New York dispatch. [volume], June 12, 1887, Image 1

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

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miSHED BY A. J. WILLIAMSON’S SONS.
VOIT XLI 1.-N 6. 35. '“’
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N. Y., as Second Class Matter.
THE KEY YORK DISPATCH,
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PLAYSIMJ’LAYERS.
Concerning “The Hypocrite.”
The Critics’ Buftbear-Tlie Still Hunt of
«loliu A. Stevens—Slating on General
Principles—Roso«;quest’s Ven
ture J. Bl* Hill’s Offer—
Tlxe Managerial Fox
—Lawrence Mars
ten and liis
play, etc.
BY JOHN CARBOY.
The announcement that John A. Stevens has
written a new play produces the same effect upon
the critics of the daily press that the sight of a red
cloth has upon a drove of bulls.
With these esteemed anatomists and analysts of
dramatic work it is a foregone conclusion that
nohlng good can find birth in the brain of Stev
ens.
In my time I have heard him designated as an
ass; as a blatherskite; as a pretentious, egotistic fel
low whose efforts at play writing were unpardonable
sins of commission, and that bis being alive and
not a helpless pauper through the critical malevo
lence which has attended his professional career is
a sin of omission which smells rank to Heaven.
In fact, that he has gone through this protracted
mill against such odds and has come up smiling on
call at every round, is in itself a crinn of the deep,
est dye.
Away back in the seasons that have gone and
with their debts, fa lures and stars and starvings
their successes, and scandals are nearly forgotten,
I remember that John A. Stevens brought out
"Daniel Boone,” a drama in which ho figured as a
star—playing the title role. He and the play were
Incontinently sat upon by the critical fraternity of
the town. Thon camo
"THE UNKNOWN,”
another play. And again he and the play were
"roasted.” But, all the same, out of both of these
plays ho made money; they were performed all over
the country season after season, and now "The
Unknown” is being played in the English prov
inces with profit to its manager and brings to its
author something of a regularly paid royalty.
He then became, with Mr, Frank Murtha, manager
Of the Windsor Theatre, and again—despite the pre
dictions of the "ancients”—achieved a show of suc
cess and accumulated ducats.
Then came "Passion's Slave,” and more recently
"Passing Shadows.”
And still the critical Assyrians camo down upon
him like wolves upon the fold.
" A Great Wrong Righted ” was subjected to the
same f.i
Naturally comes the conundrum: Must a drama
tist write plays to suit the critics or to suit the
public? Is he to use his own ideas and be guided
by his own judgment in his work, or is he, at its
inception to consult the critics and accept their
ipse dixit as to the nature, composition and con
struction of his proposed {1 <y ?
Admitted, that all critics are infallible in their
judgment; that they know it all; that they proudly
refer to their recorded opinions as having always
been without error, and that their predictions have
always been fulfilled; admitted—for the sake of
argument only—that they adjudge without pre
judice, and that when journalists become critics
they cast off the Corruptible and put on the In.
corruptible—
WHY IS IT
that there is no known instance of a dramatic critic
having ever written a successful play or one pos
sessing sufficient merit or inherent strength and
vitality to outlive in public memory the season in
Which it had production ?
And why is it that, when they themselves, de
spite their assured thorough knowle ige of How It
Ought To Be with their alleged vast intellectual re
sources and study, have suffered the misery and
martyrdom of failure—they should seek to damn
every one, who, not of their own guild—comas for
ward with a play and asks for judgment?
Here, on last Monday night, at the Fourteenth
Street Theatre, is an example of how easy it is
to let prejudice against an individual take the
place of justice in criticism.
Upon the programme the name of the author of
the new play " The Hypocrite” did not appear —but
it was previously understood through the press
notices that it was the work of Mr, Lawrence
Marsten. Then came another bint—like a wet
blanket on a new born babe—a hint that Mr. John
A. Stevens had a hand iu the production.
Horror upon horrors 1 Before the curtain wont
up it was asserted as a fact that John A. Stevens, in
full dress suit, with a smile upon his face, and a
rod, red jack rose as a douZonnierc, had been seen in
front of the th -atre.
The audience was a large one, and included a full
representation of notable first nighters, managers,
C'!‘- press, and of society generally.
TH PRESENCE OF STEVENS
was speedily made known—"on whisper's wings
the name clove the viewless air;” ths house-bills
fluttered, and the stolid critical occupants of the
centre aif-.10 sea's sat there like buzzards on a road
gide fence waiting for tliejr mortuary fe^ t
At the close of the SSf;Ond act the test camo.
Loud calls were made for the author. As yet, you
see. there was something of uncertainty. It might
not bo Stevens, after all.
The little door in the proscenium opened and
Lawrence Marsten and -ah, here was the mortuary
feast all ready—John A. Stevens—cams forth hand
in h n '.
That settled it. The loudly call-id for retired.
Before the third act began there were a score of
aisle seats vacated. The occupants-to use Buck .
Ingham’s Laos to Gloster in " Richard III.:”
But like dumb statues or breathing stones
Stared on each other* and looked deadly pale,”
and, like men in a dream, arose and departed.
And then—in their several papers—having "lit”
upon the remains of their victim and fed fat their
ancient grudge—they went to roost, gorged with
their mortuary fe ist and happy in the belief that
this would be the last ever heard of Stevens.
But this time it wasn’t John A.’s play they had
s! .ted; it wasn’t John A. whom they had torn all
to pieces and whose well-picked bones were whiten
ing ou the wayside where ha had fallen,
ir WAS THE WORK OF LAWRENCE MARSTEN
they had slated; it was a brainy young aspirant of
the name of Marsten who furnished them with
lheir mortuary lunch.
Not being the author of the play, and knowing
that fact, as be did, Stevens should never have come
1 rward with Mr. Marsten in response to the call
. before the curtain. His appearance was ill advised,
B eerkunly unnecessary and brought neither good to
himself, aid to Mr. Marsten. nor merciful considera
te >n from the critics for the play.
Lut. nevertheless, "The Hypocrite’’ survives.-
its author lives and his appeal from those whose
motto Is, "Anything to down Stevens”—to that
tribunal from whose decision there is no appeal
the public—has made " hie state the more gra
cious.”
As a fact, not a line of this play was written by
Mr. John A. Stevens—it is solely the work of Mr.
Marsten. It was written and finished three years
ago, and prior to Manager Rosenquest’s acceptance
of it the play had been offered to, and read by,
half a dozen of our metropolitan managers.
Not one of these, however, declined to stage it
because of its not being at least a fairly constructed
play, and one likely to have a successful produc
tion.
Various reasons were given. No doubt the
principal reason why they wouldn’t touch it was
because it was the work of an unknown, or com
paratively unknown, author.
And the critics always "go” for an unknown
author and—Stevens.
If the "Hypocrite ” had been evolved from the
paste-pot and scissors of Simms, Pettit, or some
other dramatizer of the Penny Dreadful local liter
ature of London, and brought over here by French,
or any of the importers of sensational stew for the
stage, the managers would have rushed for it, with
the eagerness of the Rialto fakes for their free
lunch and beer.
But Mr. Lawrence Marsten was not a familiar in
the dramatic field. He bad not even made himself
known by the managerial offices, nor by talking
play and swilling potations pottle deep of gin
in the bar-rooms where the actors most do congre
gate; and be had not buttonholed the critics and
reporters, nor by manifold notices, attempted to
"work the press.” He simply had his play, and had
faith in it. He kept it back,
BIDING HIS TIME,
when he might safely venture an endeavor to have
it properly produced. Only a few weeks before it
was presented, a manager here, having read it,
offered him one thousand dollars for it—and placed
the money before him.
The pile of greenbacks sorely tempted the young
playwright-for if there was anything he needed
just then it was—not exactly a thousand dollars—
but ten dollars.
He declined the offer with thanks and a long and
lingering, not to say loving, farewell glanee at the
roll of bills as they disappeared from his sight into
the managerial pocket.
This manager, who rarely makes a mistake in his
judgment, was J. M. Hill.
Rosenquest had the manuscript, read the play;
saw the strength of its main incidents as well as its
weak points, and where and in what manner its
weakness could be eliminated.
He had the courage to risk his money in giving it
all the advantages of new and elaborate scenic set
tings and a cast whose representatives were leading
people whose talent and artistic work had graced
the stage of the most famous theatre in America.
He relied upon his own judgment; he consulted
no one, and in accepting the play he thoroughly
understood what it would cost him in loss of man
agerial prestige as well as in money, if it failed.
Older and more experienced managers than he had
refused it; the old foxes thought they saw the open
jaws of a trap in it, and if they were to be caught,
they preferred it should be by an English, not an
American bait.
Perhaps these managerial Reynards—and sly fel
lows they are in the main, and sagacious as well
even three months ago, when the play was passed
around for their inspection, thought they saw a
trace of Stevens in it.
Wes. Rosenqueat didn’t think of Stevens as either
a drawback or an advantage to his enterprise. The
play, and not the author, was the thing.
If he considered the author at all in his calcula
tions, he took no heed of either his age his expe
rience or his capacity for booming himself in all
the specious ways which are customary with new
comers in the dramatic field.
Lawrence Marsten has undoubtedly many little
peculiarities of temperament and personality which
will disappear after he has bad experience in the
production of a few more plays which will suit the
public and disgust the asthetic critics—some of
whom maintain their reputations by damning plays
and players and live by praising the managers. He
is as
NERVOUS AND EXCITABLE
as if he were afflicted with chronic hysteria, and he
possesses that mental anomaly of knowing when
his work is well done, and yet believing all the time
that it amounts to nothing. Mentally he is trying
to do the two-horse act; he is continually balancing
himself between despair and hope; he is certain of
himself and not certain of bis effort.
But with all this nervousness, this intermittency
of courage and despondency, he never loses sight of
the fact that he must work; and therefore it is that
he is always busy.
As the old burgomaster had it—and with what
unction Burton used to utt r the line—"He don’t
think; he only thinks he thinks.”
So with Marsten—whether he is always thinking
or is only thinking that he thinks—there is intel
lectual force and the iu*esence of an imaginative
power in some of the scenes of this " Hypocrite”
which show that his thoughts and study of the
varying phases of human nature are of that quali
ty which will ensure respectful recognition in
whatever field of literary endeavor he may employ
them.
I do not mean to say there are no faults of con
struction in this play. A perfect play has never
yet been written or produced upon the stage.
There are critics who will pounce upon Shake
speare like chickens upon a spread of bread
crumbs, when nothing easier presents itself for
" slating” purposes or for a pompous and windy
display of their analytical powers.
Ido mean to say that, while "The Hypocrite”
possesses some grave errors of construction and
here and there weakness in its text, there is a co
herence in its argument, a clearly defined motive
as the basis of its action and a marked individuali
ty in its characters, a strength in its situations, a
humanly interest pervading it, with that necessary
tinge of romance, which will ensure it the favor of
popular acceptance.
This would be the case whether Mr. John A. Ste
vens had written the entire play or had never been
heard of either by the critics or the public.
It should be a matter of no possible consequence
—in the critical estimate—as to who the author of
a plaj’ ip-
IT IS THE PLAY ITSELF WHICH CONCERNS
THE CRITIC.
To condemn a play because the author personally
is not in favor with the critics, is as unjust and
malicious as it would be for a jury> because they
formed a dislike to the prisoner personally, to
bring in a verdict of guilty against him when all the
evidence has shown him to be an innocent man.
The critical estimate of Mr. Marston’s play and
its performance can be found in its appropriate
place on another page of this paper.
I here only protest against the method which has
become too common in the press reviews of plays—
that of the reviewers permitting their prejudice and
personal inclinings to influence their judgement.
If there is any bit of good in an enemy—it is the
better to make that in some small degree at least
an offset for a portion of the evil that is in him.
I do not know what awful crimes Mr. John A.
Stevens has committed; he may have robbed hen
roosts in his boyhood; he may have added to the
enormity of his offenses the diabolic choking of a
mother-in-law —but, what all his transgressions,
his past theatric career, his personal characteristics
and social conditions have to do with his work as a
dramatist, or why they should be regarded as an
excuse for condemning everything he does as a play
wright—is beyond my comprehension.
This time ho was sat upon for something he did
not do. Selah 1
A lady of mature years, in accordance
with her invariable custom on retiring for the
night, looked under the bed, and discovered a real
live burglar. Nothing discouraged, however, she
seized h><l of the nearest leg. and cried, "Come
oui, jou rascal, come out 1 I’ve been looking ior
you lhe last forty years 1”
......... • ¥ Q RK> SUNDAY, JUNE I‘2. 1887.
GOIDIiD TO A fiREIT CKIME.
How Mon. Boileaux’s Jealousy
was Aroused.
A Villanous Plot to Remove a
Favored Suitor.
A Drama of Blood in the Rue
des Amandiers, Faris.
A Very Slight Clew which Led to a
Dreadful Disclosure.
Monsieur Joseph Fermat arose to wealth and po.
sition from poverty and obscurity. He never
knew his parents—or, in fact, any relative—and his
first recollection of existence was when he found
himself bringing small measures of wine from a
neighboring cabaret to the workmen employed in a
silk factory at Lyons.
One day, when he was about twelve years of age,
he observed an old gentleman on the street drop a
book which he was carrying under his arm. Joseph
ran, picked up the book and handed it to the man,
who looked at the little ragged urchin and then
gave him a sou. The next day, however, when the
old gentleman met him near the same spot, he
spoke to him, asked his name, and bade Irim come
to his house on the Rue St. Louis that evening.
The result was that Joseph was advanced to the po
sition of apprentice to a saddler, and he worked at
that honorable calling until he was twenty-one. At
that time he possessed two hundred and fifty
francs, and went to Paris, where he soon gained
good employment at his trade. Two years later he
married, and then he set up in business for him
self. In four years more he started as a dealer in
what is known as saddlers* ironmongery, and then
in fancy leather goods, and finally became a rich
and respected merchant.
Monsieur Fermat had a daughter, Josephine, his
only child. When she was three years old, he took
into his family the son of a fellow-workman who
had been carried off by a pestilential disease within
a few days oi his wife, thus leaving their child an
orphan. This boy ’s name was Charles Decret, and
he was brought up as though he had been a child
of the house. Up to his fifteenth or sixteenth year
he was a good-looking boy, but subsequently he
grew coarse and uncouth, and even a good educa
tion and good clothes could not do much to obviate
these drawbacks. On the other hand, Josephine
became a lovely and graceful young woman, of
great amiability and many accomplishments.
THE YOUNG LOVERS. ‘
In 1860, Henry Beffroy made the acquaintance of
Josephine. He was then eighteen, and she was a
year younger. As he was a youth of excellent char
acter and the son of a wealthy contractor, an inti
mate friend of Monsieur Fermat, there was no
reason in the world why the young people should
not become lovers, if they felt so disposed. They did
feel so disposed, and the consequence was that the
jealousy of Charles Decret was excited.
Charles was now in his twenty-second year, hold
ing a position Ln Monsieur Fermat's counting
house and living pretty much as his fancy dictated.
Though he never allowed his friends to discover it,
he was immoral and dissipated. The acquaintance
of young Beffroy and Josephine had continued for
fully a year before Charles began to consider it a
serious matter. It had always been his intention
to marry Josephine and thus secure the control of
the wealth which she would one day mainly pos
sess. He looked upon Beffroy as a mere boy, and
as Josephine always accepted any invitation which
Charles gave her, and treated him with affection, it
was not until be witnessed some unmistakable
love passages between her and Beffroy, that bis
fears and jealousy were aroused.
BEFFROY’S TEMPTER.
He began to pay court to Beffroy, and soon made
a favorable impression upon him. He introduced
him to his friends and led him to give wine parties
and to resort to places of bad repute. He concocted a
scheme so that while Beffroy, with a party of young
fellows and ladies of the demi-monde, were carous
ing in the Bois de Boulogne, he drove past with
Josephine, who saw Henry performing some mad
cap capers with one of the ladies.
Though Josephine was greatly shocked and dis
tressed at this exhibition, yet, much to Charles’s
chagrin and disappointment, it did not cause a
rupture between the lovers. For some time Bof
froy abstained from undesirable associates, but
Charles again led him to forego all his good resolu
tions and indulge in even wilder pleasures than
before.
As for Charles, his situation was growing des
perate. He had drawn large sums from the busi
iness, and made numerous false entries in the books
to cover up his peculations. On more than one
occasion, he had even forged Monsieur Fermat’s
name to paper, but bad always managed to retire it
before it became due. His only hope of ultimately
rehabilitating himself and putting himself on a
good, permanent financial basis was by a union
with Josephine.
ASSASSINATED.
Early in 1873, a dreadful thing happened. On the
morning ot April 2, at about three o'clock, Henry
Beffroy s body was found lying on the Rue des
Amandiers. He had been stabbed in the back with
a stiletto, the weapon penetrating a vital spot, and
the wound no doubt causing Instant death. That
he had not been attacked on the street was evident
from the fact that no blood had been spilt, and his
clothes were unstained. The inference was that he
bad been assassinated elsewhere, and brought to
the spot where he was found after death.
Monsieur Beffroy secured the best detective aid
which Paris afforded, and every exertion was used
to discover the perpetrator of the crime. Henry,
according to Charles Lecret, had had an engagement
with him that night to attend the opera, but Charles
was taken unexpectedly sick, and could not quit his
apartments. Monsieur Fermat went to visit him
and found him in bed, having just fallen into a
sleep, after taking a draught which the physician
had prescribed. There was apparently no clew to
the places which Henry had visited after he left his
father’s dwelling, on the evening of April 1.
PAUL TIRLEMONT S STORY.
Paul Tirlemont, an acquaintance of both Charles
and Henry, called on Monsieur Beffroy, and said,
casually:
"as I was passing along the Rue des Amandiers
about eleven o’clock in the evening of April 1, a
gentleman was some distance ahead of me whom I
took to be Charles Decret. He turned into a house
and when I reached the spot the figure of a man
was disappearing within the door, but I couldn’t
distinguish who ft was. Now, singularly enough,
when I was returning an hour later, I passed two
persons, one of whom I thought was Henry Beffroy.
Both men wore overcoats, for the night was chilly,
and the one I imagined to be Henry wore a kerchief
around his throat and the lower part of his face. I
looked back and saw them pass up the steps of what
struck me as being the very house which the per
son I thought was Charles Decret had entered an
hour before.”
"You did not positively identify either of them?”
MODSieur Beffroy asked,
"No, I did not.”
l> Hud you beoh thinking of either one or the
other
" I can’t call to mind that I had. You remember
that Charles is slightly bow-legged and very thick
set, and it was those peculiarities which struck me
in the person I saw ahead of me. It may be that
on my return I recalled the circumstance, and,
meeting two persons together near the house which
the person I thought was Charles entered, I might
have associated one of them with Charles as Henry
Beffroy, as they are almost inseparable companions.
It seems to me on reflection that such was really
the fact.”
A SLIGHT CLEW.
The matter passed out of Monsieur Beffroy’s
mind for the time, but next day when two of the
detectives called upon him, the statement of Paul
Tirlemont recurred to him and he narrated the cir
cumstances to the officers.
" I consider this," said detective Rasoux, "the
only information that we have so far received
which in any way points to the case.”
" It may be important,” detective Lomaine said,
“ but it is very evident that your informant, Mon
sieur Beffroy, was mistaken as to Charles Decret,
for he was sick in bed at the time; and, if he was
mistaken as to the one, it is highly probable that he
was also mistaken as to the other.”
"I admit,” said Monsieur Beffroy, "that I don’t
attach much importance to Paul Tirlemont’s story,
for he is rather a hasty and impetuous youth and
not given to very accurate statements.”
In spite of the apparent uaiikeiihood &f anything
coming out of the statement or young Tirlemont,
the detectives resolved to investigate it for all it was
worth. They sought out the young man, and alter
dark went, accompanied by him, to the rue des
Amandiers.
FOLLOWING UP THE CLEW.
"So far as I can judge,” Paul said, "I was just
about this spot when I first saw the man ahead of
me: and now let us walk on a little way.”
They did so, and presently Paul stopped, saying:
"I should think that this was the house into
which the person went.”
The officers noted the house, and next day enqui
ries respecting it were instituted.
Its occupants were a Monsieur and Madame Le
mour, aged respectively about thirty and twenty
five. They had no children, and kept their domes
tics. They appeared to be in comfortable circum
stances, and there was nothing in the appearance
of the dwelling to indicate that it was in any way
different from the others on the thoroughfare.
Monsieur Lemour wes carefully watched by Lo
maine, who ascertained that he had a small office
on the rue Coquiliiere, where he carried on the busi
ness of agent for a plate glass manufacturer. No
one visited his place of business during the two
days which it was watched, and he didn’t spend
starkss anti
more than two hours each day in the office. Rasoux,
on the second day, entered the place and enquired
the prices of certain kinds of glass, but Monsieur
informed him that his managing clerk, who knew
all the details, was out, and bade him call again.
In addition to this, Lomaine had traced Lemour
when he left his office to a hotel on the rue de Ri
voli, where he appeared to be on intimate terms
with a number oi men about town of a somewhat
doubtful class.
MONSIEUR BOILEAUX.
Without much difficulty the landlord of the house
occupied by Monsieur Lemour was found in the
person of a Monsieur Boileaux, an Israelite who was
said to be a engaged in financial affairs. This man
was approached on the subject of selling his prop
erty; but he said that he owned tbe dwelling occu
pied by Lemour and the house adjoining, and he
did not wish to sell.
" There is something about this man Boileaux,”
said Lomaine to Rasoux, " that I don’t like, and I
am going to see who he is.”
Inquiry brought out the fact that Boileaux had an
office on the Boulevart d’Austerlitz, immediately
in the rear of the houses owned by him on the rue
des Amandiers. He was seen to go into this office
at six o'clock in the evening and he did not again
quit it that night. A clerk came out and the place
was closed, but no Monsieur Boileaux was visible.
" Here is a mystery anyhow,” said Detective
Lomaine, "and I think the explanation is that there
is a communication between Boileaux’s office and
Lemour s dwelling.”
The next thing discovered was that the house
adjoining Lemour's abode was not occupied. Here
was something else to excite interest, if not sus
picion.
A MEETING.
All this time, Monsieur Lemour’s house had been
closely guarded, for the detectives were anxious to
get a glimpse of Madame Lemour. On the fifth day
Lomaine was rewarded, Madame Lemour, a very
stylish brunette, came out, entered a cab in wait
ing ior her and was driven off.
Lomaine followed and at the first opportunity
jumped into a cab and went in close pursuit. It
was a Sunday morning and the lady was driven to
the station of the Versailks railway. There she
met a gentleman .
" Great God 1” exclaimed Lomaine; "it is Charles
Decret!”
They took the train to Versailles.
When Lomaine narrated to Rasoux this incident,
along counsultation followed.
" Paul Tirlemont was right,”said Lomaine; " he
saw Decret go into that house on the night of the
assassination, and he saw Henry Beffroy go in there
also. We are on the right track, be assured.”
INSIDE THE DWELLING.
When the Chief of Police was informed of these
facts, he said:
" This is no time to be ceremonious. Murder has
been done and we have a clew, I think. Charles
Decret first, and then Henry Beffroy were seen to go
into Lemour’s bouse—there is no question ,1 think,
about that. Three hours later, the body of Beffroy
was found on the sidewalk not over twenty paces
from the house. I am going to see the inside of that
dwelling before an hour is over.”
When the chief and the detectives went to Mon
sieur Lemour's dwelling, no one but the domestics
were there. A guard was placed over them while
the house was searched. A door on the second floor
connected with the unoccupied dwelling. It opened
in the paneling, and could hardly be distinguished,
more especially when a curtain was half drawn over
it. On the floor of the Iront room up-stairs, a heavy
rug had been spread leading up to the concealed
door. On lifting the rug, the carpet was found to
be stained with blood which had soaked through
into the planking of the floor. On opening tbe
concealed door, drops of dried blood could be dis
cerned on the carpet of the adjoining room, and
these drops were traced to the rear where was a
bath-room. On the floor of this bath-room there
were more drops of blood covered with a piece of
carpet.
•• A dastardly crime has been done here,” said the
chief, "and we must have ail connected with it.”
THE STORY OF THE CRIME.
That night Monsieur and Madame Lemour, Mons.
Boileaux, Charles Decret, and the three domestics
were in custody. The story will be told without
exactly following the testimony as it was slowly
extracted irom the various parties, Mudame Lemour
having broken down and confessed all she anew.
As a.ready intimated, things had grown serious
with Charles Decret. He was largely indebted to
Monsieur Boileaux for discounting, and in other
matters, and moreover, a day was coming when his
peculations must be discovered. Madame Lemour
was Boileaux’s mistress, and he had paid heavily for
the privilege of being fooled.
Decret was in reality the favored lover of Madame
Lemour, though he passed as her brother and had
thus obtained the loan of money from Boileaux,
which he denied. In fact Decret had been mainly
instrumental in bringing about the relations which
existed between Boileaux and Madame Lemour and
in security for her and her husband the house
which they occupied rent iree and to which Boil
eaux had easy access from his office in the Boule
vart d’Austerlitz. Lemour was a nonentity, of
course, content to allow his wife to distribute her
favors anywhere she chose, so long as he had plenty
of money to spend and was not obliged to work.
PLANNING THE CRIME.
Decret had come to the conclusion that Beffroy,
as the one hindrance to his union with Josephine,
must be got out of the way, and a plan was to be
devised ior this purpose. He took Madame Lemour
into his confidence, and she promised her aid, in
duced by Decret’s arguments, as will soon appear.
Beffroy was introduced to her and she set about
to captivate him and succeeded. On the night of
April 1, Beffroy was to have gone to the opera with
Decret, but the latter notified him that he was ta
ken sick early in the day and lorbidden by the phy
sician to quit his room. The same afternoon Henry
received a note from Madame Lemour, inviting
him to visit her in tbe evening. This note was car
ried by Monsieur Lemour, who was a man without
any sense of shame. Lemour stuck to Henry for
the rest of the day, dined with him and accompan
ied him to the house at about midnight, after they
had visited several theatres together.
Charles Decret’s sickness was a pretense, and, on
the plea of some love adventure which he wished
to cover up, he advised his valet's brother to lie in
bed and personate him, so as to deceive visitors,
the valet pointing at the form in bed, and stating
that his master was asleep, and must not be dis
turbed. Decret went to Monsieur Lemour’s house
at eleven © clock on the night of April 1, and was
seen by Paul Tirlemont, as he supposed. Henry
Beffroy arrived an hour later, and was, of couise,
ignorant of the presence of Charles Decret in the
dwelling.
In the meantime, Decret had caused information
to be conveyed to Boilleaux that Madame Lemour
had proved faithless to him, and had promised to
furnish him with indisputable proof of the fact that
night. Boilleaux was to enter the unoccupied
house, and Decret was to meet him there.
THE MURDER.
"I had unrobed,” said Madame Lotnour to the
Judge of Instruction, "and Beffroy had removed
nearly all his clothing. I purposely stood, by De
cret s direction, with my face to the concealed door.
As I saw it opened and Decret glance in, I knew
that the time had come. Decret bad impressed
upon me tbe fact that, after the deed was done, I
should forever have a firm hold upon Boileaux, as
my evidence against hinj would be the loss of his
liberty and perhaps his life. I had braced myself
for the task imposed upon me. When I saw Decret
appear at (he door, I threw my arms around Bef
froy’s neck, and he was in the act of embracing me
when Boileaux, in a fury of passion, rushed forth
from the door, with a stilletto in bU grasp, and
buried H ie Deffroy’k back.
"The body Wag removed through the door into
the adjoining house, ami borne to the bath-room.
When the blood had le t the carcase, it was attired,
and Decrot and Lemour bore it between them to the
spot where it was found.”
"I knew knothing of the project to murder Bef
froy,” said Monsieur Lemour, "and when I was
informed that Monsieur Boileaux bad stabbed him.
I was surprised and shocked. I admit that I assist
ed Decret to remove the body, as I didn't wish to ba
disgraced by the exposure.”
GOADED TO THE CRIME.
Monsieur Boileanx, finding himself in so dread
ful a predicament, made a full statement of the
facts.
"Decret,” he said, "informed me of the pres
ence of Beffroy in Madame Lemour’s apartment,
and 1 went to the unclosed door and saw him there
with my own eyes. Decret then watched and de
scribed to me all that was taking place, telling me
in whispers everything that Madame Lemour and
Beffroy did. I was greatly enraged. Finally he
said, ‘Now come and see!’—and I looked, and saw
them embracing. Decret thrust a stiletto into my
band and whispered: ‘Now is the time for ven
geance on the scoundrel. Strike in the back, be
tween the shoulders.' Frenzied with ealousy, I
obeyed.”
Decret and Boileaux were sentenced for life to the
galleys; Madame Lemour was imprisoned for ten
years and her husband for six. The domestics,
who were innocent of any crime, were not prose
cuted.
Miss Ann’s Beau.—By the time Jos.
Damon has served his time. Miss Ann Harley will
have forgotten him. She didn’t know why Joe beat
her. She went to get breakfast ready and he came
in and knocked her down.
"Did you know h m ?” asked th* Court.
"O, yes, Joe was a beau of mine.”
" Did he do much damage ?”
"Yes, he tore my clothes, and I lost my diamond
ear-rings.”
Joe’s only defense was that she encouraged an
other fellow to pay her attention, and he couldn’t
stand it.
"Three months,” said the Court.
A small boy who had unfortunately
learned to swear was rebuked by his father. "Who
told you that I swore?" asked the bad little boy.
"Oh, a little bird told me,” said the father. The
boy stood and looked out of the window, scowling
at some sparrows which were scolding and chatter
ing. Then he had a happy thought. "I know who
told you.” he said; "it was one of those d d
sparrows.”
A TELL-TALE BUTTON.
A Mother's Retributive Act for the
Wronging of Her Daughter.
MURDERED WHILE ASLEEP
Two S'rang’e Scenes that a Stained
Brass Button Occasioned.
A Mysterious Crime Cleared Up.
Casimira Torres kept a small huckster.shop in a
narrow street in the city of Albuquerque, New
Mexico. In the rear of the shop was a kitchen, and
a stairway led to the rooms above. The woman
lived alone, and was reputed rich, though of a very
miserly disposition. She had resided there for five
years, and so reserved and unsocial had she been
that no one had ever been beyond the confines of
the little shop. Great, consequently, was the sur
prise of Casimira's neighbors when they discovered
that a young couple had come to reside with her
who called her aunt. These people were about
twenty-five years of age and appeared to be of the
better class. Soon after their arrival new furnitnre
was procured for the house, and the place speedily
assumed a neat and well-kept air.
One evening during the month of February, 1853,
Senora Torres was seated in her shop when a
stranger entered. He asked for a button to match
one he presented, and the woman turned aside and
handed down a drawer containing buttons.
•• Where is the button?" asked Senora Torres.
“It is here," the man replied, and laid a large
metal button on the counter, such as is worn by
coachmen, and on it was a crest. All tho metal ex
cept a small part of the edge, was stained and had
iost its polish.
As the woman gazed at the button she turned
deathly pale and clutched at the counter, gasping
for breath.
“ You are ill/* the man said; “ let me get you a
drink of water."
“Never mind,” the woman answered. “I am
subject to spasms, and this will soon wear off. I
can’t match that button."
“I don’t expect you to match it except in size,”
the man said.
“I tell you I can’t match it/’ the woman answer
ed, almost angrily,
THE MAN LOOKED SURPRISED
and passed out into the street. After he had gone
a short distance he remembered that he had leit the
button on the counter, and returned for it. When
he entered the shop no one was there. There was
a light in the rear room, and he heard voices with
in. He knocked once or twice on the counter, but
there was no respouse. Then he went toward the
glass door and looked into the rear room.
The woman whom he had before seen and a
younger woman and a man were standing by a side
table, passing the button irom hand to hand, and
closely examining it, conversing the while in whis
pers. All of them had a harried, frightened lo ok.
lhe stranger was puzzled, and after a few mo
ment's hesitation he knocked at the door. There
was a shuffling of feet and the closing of a door,
and the next monAnt the woman came from the
room into the shop.
“I leit the button here," the stranger said.
“ Did you ?” queried the woman. as she pretend
ed to look around for it. “O, here it is," she at
length said, and handed it to him. He thanked her
and left the place.
It was some weeks later that this man—Eulogio
Sanchez by name—one of a firm of iron founders,
went to the city of Taos to superintend the putting
up of iron railsand fences around the park of Senor
Ortiz, a wealthy resident of that city. Senor San
chez, on reaching his destination was not a little
surprised to find that on the livery of Senor Ortiz’s
servants was a button precisely similar to that
which opened this story.
Senor Sanchez spoke of the circumstance, and
said that one of his children picked up the button
in the garden, but how it came there he could not
say. The boy tied a string to the button and used
it for his toy, and a younger son cried to have it.
The father took the button and tried to get one the
same size, and that’s how he came to call on Senoia
Casimira Torres. Senor Ortiz expressed his sur
prise at the button finding its way so far away, and
the conversation grew until Senor Sanchez referred
to the fact that the button was stained.
“It’s fancy,” he said—“a mere fancy; but I used
to think the stain looked like blood.”
For the second time Senor Sanchez witnessed a
strange scene produced by the button, the first time
by the sight of it, and the second time by a descrip
tion of it.
Senor Ortiz, at the mention of the stain and its
resemblance to blood, turned pale as death, and ut.
tered an exclamation of agony.
“ Great God I*’ he said, “ a stain of blood !”
“No, Senor,” replied Senor Sanchez, “it was only
my foolish fancy, and I regret that I made such a
senseless remark.
“ Alas ! you don’t know what a dreadful circum
stance your remark has called to mind,” Senor Ortiz
said, and then he related the following
STARTLING NARRATIVE.
“On New Year’s Eve, 1841, my youngest son,
Francisco Ortiz, was murdered in his bed. Owing
to my frequent absences in the States on important
business matters, the boy had been suffered to run
wild, and he got entangled with a girl of the town.
Her friends had driven him to promise to marry
her, and he was just about to do so when I reached
home. I easily induced him to refrain, and very
soon managed by kind treatment to get him under
control. The friends of the girl did all in their pow
er to decoy him from home and my influence, but
they failed. He had got over his infatuation for the
girl, and was glad to be freed from the enthrall
ment.
“ When the girl gave birth to a child, I caused all
to be done that was just, and after the death
of the child, placed the girl in a good situa
tion. Her mother I took into my employ as a head
domestic, and she seemed satisfied. For five years
things continued thus. Francisco would be of age
on New Year s day, 1841, and I had r-solved to
make him a handsome present. He had been in
duced to retire early, on the eve of his birthday,
and bis elder brother and I were in the library tying
up $15,000, in gold and notes, and planning how
we should deposit it in the boy’s room, where he
would find it the first thing when he awoke cn his
birthday. While we were doing this, the mother of
the girl, already spoken of, was in the dining-room
adjoining, arranging the apartment. We spoke of
our in ention. and she, no doubt, overheard us.
There was an entrance to Francisco’s sleeping
apartment, by a dressing-room door, which opened
on the corridor. When wo had ascertained that
Francisco was probably asleep, we entered the
drawing-room, and placed
“ THE BAG, CONTAINING THE $15,000,
“on the table, by the bedside, with an open note,
stating that it was a birthday gift from me.and his
elder brother. Then we quitted the apartment, and
locked the door of the dressing-room behind us. I
pamd Qtjl flwt, ftnd my sou pressed on me, and
said, half laughingly:
“ • If I believed in ghosts, I should say that I saw
one in the shadow of the dressing-room this mo*
ment.’
•• * Oh, nonsense,’ I sai4; * it must be fancy/
“ Nevertheless. I opened the door and looked in.
Nothing was visible. I had half a mind to pat>s
round the apartments and satisfy myself that no
one was t-here. Would to God that I had done so !
We quitted the spot, andreiired. Once in the night
I was awakened by what seemed the clanging of a
door; but after that all was still, and I fell asleep.
“ Next morning all assembled at breakfast except
Francisco. We waited, but he did not come. I
suggested that his brother should go and see what
delayed him.
“ •He is counting his treasure/ said his mother,
but I confess I began to feel strangely nervous.
My eldest son had gone up stairs and I walked out
into the hall. Presently I heard a cry—a shriek—
and the sound of rushing footsteps. My eldest boy
appeared at the head of the stairs with horror in
every feature.
•• •O. father I’ he gasped, ‘Francisco is dead—
‘MURDERED!’
“I heard no more. It was too true. There he
lay on his bed with a treacherous stab-wound in
the heart. The bag of money was gone and so was
the mother of the girl whom the foolish boy had
seduced. The blood had spouted from the wound
and covered the table on which the money had
been lying. And now you W wonder what a but
ton had t 6 do With this terrible crime.
“I will tell you. When we had put the money in
the bag, I proposed to seal it, and I put on the wax,
My ring, however, made foo small and light an
impression, and my son suggested one of our livery
buttons, on which was a large crest. He got a but
ton, and then in a playful humor, said:
** ‘Father, let us stick the button on the wax and
leave it there/
“He did so, and when you spoke of a button
similar to ours, bearing a stain of blood, I could
not but remember the dreadful night and the fact
that more than likely my youngest child’s blood
had stained the button which we placed on the
wax."
“Was the murderer arrested?” inquired Senor
Sanchez.
“Never,” was the reply. “No one had any doubt
that it was the mother of the girl who infatuated my
boy that perpetrated the awful crime, and stole the
money but all search for her was unavailing.”
When Senor Sanchez returned to Albuquerque, he
took into bis confidence a shrewd lawyer. Senor
Sanchez had erected a new building on the site for
merly occupied by a house owned by a woman
named Maestas. Senora Maestas was after some
difficulty found, and on visiting Senora Torres
shop, she identified her as a woman who lived in
her bouse for about a month. The theory of the
lawyer and Senor Sanchez was that Senora Torres
was the murderer of Francisco Ortiz, and that the
couple with her were her daughter and her
daughter’s husband
OFFICE, NO. 11 BWORT ST.
All the facts were now communicated to Senor
Ortiz, who paid a visit to Albuquerque, but the
birds had flown. Two detectives were employed,
but after mouths of searching, gave the case up as
fruitless.
One day Senor Sanchez was called on business to
Joyita, a city some miles from Albuquerque, but
while passing through it a violent rain storm came
on, and he drew up his carriage under a shady tree.
Immediately afterward a phaeton was driven by, a
man and woman in front, and a woman on the back
seat. The latter, Senor Sanchez easily identified as
the missing Senora Casimira Torres. He was not
observed, and in spite of the storm be
DETERMINED TO PURSUE THE PHAETON.
At the end of the village it turned up a lane, and
when Senor Sanchez reached the place he saw the
phaeton before the gate of a cottage about a hun
dred yards beyond the junction. Driving a little
further, he stopped at a roadside inn, and ascer
tained that the persons whom he had seen in the
phaeton lived in the cottage.
Next day Senora Torres and her companions,
Marie and Antonio Rociada. were arrested. Senora
Torres was identified beyond question as Ines Ra
mon, the murderer of Francisco Ortiz, and the
younger woman as her daughter. The elder woman
was tried tor the crime and convicted. Before taken
to prison for life she confessed all.
For years after her admission into the family of
Senor Ortiz she had contemplated the killing of
Francisco as a retributive act for the seduction of
her daughter. The liberality of Senor Ortiz to the
girl, and bis procuring for her a position greatly
superior to any she could otherwise have hoped
lor, induced the mother to forbear, in the hope that
perhaps something might bring Francisco and the
girl together again, and marriage might yet result.
When, on the fatal night, she overheard the conver
sation or the father and the eldest son, and learned
that a large sum was to be deposited in Francisco’s
bedroom, as a birthday gift, she resolved to get
possession of the money at all risks, and thus
avenge her wrongs.
Stationing herself in a recess of the corridor, she
saw Senor Ortiz and his son enter the dressing-room
of Francisco’s apartments. They passed out of
sight and left the door ajar. This seemed the very
opportunity that she desired. She swiftlv glided
into the room, and had barely time to reach the
shade when father and son returned from the inner
room. As she saw them she crouched to one side,
and then it was doubtless that young Ortiz caught
an indistinct glimpse of her form, causing the re
mark that if he believed in ghosts he should feel
disposed to say that be had s-en one. Instantly,
on the door being locked by Senor Ortiz, she
moved into the chamber.
A rushlight was burning on a low stool by the
fire, and she could see all that was in the room. At
the moment that Senor Ortiz again unlocked the
door and glanced into the dressing-room, the wo
man had placed her hand on the bag of money.
The sound of the lock almost paralyzed her. She
replaced the money and glided behind the curtain
of the bed. Listening intently, she again heard the
door closed and locked. As she came forth from
among the folds of the heavy curtain, her foot
caught, and the curtain was drawn violently. The
rattling of the rings aroused Francisco, and he half
arose on his elbow. Fearful of discovery, the wo
man
DROVE THE KNIFE INTO THE YOUNG MAN’S
BREAST.
He half sprang out of bed, and the blood spouted
over the floor and the table and stained the bag and
the button.
Then the woman, feeling satisfied that the youth
was dead, took the bag of money and passed out,
Going to her room, she put on two dresses and two
shawls and quitted the building. She hadn’t gone
far, when she buried the gold, only taking enough
for her immediate wants.
She traveled all night, and at daybreak reached a
small town and walked through it. On the
other side she threw off a dress and shawl and
crammed them and her bonnet into a hole she dug.
Here she tied a handkerchief round her head and
retraced her steps through the town. By this
means she effectually threw her pursuers off the
track. She journeyed from place to place, until
finally she reached Albuquerque.
In the meantime, her daughter had married a
designer in metals, and by a strange coincidence
he was offered employment in a shop in Albu
querque, and had to pass through the very street
where Casimira Torres, alias Inez Ramon, had her
little shop. One evening he took his wife to see the
place where he had passed his days, and in the lit
tle huckster-shop she discovered her mother.
The murder was known, of course, to the daugh
ter and her husband, but not until now did the lat
ter know that the supposed murderer was his wife’s
mother. He was a man who had an eye to the
main chance, and the price of bis silence and sub
mission was a share of the money which the wo
man had stolen.
Senora Ramon went to prison, where she Boon
became a raving maniac, and as such died. Her
daughter was not proceeded against, and she and
her husband removed to South America.
jV Kliort Honeymoon.
GONE TO LIVE WITH A MORE AGREEABLE
AFFINITY.
Isaac Harris was charged with assaulting Mamie
Mackey, of No. 213 West Twenty-seventh street.
The defendant, a young man in the employ of the
Lovell Manufacturing Company as collector, is
separated irom his wife, Belle. The wife and Mamie
are very intimate. Mamie said the assault was
committed in the presence of Mrs. Harris. Both
women were young, stylishly dressed and very dig
nified.
Mamie’s first answer to the question if she knew
the defendant, Isaac Harris, was:
“Yes; be broke my nose and blacked both of my
eyes, on Sixth avenue."
“Did you do anything to him ?”
“ Not the first thing. I told Mrs. Harris, his wife,
that he wanted me to go into a house of assigna
tion with him. He was talking to her, and when
he seen me, his wife said, * Here she comes/ Then
be gave me a terrible blow between the eyes, on
the nose, and broke it. That’s all occurred.”
Belle Harris, the wife, said she witnessed the as
sault She was standing on Sixth avenue between
Fifteenth and Sixteenth streets, talking to her hus
band. He was asking her to go back and live with
him. She had told him what Mamie had said, and
just then Mamie came up, and she said, “There she
is.” He struck Mamie. She had known Mamie a
year.
Edward H. Clough said defendant had an excel
lent character. That day he asked Isaac to go up
and have dinner with him. On the way up Harris
met his wife at Seventeenth street, and he asked to
be excused a minute while he spoke to her. While
waiting, another woman (Mamie) came up, who he
thought was under the influence of liquor. She
passed down the street, and staggered against Har
rs, and called him a son of a . Harris simply
grabbed her by the wrist and shoved her back, and
she fell. This gathered a crowd, and Harris walked
rapidly up the street and passed him.
A number of witnesses testified to the excellent
character of Harris.
He then took the stand in his own behalf and
denied striking Mamie. Coming down the avenue
with Mr. Clough, he met his wife. He stopped a
moment to speak to her, when Mamie staggered
along and used foul, filthy language, and he told
her to go away. She put up her hand as if to strike,
and he took her by the wrist and shoved her, and
she fell.
“ You are not living with your wife ?” asked
counsel.
“No.”
“ How long have you been married ?”
“ Six months.”
“ Where does she live ?’’
“ I don’t know, with some man. I offered her $6
a week, but would not live with her. Mamie I
have seen about three times. It is not true that I
asked her to go to a house of assignation. It was
not probable, when traveling with ray wife.”
“You were willing to provide for your wife ?”
said counsel.
“Yes, sir; if she would leave living a life of
prostitution.”
Mamie was recalled and asked what her business
was. She told counsel that was none of his business.
She was not employed at anything.
“What do you do for a living?” asked counsel*
“ I am a kept woman.”
She said she wa’ sober at the time, and did not
knock up against Mr. Harris.
“Had you any words with him?’* asked Justice
Gorman.
“No; but I am afraid of him. He threatened to
throw vitrol over me.”
“He objected to Mrs. Harris keeping company
with you ?” said counsel.
“Yes.”
Harris was found guilty and fined $25.
Rival Street Musicians.
THEY QUARREL OVER THE PENNIES THROWN
THEM.
John Wilson plays the flute, Joseph Magglio the
band organ. Both are itinerant street musicians.
Wilson has one eye, one leg, two crutches and the
flute. The organ grinder is an able-bodied man.
The rival players met at Sixteenth street and
Tenth avenue. The fellow with the magic flute
drew in more pennies than the Italian with the
hurdy-gurdy.
Wilson got tired blowing, and Magglio of turning
the crank, and both sat down on a stoop to discuss
matters.
The Italian thought the money should be equally
divided; the man with the flute didn't agree to that
proposition. They bad words, and Wilson hit his
fellow-tramp a harder blow on the head than in
tended, and that brought about the arrest.
Wilson was sent to prison for ten days.
“ What’s the trouble now ?” asked a
nervous passenger, on a new Dakota road, as the
train came to a sudden halt. “ Oh, nothin much,”
said the brakeman, struggling to get away; “the
freight ahead of us got off the track and run into
the depot, knockin’ it clean out o’ time, and our
engineer can’t teii just where the town Bite is.
PRICE FIVE CENTS.
SUMMER SKETCHING.
BY FREDERICK LANGBRIDGE.
Dark cloudlets trail a ross the sky.
Like home-bound cran-s, in line extended.
The fires of sunset flare and die.
In pageant brief and splendid.
The rippling gold is darkening gray.
Save where white foam-breaks fleck the bay;
And sky and ocean far away
Are softly blended.
She haunts that salt-aired heathy seat;
She loves to sink her feet in grasses.
And hear the long waves roll and beat.
And watch the groat cloud masses.
And strive, with ardor over-bold.
Some lovely look to catch and hold;
Some violet shade, some gleam of gold.
That peeps and passes.
“ Ah me!” she sighs, “to make my own
Those mystic shades that evening etches >
To catch that wistful twilight tone
O’er all the dim sea-strotclies 1”
Nay, lovely dreamer, clear your look,
And haste to yonder leafy nook.
Where some one waits to take the book
And praise the sketches.
■HSE2!3aEiKXSSrJHSK33SEM®«gaZ3aa
Cale.
HER JOHNNIE.
BY VIOLET WHY IE.
CHAPTER XVII.
“ you HAVE PUT THE BOTE ABOUND THAT I’OOB
FEXJATW’S NECK TO-DAY.”
When Daisy hurried pint the inspector of
police, she rushed straight up stairs to her own
room, where she found Mary, the young and
sympathetic housemaid, awaiting her, with th.
all-important expression of countenance which
to a certain class of minds seems the proper
thing to assume in times of distress and
trouble.
“ There's been a gentleman here, miss,” she
announced, as soon as the door was safely
closed.
•‘A gentleman?”—thinking ot Jack instantly,
and raising her heavy, tear-dimmed eyes to the
girl’s face with something like her old eager
ness and fire.
“Yes, miss—a tall, youngish gentleman. He
asked for you; but, when he lound you wasn’t
in, he left this ’ere note for you, and I was to
give it into your own hands myself.”
“ How did you happen to see him?” Daisy
asked, taking the note.
" Well, miss, Cherry was out of the way, and
I had to go to the door,” Mary answered.
“ And did you tell him where I had gone ?'•
“ Yes’m. I told him, leastways, that you had
gone out with the colonel, and, as you’d gone in
one of the manor carriages, I supposed you
were at the manor.”
“ Yes. Well, what did he say, Mary ?”
“He said just like this,’m: ‘Ah, yes, of
course —poor, poor fellow!’ and than he sighed,
’m, just as if poor Mr. Danvers had been his
brother. I said, ‘Perhaps you knew the poor
gentleman, sir ?’ and he said, ‘No, Susan’—ha
called me Susan, ’m —• I’ve seen him, but I
never spoke to him in my life; but, all the
same, I’m very sorry he should have oome to
such a terrible end, and sincerely hope they
may catch the cowardly brute who did it,’ and
then he went away, ’m.”
“Ah 1 Well, Mary, that will do at present,”
said Daisy, in a tone of dismissal.
She breathed more freely when she found
herself alone, and seated herself at the open
window with the letter in her hand. She felt
as if she hardly dared to open it, lest she
should find contained therein the confirmation
ot her fears.
But no ! It was foolish, silly, childish. Why
should she believe anything so cruel of her
brave J ack, who would not willingly injure*
fly ? Were his words to Mary the words ot *
guilty man ? " Poor, poor fellow 1 I hope they
may catch the cowardly brute who did it.”
Were those the words of a murderer, spoken
about his victim within a few hours ot the per
petration of so horrible and so foul a crime ?
No; she would not believe it for a moment—she
would try to put the evil thought quite out of
her heart. She would insult Jack by entertain
ing so shameful a suspicion. Therefore she
tore open the cover of the note and road the
contents.
“My own darling,” Jack wrote—“ The first
news which met me when I came down to
breakfast this morning was that of the mnrder
ot poor Danvers. Heaven knows I owed him
no good will, my dearest, and yet I was never
so shocked and horrified in the whole course of
my life. To think, while 1 was sleeping quietly
in my bed, he was facing bis murderer, * de
fenseless and disabled man ! I do trust ths
dastardly brute may be brought to justice and
pay the full penalty ot his hideous crime. I in
tend to take this letter to your house myself,
dearest; it I should not see you, I shall be able
to leave it to explain what I think will be best
to do. I shall leave Brookhurst in the course
of the day, as the need ior hurrying on our
marriage is now no longer urgent. No one can
possibly regret the sad cause of it more than I
do, and, therefore, in common decency and out
of respect to that poor fellow, I shall not at
tempt again to see you for a few months, though
I shall write often. lam sure you will agree
with me, my dearest, that there is no need to
make our present engagement known. We can
meet casually, and allow matters to take the
usual course.
“ I know you must be terribly distressed by
all this. Try to be brave and bear it. Remem
ber you have always the old love, and are ever
in the thoughts of your own “ Jack.”
Oh, how the hurried and not very well ex
pressed letter soothed and comforted her ! It
was all right, and she had tortured herself with
horrid and ghastly fears all the morning tor
nothing. What a brave, manly letter it was i
How good and tender his pity for the dead man
—as pitiful as his exclamation of “ Poor, poor
fellow 1” which Mary had just repeated to her 1
How manly his wish that the murderer might
be brought to justice! How delicate neves
even to hint that this sad event had set her free
from a marriage which was hateful to her I
And then, oh, with what a sharp sob she, as it
were, took back her thoughts, and changed the
harsh term to a softer phrase—a marriage
which was not the marriage of her heart i
For, now that he was dead and gone, cut
down by the hand of an unknown foe in the
very flower of his age, Daisy forgot in an in
stant all that had displeased her in his charac
ter and manner, and remembered only how
good and beloved he had been, how brilliantly
clever in his own line, how invariably kind to
and thoughtful for all those dependent upon
him, and how full of passionate and devoted
love for her. How he had loved her 1 She lay
back in her chair and thought with shame and
regret how she had flouted and scorned him,
and;how he had loved her unchangingly through
all and in spite of all.
But time was passing so swiftly that Daisy
had but little to spend in reflection or regrets;
the inquest on the body of the murdered squire
was fixed for four o’clock in the afternoon, and
very soon Mary camo back with a message from
the colonel to say that he begged she would go
down and try to eat something before it wa»
time to start for the manor.