, in
his earlier manhood, made “ Rome howl ” on the
eld Bowery stage. To this day he has preserved
through all the vicissitudes of his player’s life a
.piniature portrait, painted upon ivory, of his
mother before her ill-fated marriage with the tailor.
What a prize she was with her magnificent beauty
for that ninth part of a man! Like all prizes unex
pectedly and easily won, it did the winner no good.
Since then the house has had many tenants and
now it is in great part occupied as the headquarters
of the leading managers, stars and people generally
of the stage.
Mr. H. 8. Taylor did a good thing when he found
ed this
“THEATRICAL EXCHANGE,”
for it has afforded what has long been needed by
the managers not only of the city, but of the coun
try—a place where they can transact their business,
have a permanent New York address, engage their
people, make dates with stars and combinations
and become beneficially familiar with each other.
There are now represented by Mr. Taylor one
hundred and more theatres, for the management of
which he officiates here as the special agent, and
through him and the facilities furnished by his
Bureau, they relieved not only of a large
amount of expense but of considerable mental care
and anxiety as to the engagement of companies and
the fixing of dates.
There is kept in his offices — accessible at all
times to the managerial and the professional guilds
—a record of the names of nearly, if not all, th©
members of the profession, their lines of business,
their ability and status and their places of resi
dence.
There are here represented sixteen theatres in
this State; twelve in Pennsylvania and six in what
is called “Wagner’s Concert;” four in Massachu
setts; Fourteen in Ohio; six in Illinois; six in
Canada; six in Indiana, and—well, the list includes
almost every State in the Union.
If the manager of the Casino Opera House, away
off in Red Wing, Minnesota, wants to fill certain
dates, all he need do is to sit down in his office,
write or telegraph to Taylor, and—there the trouble
ends. Red Wing will have its attractions and the
manager be happy in his divvy.
In this Exchange—Rialto, rather—can bo daily
seen going in and coming out of the managerial
offices or gathered within the place—men and
women whose names are large on the posters and
in tho programmes and history of the stage; the
heroes of tragedy alike with the low comedy and
burlesques mimes and the handsome heroines of
the emotional as well as the soubrettes with their
charming faces and airy graces; the heavy bassos,
the “mashing” tenors; the pretty and winsome
sopranos and the more serious contraltos—all are
here, each one for strictly business purposes.
If they are not in quest of Taylor, they are there
to interview in their respective offices the business
agents or representatives of the managers, stars
and combinations.
And here comes another attribute of this “Ex
change,” this new rendezvous for the employed as
well as the unemployed of the theatrical world.
For, go up the broad staircase with me, “turn to
the right at the first landing” and “ what do you
look upon, good master ?”
at intervals, ranged about a large, airy
room, with a great bow window which looks out
npon Fourteenth street,
you eater there, at one desk you will see the
brunette countenance of
MR. GUS PITOU,
w>o reminds you at the first glance of the old por
traits ot D’lsraeli. He, Pitou—not D’lsraeli—is as
full of business as seme of the fakes over on the
Square are of beer, making his arrangements for
the tour of R. B. Mantell as bis star. Speak to him
and he will tell you all about “ Tangled Lives,” the
new play written for Mantell by J. W. Keller, one of
the youngest as well as cleverest in the fcuild of
dramatic journalists. He will also tell you what a
“big scheme” he has for his other star, W. J. Scan
lan.
Near him, behind a Japanese screen, sits general
Press Agent Jerome Eddy, who, pen in hand, is
making up his regular daily series of paragraphs,
anecdotal reminiscences and theatrical news matter
concerning Booth, Barrett, Rhea, Lillian Olcott,
Fanny Davenport, Clara Morris and the Lord and
himself only know how many more great ones of the
stage for whom he is the newspaper representative.
Jerome does not pride himself upon his resemblance
to the late lamented disturber of the public peace,
St. Helena Bonaparte.
You will see further on in other rooms the
mild-eyed, nervous Gus Mortimer, who is the
business manager of Louis James ; Hudson,
the manager of Fred Warde ; Jay Rial, who
is custodian of the business interests of
Genevieve Ward ; Charley Jefferson, who is—
strange anomaly—managing his father, the immor
tal Rip Van Winkle; manly, genial Clint Egerly, the
husband, lawyer and manager of Rose Coghlan;
thin, speculative, but shrewd and faithful Frank
Bowers, who has his share of labor in looking out
for “ The Wages of Sin,” and Arthur B. Chase, the
manager-in-chief of Barrett and Booth for the com
ing season, who is as calm and pleasant of face as if
the misery of Graham diet and temperance had
never been his.
In the other part of the building, at the rear and
above stairs, are a host more of these, all busy at
their respective desks, and looking for all the world
like a phalanx of bookkeepers in some great whole
sale house working away for dear life when the
senior member of the firm happens to be in sight.
There is Edwin Price’s official headquarters,
where is arranged the business of his wife, Fanny
Davenport; of Col. W. E. Sinn, for “Alone in Lon
don”; of Robert Fulford, for Annie Pixley; of Frank
Paul, representing George Knight; Charley Wat
kins, for Ada Gray; Fred McCloy, for Fred Boy ton;
Headley and Harrison, for “Youth”; Hoyt and
Thomas for their two or three companies! Frank
Sanger, Frank Murtha, Ben Stern, Owen Ferrer,
Dave Peyser, W. R. Hayden and a score more of
greater or lesser note.
And throughout all
THIS GATHERING OF AGENTS AND MANAGERS
seated at their desks and transacting their busi
ness or conversing with their visitors, with all the
constant coming and going of actors and actresses,
of newspaper men and others more or less interest*
ed in theatrical affairs, there Is a quietude and a
prevalence of order rather than of confusion and
bustle which might be expected where so many in
terests are daily discussed and disposed of.
With all their rivalries, there is visible a certain
community of Interest, a general harmony of con
duct, among these managers, which might well be
imitated by men in other business relations.
I believe this of Mr. Taylor’s is the first effort
that has proved entirely successful, to establish a
“Theatrical Exchange,” where every class of amuse
ment managers, as well as those who are In the
employ of managers, can have all the necessary fa
cilities, each in his own way, to transact his busi
ness—in fact, have a headquarters where he will
be subjected to none of the annoyances which hith
erto have been the result of the temporary lease of
offices elsewhere.
Hero each manager retains his desk room year in
and year out, and where he or his agent can be ad
dressed at all times, with the certainty of his cor
respondence not going astray.
It is a boon to the country managers who here
are saved the trouble of wandering about from one
Dramatic Agency to another, or of wandering about
the various haunts of the profession in search of
the people with whom they have business or wish
to make dates for the coming season.
And here it is that you will get an idea of the
dramatic, lyric, and other stage work which will be
crowded into
THE NEXT SEASON,
and an unusually busy season it will be too.
Booth will enter Hamlet as his favorite, under the
management of Arthur Chase, representing Law
rence Barrett as the manager. Barrett himself will
take the field armed with two or three new plays,
which he will produce during the season commenc
ing Aug. 30, at the Star Theatre.
Then there will be more stellar tragedy—as illus
trated by Thos. W. Keene, Charles Pope, Frank
Bangs, Fred Warde, Robert Mantell, L. Down
ing Louis James and Ed Collier.
All these promise to give the “legitimate” and
Shakespeare a lively shaking up, and as an addi
tion, there is a fearful rumor that Mr. Jas. E. Mur
doch, J. B. (Cockey) Roberts and the veteran “Bob”
Johnson are to enter the lists and show that there
is voice and vitality still left in the survivors of the
“Palmy days.’
From England will come to us Mr. Wilson Bar
rett, with his latest success, “Clito,” and bringing
his own company and several ship loads of scenic
settings, propertles,and wardrobes wherewith to as
tonish the “blarsted Americans.” He will—as the
antithesis of Irving’s Miss Terry—have as his lead
ing lady. Miss Eastlake. He will make his first ap
pearance on the American stage at the Star Thea
tre on Monday evening, Oct. 11. He will open with
“Clito.” He will also produce “Claudian” and
“ Hamlet.” Miss Genevieve Ward will precede Wil
son Barrett. Edwin Booth will begin here at this
theatre on Nov. 1, opening with “Hamlet,” and fol
lowing him will be welcomed Mr. Joseph Jefferson,
who will remain until the middle of December—
and it is understood that for once, at least, the ever
lasting “Rip Van Winkle” will not be revived—
and that instead there will be Bob Acres, Caleb
Plummer and Mr. Golightly.
Then as a special tribute from the Theatre Fran*
caise we are to have a brief season of the
comedian Coquelin, who, with a French company,
will illustrate dramatic art at its best.
Of course Modjeska will be in the list, and Sara
Bernhardt later on—in March, will make her re
appearance on the metropolitan stage under the
management of Henry E. Abbey or Marcus Mayer—
Which?
Dan Frohman, who regards sleep and mental
quietude.aß the only attributes which are useless to
a manager, will bring to his theatre—the Lyceum—
the real original Miss Fortescue, who will, it is fair
to presume, attract large audiences through the
feverish desire of “ sassiety” to gaze upon the
young lady who lassoed a small sized fortune in the
way of damages from Lord “Gumboil.”
Under Frehman's management, Miss Helen Dau*
vray will appear at the Lyceum—producing the new
play written for her by Mr. Bronson Howard.
AT THE CASINO,
another beauty from the English stage. Miss Violet
Cameron, the “Lyric Artiste,” as the bills hath it,
will appeal for popular recognition, and the wor
ship of the dudes—making her first appearance in
an English version of Offenbach’s “Creole,” here
entitled “The Commodore.”
In August, a new musical work—something in
the vaudeville line, will be given its first production
here at the Fifth Avenue Theatre. This work is
nominated “Soldiers and Sweethearts,” and its
authors are Miss Susie Russell and Owen Westford,
Mr. George Scheffarth being the composer of the
music.
Mrs. Langtry, and Gilbert and Sullivan’s new
opera will be the principal attractions which Mr.
Stetson will have at his theatre during his regular
season.
Wallack's and Daly’s will commence the season at
their respective theatres with new plays. Mr. Wai
lack probably with an English work, and Mr. Daly
with another addition to his list of adaptations
from the German.
Mr. Palmer will present upon the double stage of
his Madison Square Theatre, “ Jim the Penman,”
“ Martyrs”—and another new play ol foreign origin
—from the French, which will form the features of
bis season.
Margaret Mather will make het appearance at the
Ur‘oU Square Theatre, under the management of
NEW YORK. SUNDAY, JULY 18. 1886.
Mr. J. M. Hill, in December, and will be seen as
Peg Woffington, in “Masks and Faces,” in addition
to her regular repertoire, with which she made the
playgoing public familiar in the past season.
Fanny Davenport and Mlle. Rhea will also appear
at this theatre during the season.
It is scarcely necessary to state that Mr. Alvin
Charles Joslin Davis will assuage popular clamor
by his appearance at one of the East side theatres.
He will blow in the crowd—with his gorgeously
uniformed brass band.
At Niblo’s, the Grand Opera House, the Windsor,
the People’s, the Third Avenue and the Harlem
Theatre Comique, all the current combinations aud
“stars ” will be seen in succession.
To these must be added, as a combination house,
the new theatre, or rather the reconstructed Eighth
Street Theatre, which will be opened for the regu
lar season in the latter part of August, by John F.
Poole, who has already filled nearly all his “time”
with the popular attractions—dramatic and lyric—
of the year.
Janauschek will be heard in the land once again.
Maggie Mitchell will be herself again; the unfading
Lotta will prance and caper from stage to stage;
Kate Claxton will shake her golden tresses (ahem !)
about her pretty face; General Kerry Joe Murphy
Gow will be plentifully conspicuous, and Joe Fritz
Emmett will not deprive himself of the pleasure of
being counted in among the rest.
John T. Raymond will go his usual round; Rob
son and Crane will revive Falstaff and Slender;
Billy and Mrs. Florence will remind us of the “long
ago,” and—speak it not in Gath—whisper it not in
Askalon—appear in a new—very NEW play. Luck
go with them I
Mr. D. P. Bowers will once again give us “ Lady
Audley’s Secret,” and occasionally diverging from
the melo-dramatic into the legitimate.
Nat Goodwin will hold the fort at the Bijou, and
Dixey, his hands dyed in English gore, will do
“ Adonis ” on the road, commencing his season in
this city.
Roland Reed will to give the public all
tho “ Humbug ” it may require—here and else
where.
The Standard will open on August 16th, with
Hoyt and Solomon's new comic opera, “ The Maid
and the Moonshiners,” in which—it goes without
saying—that Lillian Russell will smile and warble
her sweetest as the heroine. Tony Hart will enter
into thejoye and jollity of the principal comedy
part. And there you are.
It will be seen that all the principal Foreign Stars
very properly appear at the “ Star Theatre ’’—and
that aside from Mr, Bronson Howard’s comedy
drama and a new play by Mr. DeMille—“ The Main
Line,” one by Mr. J. W. Keller, and possibly one by
Mr. Fred. Marsden, the outlook for the production
of original American works upon the metropolitan
stage is not particularly encouraging.
Ned Harrigan will begin the second season as the
Lessee, Manager and Dramatist of the Park Theatre
—opening in August with a revival of “ Investiga
tion,” which, within a brief period, will be followed
by his new comedy, to which he is now giving the
final revisions at his Summer retreat on the banks of
Schroon Lake.
Manager Josh Hart will open the second season of
his pretty little Theatre Comique, in Harlem, on
August 30th, with the Templeton Opera Company.
Nearly all the dates of the season at this house are
filled, Mr. Ww. H, Mortpn will ooptiaue in occu
pation of the position of Business Manager, which
he so capably filled since the opening of the house.
Well, for further information walk up stairs into
“ Taylor’s Exchange’’—and if you can’t get it there
—any increase of your knowledge concerning the
business of the coming season will be dubious.
IN A SECRET WiBFR.
Mystery of an Ancient French
Chateau.
THE CRIME OF THE RUE DU FOUARRF.
THE OLD TRUNK LINED WITH TIN.
The Scene Witnessed by Little Jean Rou
baix and the Sequel to It.
At daylight, on the morning of June 7, 1846, a
six-year-old boy was found crouched on the steps
leading to the river Seine, in Paris, near the Pont
Neuf. When aroused by the gensd’arme, he began
to cry bitterly. He said his name was Jean Rou
baix, and that up to the previous evening he had
lived with his parents on the Rue du Fouarre. His
lather’s name was the same as his own, but his fa
ther’s occupation be did not know. He said that
the previous morning his father came home after
being away all night, and beat his mother, as he
had done before. Then his father left the house,
and he went to bed in the same room occusied by
his parents. He was awakened out of sleep by a
noise, and hearing his father's voice, was afraid to
stir or speak, lest he should be beaten. His mother
was not there, and the man who was with his father
he could not recognize. The two men were occu
pied nailing an old trunk which belonged to his
mother, and which they carried into the next room,
which was the kitchen and parlor. There was a
great fire in the stove, for he could hear it roaring.
The door between the rooms was soon closed, and
he heard more hammering.
After lying in great fear a long time, he ventured
to crawl out of bed and go on tiptoe to the door.
There was a large hole in it, where there had for
merly been a lock, and he looked through. He saw
that his father and the other man were lining the
trunk with sheets of tin. The strange man had a
pan of some kind on the stove and was fastening
sheets of tin together. He went back to his bed,
and soon his father came in and looked at him.
When he returned to the kitchen he said:
“ The little devil is fast asleep and his mouth is
open. Suppose we pour a little of this lead down
his throat and make an end of him ?”
“ SOMETHING.”
The other man said something which the boy
did not hear and the door was again closed. The
boy was so alarmed that he once more crept out of
bed and put on his shoes and trowsers. He durst
not put on any more clothes for fear his father
should return to the room and miss them and dis
cover that he had partly dressed himself. Then he
went back to bed, but was so frightened that he
again arose with the intention of quietly opening
the door into the passage, descending the (stairs
noiselessly aud escaping into the street. Then the
idea struck him that his mother must have escaped
in that way and might be waiting outside at that
very moment. He once more arose and passed
round the bed. His foot struck something. He
paused and a thrill went through him. He put out
his foot gently and touched the object once more.
Then he stooped and felt it. It was the dead body
of his mother.
“Ah, how did you know that, my child?” the
gend’arme asked.
“My heart told me so,” the boy answered.
“ Then,” he continued, “ 1 opened the door very
gently, crept out and went down stairs into tho
street. I came toward the river aud sat down
where you found me, not knowing what else to do.”
CONFIRMATION.
The boy was taken to the prefeciure of police
and repeated his story. He went with officers and
pointed out the place where he bad resided. The
rooms were deserted. In the kitchen were found
broken nails and clippings of tin, with patches of
solder on the floor and stove. The neighbors were
questioned. All they knew was that Jean Roubaix
aud his family had gone—whither no one knew.
A description of Jean was obtained aud the police
were directed to look out for him. Detectives were
set to work to clear up the mystery involved in the
boy’s story, for the authorities were satisfied that
be was telling the truth. But it was all in vain.
Nobody had seen two men with a trunk in the city
or going out of the city between dusk and day
light. an i no clew could be found to the way in
which iue dead body ot the boy ’s mother, for which
atitr
evidently the trunk had been prepared, had been
removed and disposed of.
WHO WAS HE?
Who was this man, Jean Roubaix ? He had lived
there the neighbors said, for some years. The boy
could not remember their having lived anywhere
else. No one knew what he worked at for a living. He
dressed meanly, was often the worse for liquor, and
spent most of the day at home. He was not known
to the police and he had always paid his way with
his landlord and the tradesmen with whom he
dealt. His wife had been a quiet, sickly woman,
seldom going out and never with her husband. The
neighbors knew that her husband beat her at times,
but they never saw any marks of ill-treatment upon
her person. In the rooms they had occupied, not a
thing was found that threw any light upon the
case. There was no sign of bloodshed. A few
clothes were lying around belonging to the former
occupants. The neighbors had heard some persons
carry a trunk down the stairs in the night but at
the time they thought nothing ot it. All the facts
that the detectives could gather amounted to com
paratively nothing. The story told by the boy,
Jean, was confirmed—that was all. The feeling, of
course, was that the wife of Roubaix had been mur
dered—perhaps choked in a fit of rage by her hus
band ; the body, it was surmised, had been put into
the trunk and removed. But why had the trunk
been lined with tin ? If there had been signs of
blood around, this circumstance would have been
intelligible, but there were absolutely none.
Here then, the matter stood: Mrs. Roubaix had
been murdered and her body removed in the trunk,
whither, it was Impossible to discover. The police
allowed the affair to drop out of sight, hoping that
some day a clew would unexpectedly come to light.
Young Jean Roubaix was adopted by Goujon, a
house painter, and as he grew up learned that
trade. Goujon prospered, and added to his busi
ness that of house decorator and in that branch
Jean Goujon, as he was called, became expert.
GOUJON’S FRIEND.
In 1859 as Goujon was closing his workshop one
evening, there came in a man of about thirty. He
clapped Goujon on the back familiarly, and said:
“ My friend, how do you carry yourself ?”
“My God!” exclaimed Goujon, as he turned
round; “is that you. Corbineau ? Why, where
have you dropped from ?”
“ From the clouds,” was the answer ; “ don’t you
see I have wings ?”
“ But really,” said Goujon, “ you must explain.
It is ten years since you left us, and Irom that time
to this we have never heard of you.”
“It is very simple,” was the reply. “I was tired
of mixing paints and cleaning brushes, and, as you
told me I would never make a painter, I deter
mined to try my hand at something else. So I
quietly walked off and, meeting an old friend who
was groom to a gentleman of sporting habits, he ad
vised me to go into service, as being the fittest thing
for a handsome young fellow like me to engage in.
He told me that he would take me to a place
where I would be trained in any branch of service I
selected, and that all I would have to do would be
to pay a certain sum when I obtained a situation. I
agreed, and he took me to an establishment on the
Rue des Dames, kept by an old cduple who had had
long experience in the houses of the wealthy and
noble. There it was decided that my figure and
face made it desireable that I should be trained for
a valet, and my education was begun forthwith. I
soon acquired all the knowledge considered acces
sory to enable me to perform the duties of
A GENTLEMAN’S GENTLEMAN,
and then being provided with several excellent
references, I took service in the house of Monsieur
De Vrllle at Bovigny. He was an elderly gentle
man, almost blind, and I soon became a great favor
ite with him, as well as with his young wife, who.
within a year of my entering her husband’s ser
vice, presented him, to his great surprise and de
light with a son and heir.
“ Soon after Monsieur De Vrille died, and I was
dispose* to marry bis widow. Her friends, how
ever, objected, and I was under the necessity of re
signing a position which, if fact, no longer existed.
Then I went into the employment of Monsieur
Beaudant, who was staying at the time in Paris,
but subsequently went to live on his estates near
Blois. Two years ago, I found service with Mon
sieur Van Quelin, at the Chateau Toucy, near
Auzerre, and with him I remained. He is on a
visit to Paris and I accompanied him, and being
here, I have paid you a visit M yoq see,”
CHATEAU TOUCY.
Goujon expressed satisfaction at seeing his for
mer apprentice, and they adjourned to a wineshop
to celebrate the occasion. The result o*f this meet
ing was, that Monsieur Vanquelin employed Gou
jon to go down to Auxerre and re-decorate the old
chateau. When the appointed time came, Goujon
started, accompanied by Jean and an assistant. On
reaching the chateau, it was found that Monsieur
Vauquelin, in anticipation of the coming of the
workmen, bad gone with his wife to spend a month
at a small dwelling he owned at Nerondes, sixty
miles to the north of Auxerre.
The chauteau of Toucy was very ancient and con
structed in an intricate and rambling way. The
more modern part of it was to be renovated, and
the workmen speedily began their labors. Young
Jean was fascinated with the quaintness of the
place and took every opportunity to explore its
nooks and corners. He crept along the mysterious
corridors and peered into the old-fashioned cham
bers. He found his way td the roof and discovered
out-ef-the-way stairs that led to it from various
apartments in the bu Iding. From one of these
excursions he returned pale as a ghost and trem
bling in every limb. He was endeavoring to escape
into the open air and find an opportunity in the
recesses of the adjacent wood* to compose himself,
when Goujon espied him.
“Which way, Jean ?” Goujon called out; “here is
something for you to do. Don’t be lazy.”
Jean paused, and Goujon observed hi* condi
tion.
“Why, my child,” Goujon exclaimed, “what is
the matter with you ?” And approaching.be laid
his hand on the boy’s arm and looked into his face.
“Are you sick ?” he asked.
“Oh, father,” he replied, “I have had a dreadful
vision. It has called up an awful scene in the past,
which I shall never forget.”
WHAT JEAN SAW.
Goujon took Jean by the arm and led him away
to a place where they could not be overheard.
“ Now tell me what you have seen ?” said Goujon.
Then Jean related that he had been on tho roof
and had discovered near one of the chimneys a con
cealed trap-door, which be had managed to open.
He had found a narrow flight of stairs, which he
descended, leaving the trap-door open to give him
light.
At the bottom of the stairs he came to what seem
ed to be a door. Feelint’ about lor some means to
open it, he came upon a knob which he attempted
to turn. Finding it immovable in that way, he
pressed it, whereupon a door opened and lie saw
before him a long narrow apartment, furnished
with ancient chairs and tables and with an enor
mous canopied bedstead in one corner. A largo
oriel window at one end admitted the light, and he
resolved to explore the room. After observing with
interest various strange objects, he examined the
bed. Passing to the further side of it, his attention
was attracted to a large trunk. Somehow the ap
pearance of it seemed familiar, and he felt over the
surface. Then he lifted the lid.
The trunk was lined throughout with tin !
RECALLED.
In a moment there flashed across his mind the
scene of that night when he lay in bed and heard
his father and another man talking, and when he
peered through a hole in the door leading to the
kitchen aud saw them at work lining a trunk with
tin. Then the corpse of his mother lying upon the
floor arose before him, and, dropping the lid of the
trunk he managed, he knew not how, to escape
from the room by the way he had entered.
After he was calm he accompanied his adopted
father to the spot, and Goujon, with his own eyes,
saw the mysterious trunk. How had it come thith
er? There was a mystery to solve and for a mo
ment Goujon was at a loss how to go about it.
Then an idea struck him, and he acted upon it.
That night he and the butler, who remained in
charge of the chateau, had a long conversation.
From this Goujon learned that the present ostensi
ble owner of the chateau was the husband of the
daughter of the former proprietor, and hlfi
lived in comparative poverty for years prior to his
enjoying the estate. Where he had lived was uncer
tain, but the butler believed chiefly in Paris. His
father-in-law had forbidden him the place *ome
year* before his death because of his vicious habits
and his illtreatment of his wife. At the death of
bis wife’s father, earlv in June, 1846, he returned to
the chateau and had lived with his wife ever since.
SUSPICIONS.
Goujon was intelligent enough to discover that
the time of Vauquelin’s appearance at the chateau
corresp nded w’ith the disappearance of Roubaix
from Paris, and the fact of the discovery of the
trunk in a secret apartment in the chateau Im
pressed him with the suspicion that the two men
were identical. He cautioned Jean to be silent, and
leaving him in charge of the work at Toucy, re
turned to Paris. There he went to the Chief of Po
lice and disclosed all that had happened at the
chateau.
Two experienced detectives were sent back with
Goujon, ostensibly as his employees. Once at the
chateau they saw and took a description of the
trunk, and at Auxerre saw the report of the death
of Vauquelin’s father-in-law, Monsieur Delaitro.
He died on June 3, 1846, and the inference was that
the news of the occurrence reached Paris on the
morning of June 6.
Would Jean recognize his father, Roubaix ? That
was a question of much moment. Nothing was
said to him on the subject; but the two officers, un
der pretext that some work had to be done at the
house where Vauquelin was temporarily residing,
accompanied Jean thither. The moment he set
eyes upon Monsieur Vauquelin be recognized his
father, Roubaix.
The officers put their hands on the astonished
man and told him that he was arrested for the mur
der of Madame Roubaix, bis supposed wife, on the
Rue de Fouarre, Paris, on the night of June 6,1846.
The man was thunder-struck. He was removed to
Paris and there identified beyond question as Rou
baix, who bad lived fourteen years before on the
street named.
In the meantime inquiries were set on foot at
Toucy and in the neighborhood, and it was learned
that Vauquelin returned to the chateau, from
which he bad been so long absent, June 8, 1846, and
that be was accompanied by a man. It was also
found that he brought with him on that occasion
the very trunk found in the chateau, and identified
by Jean. What had become of the man? Who ac
companied him on his return ? were the next ques
tions, and the answer was soon found. Vauquelin
took him into bis employ, and he was then his
butler.
The next thing in order was to arrest the butler,
but he had caught wind of tho coming trouble and
had decamped. He was captured, however, within
aweek, and to him was owing the disclosure of the
crime of tho night of June 6. 1846.
THE BUTLER’S CONFESSION.
Vauquelin, when turned adrift by his father-in
law, went to Paris, where his aged mother lived on
a pension, allowed by the government to her as
the widow of a naval officer. She supplied her son
with means to live. He made the acquaintance of
a widow, who pretended that she had ample means,
and he married her, but he found that her income
ended the moment she became his wife. She had
saved a little money, however, and he continued to
live with her, subsisting partly on his wife and
partly on his mother. The boy Jean was born, and
the mother received a legacy from a deceased uncle.
This induced Vauquelin. who had assumed the
name of Roubaix, to continue to live with bis wife,
but he ill-treated her and neglected her. Finally,
they were reduced to comparative poverty, and he
wrote to his real wife begging for assistance. This
she sent him in monthly installments. At last he
received the intelligence that his wife’s father was
dead, and got an invitation from her to return.
But what was he to do with his second wife and
child ?
THE MURDER.
One of his boon companions was an inventor
named Javal, whom liquor had demoralized. He
consulted this man. and it was arranged that Van
quelin, or rather Roubaix, should choke his wife,
and that the body should be enclosed in a trunk
previously lined with tin to prevent any leakage,
and that the trunk should be removed by Vau
quelin to the chateau, where the contents could
easily be disposed of. Javal was to accompany
Vauquelin, and be taken care of for the rest of his
life.
Javal raised some money, and, after the trunk
wag prepared and the body placed in it, it wa« re
moved to a cab like an ordinary piece of luggage,
and taken to Javal's rooms. Next day, Roubaix and
Javal, dressed in good clothes, started together for
Auxerres, taking tho trunk with them. When cha
teau Toucy was reached, the body was buried by Ja
val. who was perfectly satisfied to take the position
of butler, with a good salary and all the liquor he
could drink.
Then the crime of the night of June.6th, 1846, was
explained and avenged, for Vauquelin was gent to
the galleys for life and his butler Javal for twenty
years.
jo.visThirke’s VICTIMS.
With Some Account of the
Operations of Anaconda,
Hyena & Co.
NEW YORK’S SHYLOCKS.
Illegal Money-Lending as a Fine
Art.
THE USURER AND HIS PREY.
The Ounnlns Bill of Sale and
How It Works,
FASCINATION FLEDGELEY’S CUSTOMERS.
A decided sensation was created in theatical cir
cle recently by the arrest of a well-known actor on
what at first sight appeared t<> be a eerioqe crlminaj
charge. He wid accused of having got away with
mortgaged property. His accuser was a notorious
money .lender, who charged that he had loaned the
player S4OO, secured by a chattel mortgage on furni
ture and clothing. When the lender of the money
tried to take possession of the collateral he found it
missing and secured the borrower’s arrest on the
charge of having sold or otherwise disposed of it.
This was the money-lender’s innocent little tale.
When the actor’s lawyer brought the focal glare of
justice’* eye upon the case, however, it assumed
another aspect. It appeared that the actor had
borrowed the money a couple of years ago; that he
had paid in interest more than the amount loaned, and
was still paying interest, and that the money,
lender was, in fact, guilty of the grossest usury,
which be was calling on the court to support him
in. The borrower in this case had not disposed of
the mortgaged property, but removed it for safe
keeping during the Summer, and he would have
gone on bleeding every month to the insatiable
leech that had fastened on him if hi* lawyer had
not entered an objection.
JONAS SHARKE AND HIS VICTIMS.
It is safe to say that the general public has not
the ghost of an idea of the extent to which this
species of extortion is carried on in New York.
Every class of society comes within the usurer’s
clutches, and though the most stringent laws exist
against these conscienceless scoundrels, they con
tinue, by an adroit manipulation of the detail* of
their business, to evade them. When they suffer a
loss they grin and bear it, or bear it without grin
ning. They commonly submit to any sacrifice
rather than go into court, and so justice gets no
hold on them. It is rarely indeed that Shylock is
audacious enough to demand hi* pound of flesh
as openly as in the case cited above. He would not
have done it in this instance if he had not believed
that the criminal charge against the actor would
scare him into settling up without attempting a de
fense.
Take this line of trade as a sample one of its kind.
Whenever the Summer season come* around you
will find the advertisement* of several money lend
ers in the dramatic paper*. These invite the Thes
pian who happens to be under the weather to apply
to his good friend Jonas Sharke, say, for relief.
Jonas Sharke does not run a pawnshop, but has an
office, with a private room for ladies. He loan*
money on personal property and on chattel mort
gage. If Miss Sparkle, the soubrette, is short of
money, she can take her sealskin dolman to him and
get, say SIOO on it. For this she pay* some ten or
fifteen per cent. In interest and commission to him,
in advance. She gives him a bill of sale of the dol
man, to be redeemed by her within, say a month. If
she hasn’t got the money to redeem it then she gets
him to keep it another month by paying him an
other ten per cent., and so on ad infinitum. This,
as anyone may calculate, will make that loan of
SIOO worth 120 per cent, a year to Jonas Sharke, ex
clusive of the $5 commission paid him for negotiat
ing this bargain with himself. As for the dolman,
he pawns it at Simpson’s for as much as he ad
vanced on it, on which he pays the regular pawn
broker’s interest. If, as is commonly the case, Miss
Sparkle is hard up all Summer, her expense in this
transaction may be figured at about these sums, by
the time she gets her dolman back:
Money for dolman SIOO
Four months interest at ten per cent... 40
Commission to Sharke 5
Total $145
And this is for the loan of SIOO for four months in
a State whose laws make usury a felony I
But these figures are moderate ones, for the
usurer adjusts his exactions to his customers needs.
If Miss Sparkle is very hard up she may have to pay
as much as twenty-five per cent., and $lO or even
sls or more commission to her good friend Sharke.
The commission increases with the sum advanced,
Sharke’s plea being that he is only an agent laying
out someone else's money and that he has to get his
profit out of the commissions. All sorts of portable
property is pledged in this way. When furniture is
mortgaged, it is practically sold to the usurer, a bill
of sale redeemable monthly being given him for it.
Under this he may seize and sell the property at any
time when the interest is not paid in advance.
THE DEADLY BILL OF SALE.
It is in this bill of sale that all the mischief lurks.
It is a perfectly legitimate bit of paper, on its face. It
makes no mention of interest, but says, in sub
stance, that Miss Sparkle sells to Mr. Sharke a seal
skin dolman for sllO, she having the privilege of
buying it back for that figure at the end of a speci
fied time. If she does not buy it back it becomes
his property unconditionally. If she renews the lien,
by paying him another month’s interest, a new
bill of sale is made out. On each bill of sale the
usurer commonly demands his commission. Ac
cording to the letter of the law this is a fair deal.
Something is sold for a certain figure and bought
back or not, as the case may be. But, in fact, a
certain sum of money is borrowed at ten per cent,
or more, a month, some six times what a pawnshop
is allowed to charge, and about twenty times the
legal rate of interest in commerce.
It may be asked why Miss Sparkle does not take
her dolman or diamonds or whatever else she may
borrow money on to a regular pawnshop ? This
OMB, NO. 11 FRANKFORT BT.
has several answers. In the first place, it is easier
to get at Sharke than to travel search of a pawn
shop; in the second, there Is a superstition that
Sharke advances more money than a pawnbroker
would, and in the third, many people object to
dealing with a pawnshop. Indeed, many of the
pawnshops are not the safest places to leave objects
of value. Except in the larger pawnshops, too,
only small sums can be borrowed. For instance,
on jewelry that would pawn at Simpson’s for SSOO,
the owner cannot possibly borrow more than $l5O
to S2OO at a minor establishment. Sharke, how
ever, advances on nearly the same scale as Simp
eon, and so he is a sore temptation to people who
have only small pawnshsps in their neighborhood.
Bohemians are, beside, a light-living, easy-going
class, and they would rather deal with Sharke, the
swindler, whose office is around the corner, than
take the trouble to travel to a square pawnbrokers,
a mile or so away.
It will be observed that Sharke takes absolutely
no risk in his advances on personal property. As
soon as he gets Miss Sparkle’s dolman in his hands,
he sends it to the pawnshop and borrows on it all
he loaned or even more. Thus he has his capital
constantly renewed, at a cost to him of not more
than thirty per cent, a year, while he gets for lend
ing it four or five or six times as much, with hand
some trimmings in the form of commissions.
There are even usurers here who invest no capital
of their own at all. If you take them a watch to
day, for instance, and ask a certain amount on it,
they tell you to leave it to be examined and come
to-morrow. When you return, they hand you your
money, and a bill of sale to sign. You do not see
your watch. It is in pawn, and the money the
pawnbroker advanced on it at thirty per cent, a
year is being given you, less the usurer’s commis
sion, at ten per cent, a month or more, as your bad
luck may have it.
AMOS ANACONDA’S OPERATIONS.
The Bohemian classes—actors, artists, and the
rounders of the town—the fast men, rapid women,
gamblers and others, liable to sudden vicissitudes
of fortune, are .Jonas Sharke’s richest prey. With
the higher circles of society he has little or nothing
to do. They are cared for by more powerful law
breakers. Down in the busy streets near the ex
changes, lurk, in dark offices, the Amos Anacondas
of usury. They can swallow game Jonas Sharke,
with all his voracity, would gag at. They loan
large sums—often incredibly large ones—to em
barrassed men of affairs and hard-up swells.
They take all sorts of collateral, from family plate,
furniture and pictures, down to life insurance poli
cies. They, too, work on the bill of sale plan. The
magnitude of their operations may be compre
hended from an instance of recent occurrence here.
A young swell, made famous to the public through
the newspapers, went broke. His family sent him
off to Europe, and set the family lawyer at work to
straighten out hie affa rs. Among his liabilities
was a bill v ale to Amos Anaconda, for $15,000, on
his handsome furniture and his horses. This was
a renewal of an original bill of sale made two years
and more before. He had already paid $22,000 on the
debt in renewals and commissions, and still owed
the original $15,000.
The lawyer theatened to take Amo* Anaconda in
to court, and he surrendered his claim without par
ticularly active resistance.
Every evening at Delmonico’s you may see a
little, insignificant, freckled face and saffron hued
Englishman, who is a perfect picture of Fascination
Fledgeby, as painted by Dickens in “Our Mutual
Friend.” He is the son of a famous or infamous
London usurer aud is the manager of a
branch of his father a busness here. His victims
are young dude* of our best families, who fall into
his clutches by personal association with him. His
operations differ from those of Jonas Sharke and
Amos Anaconda in this, that he does not go in for
bills of sale. Fledgeby’s collateral is demand notes,
to which he gets his victims to affix the endorse
ment of their father, uncle, or some other responsi
ble relative. These names are signed merely as a
matter of form, he says. He knows they are forger
ies and that his victims write them themselves.
But they are the most powerful levers of influence
he needs, for if the victim does not pay up,his rela
tive must,or suffer the scandal of having it known
that one of the family is a forger. This trap occa
sionally fails, just as the bill of sale does. His vic
tim resists, and as the usurer has no redress in law,
he has to pocket his loss. But the successes are so
much more numerous than the failures, and the
interest is so enormous that a loss of fifty per cent,
of his loans instead of ten at the most, would still
leave Fledgeby, Anaconda and Sharke an illegal
profit.
HIRAM HYENAS BUSINESS.
While Sharks, Anaconda and Fledgeby prey upon
the reckless and the wealthy, Hiram Hyena feasts
on the necessities of the clerks, small tradesmen
and other borrowers of a modest order. He ad
vances money on salaries and chattel mortgages.
His methods are easily described. When ad
vances are made on salaries, he demands the in
dorsement of a'n order or a note by the borrower’s
employer. For the accommodation he charges a
legal rate of interest, but he brings it up to an
enormous percentage by exacting a heavy commis
sion. There are too many ramification* of the bus
iness to be described here, but the methods are
nearly identical. A very extensive business is done
by Hiram Hyena with the clerks and other attaches
of the city, who are very prone to anticipate their
salaries.
Last Fall a boy stood at the corner of Sixth ave
nue and Fourteenth street, distributing to all the
shoppers who passed in and out of Macy's sealed
envelopes bearing the admonition, in fat, black
type, “Read carefully.” Since then these same en
velopes have been very thoroughly distributed by
messenger delivery in the letter boxes of all the sec
ond rate and cheap flats in town, taken district af
ter district In succession. The envelopes in ques
tion hold the following card:
“I represent clients who are willing to loan mon
ey in sums not to exceed $65, upon household fur
niture. The persons owning the furniture to have
the use of it as before borrowing money upon it,
and the furniture is not removed or disturbed in
any way. The money advanced to be paid back in
installments.
“ Money can be had the next day after application
at the office.
“ Money also loaned on salaries and on receipts
issued by storage warehouses representing furni
ture in storage.
“ Bring this with you.”
The address given is that of a lawyer in an office
building not a mile from where the Dispatch is
published.
The features of this business are best described
by the account of a visit paid by the writer to the
benevolent advertiser. There were sdveral persons
ahead of me, and I waited half an hour before my
turn came. Then I stated my business. I wanted
to borrow a couple of hundred dollars on the furni
ture of my flat.
“We never lend more than sixty-five dollars,”
was the reply of the keen-featured legal person at
the desk.
Argument was of no avail. That was the limit
sum. Professing to be finally satisfied, I left my
address and departed. That afternoon a young
man came and examined my flat. He was kind
enough to leave word that furnishings, pictures and
the rest, that an insurance company of the first
class thinks it safe to insure for SIO,OOO, would be
“ satisfactory” for a loan of $65. I called at Hy
ena’s office next morning. He had a bill of sale for
SIOO, redeemable in a month, ready. It was also
payable in weekly instalments. But the sum to be
paid remained the same, no matter if the borrower
began paying his instalment* the day after he bor
rowed the money.
“But you only advance sixty-five dollars,” I ex
postulated.
“That is in cash,” replied Hyena, showing all his
hungry teeth in a bland smile. “ The rest is for
interest and commissions, you know.”
There is no mortgage on my flat yet; but I am
afraid Hiram Hyena is doing a brisk business now,
all ths same.
California’s Colossal Clam.
A JOURNALIST LIVES WHO HAS
SEEN AND EATEN THEM.
To the Editor of the New York Dispatch :
Dear Sir.—ln your last issue I found an inter
esting quotation froin tho San Francisco Argonaut
under the title “ A Colossal Clam—Which is Proba
bly a Colossal Lie.”
Ido not propose to authenticate the story. It
may justify your terse criticism of it, but as the
Italians say of things that are worth telling, any
how, “si none vero, e ben trovato. But lam willing
to go on record as an endorser of the giant clam if
not of the murderous propensity ascribed to it by
the Argonaut.
I have often seen, in lower California, clam shells
of such huge dimensions that they were used for
watering troughs for horses. I am sure lam not
exaggerating when I state that the largest must
have been a yard long, and capable of holding
several gallons of water. Many of these shells were
very old, but others were of quite recent capture.
The natives told me they grew in the back water of
the reefs along the coast, and were only sought for
at low tides, when men expert in diving went down
and cut them loose from the rocks.
Their flesh was esteemed, and was prepared by
jerking, i. e., cutting in strips, rubbing with salt
and drying in the sun. I ate some of it, and like
the good Democrat who sat down to the banquet of
crow, I am free to confess that though I had rather
have it than nothing at all, I don't hanker after it.
It bears a suggestive resemblance to what India
rubber might be, salted and prepared for culinary
use,
In the same country I have seen scallop shells
that must have measured a good two feet across.
There is an oysterman on Sixth avenue who dis
plays a couple of these shells, some thirty six inches
in width, in his window.
These colossal mollusks are common along the
California. Lower California and Mexican coasts.
They are probably the developement of centuries of
growth, just as our own original Saddle Rock oys
ters were really only ordinary oysters which had
been left for years and years to grow, undisturbed,
to monstrous size. Alfred Trumble,
New York, July 15, 1886.
PRICE FIVE CENTSj
AN OLD STORY.
When the Spring was beginning, and May day w&S
nigh,
On a Country girl, spinning, the king cast his eye;
Fair flourish the roses anear the court wall,
But the rose of the hedges is fairest of all.
"Let me hide my fool's face *neath a lying
stone.
For the world’s gone a Maying, I mope here alone,’V
Said the jester, who sat on the steps of the
But the blossoms will fade which the
have torn.
And the cheeks of a maid will grow withered and|
worn.
Why should there for such a small matter be woe,
Since each hedge and each village such roses will
show ?
"King! go to your wine; pretty maiden I gO
moan I
When its meat hath been mumbled we leave ths
picked bone,”
Said the jester, who sat on the steps of the throne.
Yet a peasant is grinding a knife, sharp and
And silently wending his way through the throng-4
Then the dogs must be driven from licking th<
gore
Of a monarch struck down at his own palace door,
"Though her name be a gibe and her altars o’ejf
thrown.
In the end Gossip Justice will seize on her own,”
Said the jester, who sat on the steps of the throne,
DSMS’S FOffliJE.
A Story of Loudon Society.
CHAPTER XIV.
“ THE DULL FAIN OF SUSPENSE AND NEGLECT WAfJ
OVEB.”
Doris left the hotel hurriedly, got into a cab,*
and drove’to Waterloo station. As she drove off
she saw Gussie Melton rush out of the doorway
on to the pavement; but she drew back anff
would not let him see her. She was so mucll
agitated by the emotions which the young man’s
impetuous outbursts of gratitude and affection
had awakened in her that she felt she could not
now expose herself to the keen scrutiny of hen
grandmother’s eyes. She must go back to Fair,
leigh, where she would still have two or three
hours alone to compose herself before her hue.
band’s return.
She wished with all her heart that she had not
gone up to town. Gussie's boyish devotion,
coming so quickly after her outburst of misery
at her husband’s neglect, had excited her so
strangely that she had scarcely been able to con.
trol herself while listening to him—had been on
the point, innocent as she was, of breaking into
tears at the dangerous touch of sympathy. Un.
til those last few moments at the hotel, when his
impetuosity had suddenly frightened her, sha
had certainly been happier with Gussie than sha
had been for weeks; for the pleasure she haff
enjoyed in her husband's society on that one
evening when he had devoted himself to trying
to please her hadvbeen feverish, uneasy, fraught
with fear lest ho should not find her so faecinat.
ing as she found him. All the time-honoreff
jests and gibes at the infelicity of the marrieff
state, which she bad formerly thought so coarse,
had then a terrible foundation of truth. Doris
rebelled against thia conclusion. A means of
testing David’s feeling for her came into her,
mind through the jewels she carried in he*,
hand. If he could submit coolly to his wife’s
receiving such a present from another man, then
indeed she felt that husbands must be made of
different clay from other l men. Whether this’
action would be quite fair to Gussie she was tod
typical a woman to consider. It is a very ex.
ceptional woman who has room in her head ot>
heart for more than one man at a time; the feel,
ings, interests of the outsider count for
That her conscience might be free from the re-*
proach of taking more pains for another man
than for her husband, rather than with any
thought that these pains would have much effect
upon David, Doris put on that evening a new
tea-gown of coral-colored Liberty silk
with coffee-tinted net embroidered with gold}
No reigning beauty ever looked lovelier than
she, as, with an unusual flush in her, cheeks anq
light in her eyes, giving lustre to her dark
beauty, she sat in the drawing-room, in the sub*
dued, varying light of fire and lamp and shadeff
candles, playing with the sparkling stones whosa
only value in her eyes lay in the use to which
she was going to put them.
Eleven o’clock, half-past eleven, twelve struck
before the bell rang and she heard the faint
sound of a door shutting as a servant went tq
let the master in. Doris bad left her seat by tbqf
fire twenty times to walk across the room, un«
fasten the shutters, open the window, and listen!
in the stillness. Now, with the longed-for mo/
ment so near, she sat quite still, feeling the louff
quick beating of her heart and a heavy weight
at her temples. She no longer felt the case iu
her hands; it fell to the ground as she rose/'
trembling, on hearing her husband’s step outf
side the door. The slight noise it made in fall.'
ing frightened her; but she did not stoop to piclq
it up. The door opened, and David came in/
He started at sight of her, and, as he did so, sha
noticed that ho wore the usual abstracted,wear*
look after a long day devoted to “ business if
even seemed to her that he was more absorbed/
more absent than usual.
“ You still up, Doris ? I thought you would!
have been in bed hours ago.” i
“ I waited to see you, to speak to you,” shq
answered, in a very low and subdued voice. ,
“To speak to me 1 Anything wrong then ?”
A quick glance at her—not the glance of loving
interest, but of suspicious curiosity—apparently
satisfied him that it was nothing serious—tq
him.
“ No, David, nothing is wrong—at least you
will think not.”
Won’t it keep till morning ? lam very tired.’*
He looked very white and weary, and Doris
twisted an arm-chair round to the fire, and wifhi
very tender hands led him to it and coaxed hint
to sit down. >
“ 1 would rather speak to you now, if I may*
I have been waiting three hours to see you, anffi
I—l can speak better now than in the morning.”*
She ielt that this terrible strain of excitement
which she had been suffering all the
would leave her utterly incapable of producing
any effect by her eloquence in the cold hours of
th* morning.
" I will be very quiet, and I will not keep yoqf
long,” she continued, in a low, measured voice ft
in which she carefully suppressed every sign ofi
excitement except a slight tremor, and shq
dropped gently on to her knees beside him, pu(
one hand in his, and looked steadily at the fire,
so that she might not see the cold film rise iif
his eyes and shut her out from him as sha
spoke. “We have been married six months
now, David, haven’t we ? And all that time wq'
have never had one quarrel, one disagreement
even. You have always been kind and indul«
gent to me, and I have always done what yoil
told me to. And indeed I love and honor yoti
as I ought to do, and would do anything tq
please you and make you happy. And yet lam
afraid—sometimes I think-that I don’t try
quite in the right way, and theta is something