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lv il /c 'J n ! I jr i T V IWI i WMHMtiBHKn PUBLISHED BY A. J. WILLIAMSON’B SONS. vo£7"xlii.’--n 6. "36" 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 NEV? 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 tho city anti 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, Poet Office Box No. 17’7’S« PLAYS aBTIAYERS. MURTHA’S C. JULIUS CJESAR. Frank’s Now Scheme-The Resurrection of Veterans—Lamp Oil and Art—The Matter of Co tames-Gathered at the ♦‘Shades’’—A Retrospect—The The atric Pandemonium, Etc. BY JOHN CARBOY. Frank Murtha is about to tackle a new scheme. Not precisely new, so far as he is concerned, but it certainly will be a novelty to tho present genera tion of playgoers, and a sort of freshener for the aged relics who have come down to us, tans capil ary substance upon the summit of their craniums, tans teeth, and sans everything except an undying faith in the old school actors—of the oil lamp and nasteboard helmet age. Frank’s scheme is to be completed slowly, but surely, during tho dog days, and it will be inflicted upon the parties hereinbefore mentioned—for fur ther particulars see future announcements—as tho inaugural performance of tho coming regular sea son at tho Windsor Theatre. I promised Frank not to “give the snap away ”— but as I made the promise with a mental reserva tion— I’ll give the dear old senile public and tho rest of mankind a tip as to its nature. And thus it is—or rather thus it will be, when it is cooked and served up at his first night feast. Ho proposes to put the tragedy of “Julius Cossar” on his stage, and played in the same old-fashioned way, in dress, scenic setting and method of acting which was the rule in the days when grandfather’s clock and “John Anderson, my Jo John,” were young. To do this he is already LOOKING UP ALL THE VETERANS obtainable. Among those he expects to number in the company, are E. S. Connor, J. A. J. Neafie, James E. Murdoch, W. Hamilton, Dave Hanchett, J. B. Roberts, Mrs. Rachel Cantor, Mrs. Barry, Mrs. John Drew and—the youngest of them all in vitality — Mrs. W. G. Jones. He intends to trot them all ont in this centennial snap—and great Romulus, won't it be a lively cast ? Just gaze at it: Cains J. Casar Mr. Dave Hanchett. Brutus Mr. James E. Murdoch. Cassius Mr. E. 8. Connor. Maro Antony Mr. J. A. J. Neafie. Caeca Mr. J. B. Roberts. Trebonius .Mr. W. Hamilton. Calphurnia Mrs. Rachel Cantor. Portia Mrs. Thos. Barry. Preceding the tragedy the evening’s entertain ment will commence with “ The French Spy ” as ■he was spoke forty odd years ago at the Chatham. Miss Fanny Herring will impersonate the youthful Mathilde; Mr. J. B. Roberts, the Colonel de Courcy; J. A. J. Neafie will do tho Mohammed; J. E. Mur doch will revive the memory of other days as Ser geant Duborg, and Hanchott will dig up a few apecimens of the low comedy of the Pliocene perio I as Tony Bavard. After this ten minutes for refreshments in the gallery bar. To be followed by a free lunch of peanuts, en livened by whistles and catcalls, all of ye olden tyme. Then a comic song by Mr. J. B. Roberts. A fancy dance—“Cracovienne”—Mr*. W. J. Flor ence. Following “Julius Cossar,” the entire company will appear iu street costume and sing “Hail Col umbia.” If Mr. Murtha can secure him, Mr. Harry Edwards will repeat the affecting poem of “The Bug Hunt er's Dream.” Mr. John Gilbert will give the death scene of Un cle Tom precisely as he played it thirty-six years ago, under Jimmy Quinlaud’* management, at tho old Chestnut Street Theatre, Philadelphia, with au apotheosis of little Eva, being fanned by th* wings of th* angels. Eva, Fanny Herring, ithe angels, Mrs. Rachel Cantor and Mr*. J. R. Vincent (of the Boston Museum). After which, tho “Dumb Girl of Genoa”—Despe rado by Mr. J. E. Murdoch; Strapado, Mr. E. S. Connor. During the play the celebrated combat will bo given, with all the trimmings. The Dumb Girl by a young lady of this city—aged sixty—her first appearance on any stage. “Eugene Aram,” a recitation, by Mr. Dan Ric*. The whole to conclude with “La Tour de Neel*” —Marguerite of Burgundy, Mrs. W. G. Jones; Cap tain Buridan, Mr. J. A. J. Neafie; Gaultisr d* Aul ney, Mr. Hanchott; Orsini, Mr. J. 13. Robert*. THE OLD FASHIONED OIL LAMPS for the foot, wing and border lights will lie used on the stage instead of gas—in fact, when the curtain rises and a* the performance progress**, the audi tors can readily imagine themselves to be sitting in tho old Cha’ham Theatre of half a century ago. The orchestra chairs will ba removed, and for th* week tho old-time pit, with its rows of board bench es, will take their place. It is expected that the performance will close at the usual Old Bowery time, say at half-past one o’clock. When they leave the theatre the gentlemen of the company will hie them to—alas, not to Semper par atut Windust’s—for that exist* no more—but to the only one,except the “Star,” in Lispenard street, of the ancient.of-days-profesß'onal resorts now l*ft— “The Shades,” in Thamos street—that little nar row thoroughfare which has grown moldy under the shadows of Trinity Church. And there they will sip at their old-time tobys of 'alf and 'alf, and make believe the world hasn't moved a peg for the last hundred years. They will fish up the worn old anecdotal chest nuts about how Jack Scott was once a super; how Hamblin was knocked over by a vengeful member of his company with a property ham; how Kirby died for glory—and hew much better things were when the pit and gallery bossed plays and players. In fact the entire theatre, and ruled the dramatic roost—at a shilling a head. And the women of the company will, each one of them, trudge home and, forgetful of the fact that actresses of nowadays are not of their habit—will sit up a while and with thimble, thread and needle, put in an hour’s work upon the new Juliet dress she is making for herself. You see THE LEADING ACTRESS Was her own Worth as well as her own lady’s maid, dresser and housekeeper. And they weren’t worried if they had to wear their Juliet dresses on the next night in Lucrezia Borgia. Wardrobe is something costly now to What it was then. Why, Fanny Ellsler not infrequently wore cotton fleshings, and I remember seeing Mrs. Hamblin play lon in a tunic and tights from which one of our flupes of the present day would turn away in disgust at their cheapness. I have seen a etar of the old days—and he was a regular stilLstalker—play Richard 111., Sir Giles 4wre*ch acd Peacsn* in the same shape suit; trunks, slashed jacket, tights, cap, russett boots, belt and sword—and this, too, in the presence of what were regarded a* critical audiences. Th* King in “ Hamlet,” fished hts royal rob** ou t of the stock wardrobe of the theatre, and atrutted hi* fretful hour with a oold-blooded dignity which forbid the suggestion that the *am* dress, the pre vious night, had been worn by hi* pal, th* come dian, to lend added grace to th* Lord Mayor of Lon don, in “Richard III.” One dress, then, went on for many parts—and in the play not infrequently one man doubled himself into three or four characters of the cast; the fellow who blew the flourishes at th* wings, dropped his trumpet and rushed on at his cue a* Oatesby and th* prompter in a velvet “ Stranger" dress, left hi* prompt-book on the shelf at the entrance to take care of itself while he went through as best he could the lachrymos* and funereal lines of King Henry—thanking the lord when the “ Die, prophet, iu the midst of thy speech,” of the howling Gloster, brought him to an end. I should like to have had Frank Murtha about IN THOSE DAYS, with a stock company on his hands, and the stage carpenter, scene- shilters, the property - man, prompter, wardrobe-keeper and all the other officials making the air blue and himself delirious with their profanity—while they were changing the flats and wings—and setting the stage for the half dozen scenes of the next act. The prompter bawl ing at the call-boy; the call-boy ru hing for the green-room calling “everybody for the act;” the property-man damning the property.boy; the scene-shifter* swearing at the supers for getting, in their way, and the super* invariably taking pains never to get out of the way of any nor everybody; the stage manager “going for” the prompter—for not hurrying things up—why a month of all this would fit poor Frank for a straight-jacket and a padded cell. And in the entrances, at night, the air filled with dust falling from the shaken-out old sky and cham ber borders and drops, the smoke and greasy odors of the oil-lamp wing lights; the occasional —not to say frequent—mosaic of tobacco juice upon the floor in th* entrances; the stage rough and uneven with the numberless traps and cuttings made in it; the almost total lack of ventilation on the stage, and the sweep of the foul air to the stage from the audi torium when the curtain went up—fancy yourself face to face with these palmy day luxuries; fancy yourself the central figure of this theatric pande monium—and what would you do, Frank—eh ? You’d step down and out, old fellow, and retire from the business. Imagine the serene and meditative Mallory and the thoughtful Dan Frohman as tho managers of one of these old-time dramatic menageries. Well, Murtha, go on with your resurreotionary scheme; gather into your fold the veterans of 1812— more than tenderly—brace them up with some mild stimulant—ginger, for instance—go on with your rehearsals—give us the lard oil odors once again— decorate the front of your handsome theatre with an alternation of century plants and Egyptian mummies; In fact, come on with your dusty Gaius J. Caesar and your shrivelled Et. Tu. Brute—come on with your new scheme based on old material— and “ Don’t boa clam.” A BITTER. XXFE. WOULD RATHER DROWN HIM SELF THAN GO BACK TO HIS WIFE. Frank Lynch, a broker’s clerk, was sued in the Supreme Court, Special Term, for a limited divorce, by his wlto. That means that they shall forever be separate, neither shall marry, and he shall support his wife, so long as she lives, according to his means. They are both young, hale, hearty and good-look ing. There i* no charge of impropriety on either side, except it be incompatibility of temper. Frequently since their separation she has tried by letter, and personal persuasion, to have him coma back and make a homo lor her. He says no, he would rather go to th* bulkhead of a pierand jump off and drown himself. The woman is good-looking, ladylike in dress, ap pearance and language. And they have a little gir that ought to bind them, but with every induce ment to come together, and no apparent cause to separate, she now seeks what is called a limited di vorce, and the possession of the child. The only apparent cause for thia disagreement was, that coming home from his father’* one night he found the door of the boarding house locked. He rang the bell; the door was not swung open quick enough, and he turned on his heel and re turned to his father’s house, and there he has re mained since. A year and a half after she had him arrested for abandonment, and the polio* justice ordered him to pay $2 a week. He was again brought into the police court, and the sum was increased to $4 a week. Then afterward a Supreme Court Justice in creased alimony to $6 a week and SSO for counsel fee. Mr. Treadwell appeared for the woman. Mr. Holmes for the man. Mrs. Lynch, on being sworn, said she was the plaintiff in this action. She resided with Mrs. Ber dell, No. 306 East Eighteenth «treet. Mr. Lynch was her busband. She was married to him March 12th, 1880, and lived with him about a year. The morning that he deserted her, he took breakfast as usual, picked up his hat, bid good morning to all and shortly after, she received a letter from him, saying that he had deserted bar and would never live with her again. “Was there any conversation between you that morning?” asked Mr. Treadwell. “No; we parted in the most agreeable manner.” “ Did you give him any bills for payment ?’’ “A few mornings previous.” Further on. she said she had made every effort to get her husband to return by writing affectionate letters to him and going to his office to plead with him. To all her overtures he has turned a deaf ear. She did not seek support in a police court until after a year’s abandonment, and then he was or dered to pay her two dollars a week. She had no relatives to whom she could look for support, and was deeply indebted to Mrs. Berdell and to physi cians who had been called on to doctor the child. She did everything she could to induce him to re turn, by letter and by personal appeal, but he has constantly been deaf to all she could say or write. Cross-examined by Mr. Holmes, she admitted that she was plaintiff in an action for absolute divorce, before Judge Donohue, which she didn't get. The defendant, Mr. Lynch, took the stand, and said he lived with his father at No. 206 West 127th street. He had been separated from his wife six years; was a broker’s clerk, and had $750 a year. Since the separation he paid bis wife at first $2 a week, then $4, now, recently, $6 a week. Ho was willing to take the child, support and educate it. Cross-examined by Mr. Treadwell, he admitted being twiee in the police court at Harlem, on tho charge of abandonment. He was asked what bis unpleasantness was with his wife. He replied that they were married in an un healthy way. Counsel didn't consider that a proper answer, and the Court told him to answer in his own way. He said when they wera married his father told him to try and live with her. He tried to live with her. But he understood he was to pay no board. He had to pay. Bills came in. Other bills came in. finally, he found the door locked one night, and be cleared out and went back to his father. Ho thought that was the best thing he could do. When they married he had only $lO a week. “ Do you desire to return to your wife and sup port her ?” asked Mr. Tread weli. “ No. I don't desire to return,” was the reply. “ Didn’t you say, rather than live with her you would leave the country?” “ No.” •• When I wrote to you, what did you say ?” “ I said I would jump off the dock and drown myself rather than live with her.” •• I asked you the reason.” “ Yes, sir; I told you the whole story from the beginning.” ihe wile was recalled, and denied that she ever locked the door on her husband." She never con ducted herself otherwise than as a dutiful wife. After he left her, she told him it was very humili ating to be living ou a stranger, and asked him to give her a home. She wrote many letters to bring about a reconciliation before bringing her case in court. Mrs. Berdell recalled, said she never said if he married she would not charge him for board. The door was never locked on him when he went to see his father. Mr. Treadwell remarked that if every gentleman going home late at night, on finding the door locked, should leave their wives, ho wanted to know how many suits :or divorce, or case* lor abandonment would there be in the courts. Decision w»s reserved by J Donohue. ww gwwg ww»< NEWYORK. SUNDAY. JUNE 19, 1887. JOE, THEJTGiTIVE. A Tragical Romance of Prince William County, Va. ROBBED OF WIFE AND CHILD. Cutting the Nonsense Out of a “Sassy Nigger.” Lurking in the Swamp for Vengeance and Finding It. WHAT BEFELL THE SLAVE TRADER. A Startling Alfbi—Joe’s Card. Twenty years ago, the people of Prince William county, Virginia, were not a little exercised in their minds over the series of events precipitated upon them by a black man named Joe Harney, Joe had been, up to a certain point, the submissive, patient, faithful slave of Landon Rangely, a dissolute, drunken, gambling slave-owner, who claimed to be, and doubtless was. an Englishman by birth, but who had lived a few miles from Occoquan, from early manhood until ha was past middle-age, when the circumstances eventuated that transformed bis man, Joo, from a valuable chattel to a publie ter ror. Rangely had, at one time, about seventy slaves, of both sexes, old and young, but his habits of life were not such as to conduce to accumulation of wealth, or even retention of a competence, and gradually that number was reduced until he had only twenty-five left. Whenever he wanted to attend a “chicken dispute,” go to a horse-race, or have a spree, and found himself, as he thought, in sufficiently provided with money, he would '‘*ell a nigger,” making his selections for such sacrifices accordant to his necessities. Sometimes a half grown likely boy or girl would realize enough to meet his requirements; again, an able-bodied field hand would be barely sufficient, and occasionally he had to go so far as to sell one of his handsomest wenches, which he always disliked, simply because he “WANTED TO KEEP HIS BREEDERS.” One season, when Mr. Rangely had made up his mind to go to the carnival at New Orleans, for an exceptionally magnificent spree, he was compelled to make an unusually heavy draft upon his dimin ished stock of chattels. After looking them over well, he came to the conclusion that he could best spare Sue—Joe's wife—and her little boy, five years old, and two common field hands, and for a lump sum of $2,800 they were transferred to the owner ship of a slave-dealer named Lindsley. who was picking up a choice lot of slaves to be taken down to the far South for sale. Poor Joe, though only a negro, and a very black one. had tne audacity to possess the feelings of a man. He actually dared to love his wife, and tho thought of her and his little boy being torn from him and sold down South, where he should see them no more, made him desperate with grief. He knelt before bis inhuman master, and, with tears in his eyes, prayed that his little family might be spared to him or that he might be sold with them to take their chances of clinging together when they were sold again. Rangely simply laughed at him, and said: “ No, Joe. You are too valuable a nigger for me. I’d rather sell any other two on the farm. You are as good as an overseer, beside being the best hand I have. You can take any of the wenches you like and start another family.” •• For you to sell?” interpolated Joe bitterly. “ Why of course, if I see fit to do so, you black rascal.” “THAT NIGGER’S GETTIN' SASSY,” interposed the slave dealer Lindsley, who was listening to the conversation, “ and if he was mine I’d cut the nonsense out'n him with a black-snake whip.” “ That wouldn’t be % bad idea,” assented Rangely, who promptly had Joe triced up and with a whip, lashed his bare back until it was covered with blood. The succeeding night, Joe took to the swamp. His master was furious. Joe’s running away, just when he was wanted most to take charge of the farm work while his master was off on his Carnival spree, was a very great annoyance. If he could have been caught he would have received such a whipping as would have made the former one seem but a tickling, by comparison. But he was not caught. Andy Sanford, a neighbor and boon companion of Rangely’s, had a couple of bloodhounds upon which he bragged a great deal as “ great for chas ing niggers,” and they were put upon Joe s track, their owner entering into the spirit of the hunt as a labor of love. They never chased another fugitive. Both dogs were found in the swamp, pierced through and through by arrows and stone dead. Upon each arrow transfixing a dog was stuck a bit of bark with the letters rudely cut upon it, “ Jo.” That was JOE’S CARD, a personal reminder, with which the people in that part of the country wer* destined to become quite ia miliar. Beyond where the dogs laid was a deep, spongy morass, where one conversant with its intricacies might, without much difficulty, travel, by spring ing from one clump of vegetation to another, or by swinging from overhanging limbs between support ing spots; but the incautious intruder, unskilled in such treacherous travel, would bo very apt. at any moment, to plunge neck deep, or even beyond his depth, in a quagmire. So, what with the dan gers of th* swamp and the unknown possibil.ties of Joe’s skill with bow and arrow, it was not deemed healthy to go hunting for the fugitive any further, and Joe was left to his own devices as a free man, embittered by a sense of terriblo wrong, and thirsting for vengeance; Rangely went away to New Orleans, and was gone a month. During that time Joe caused himself to be heard from again. Andy Sanford s barn was discovered to be on fire at three or four different points, one night, and the flames had such a good start that all effort* to check them were unavailing, and the entire struc ture was burned to the ground, along with its val uable contents. There was no question about the cause of the conflagration, for ten paces in front of the burning building a tall stick was thrust iu the ground, bearing in it* cleft top a bit of bark, with the letters “Jo ” carved in it. While Sanford and hi* hastily summoned neigh bors were fighting the fire, ANOTHER BLAZE REDDENED THE SKY. Rangely’s barn was also burning and like San ford’s was entirely destroyed. There too, Jo* had left one of his bark cards. The excitement in the community grew very great, for in the heat of the first scare caused by the black man’s vengeful proceedings it was an open question whether he was or was not declaring himself an enemy to all society and communication with him. To have his status as a belligerent fixed, was simply impossible. Rangely and Sanford deliberately set out to hunt Joe down and kill him as soon as the former got back from his Crescent City “jamboree.” They rode into tho swamp as far as possible, then dis mounted. tied their horses in a thicket where they deemed them perfectly concealed, and went on into the tricky morass on foot, moving cautiously and carrying their guns in their hands. They struggled through the mud until they were exhausted and their flasks were empty, without seeing any sign ot Joe, but when they got back to where they had left their horses, they had convincing proof that ho was still alive and not very far off. Tho valuable saddle-horses laid upon the ground, with their throats cut, and so recently had they been killed that their bodies were still warm and the blood in the ghastly gashes that had let out their lives was hardly coajulated. Not a foot of tho long and wearisome seven miles that stretched be tween them and home did they cease their fero cious cursing of Joo and their savage schemes for TORTURING JOE if they ever got hold of him. They would skin him alive, roast him, mash all his bones, etc., etc., only, as they realized with painful force, before doing any of those thing* to him it would be necessary to catch him, and that seemed no easy thing to do. Rangely offered, by handbills at the crossroads and taverns, a reward of SSOO for the head of his late slave, dead or alive. Nothing came of it, how ever, except that one morning he was scared almost into apoplexy by the sight of one of those hand bills, with certain specific improvements evidently made by Joe himself, pasted upon his own door. In the altered handbill the names of master and man were transposed, and the amount of th* reward was reduced from SSOO to $5. The transposition had been made by the simple process of cutting out the two names and changing their location upon the bill. That was tho last of Joe’s demonstrations for some time, however. He was not hunted out, for Rangely was too badly frightened to risk finding him alone, and nobody would join him except San ford, upon whose co-operation he did not set a very high value. The fact wan, that a re-action of feeling had set in favoring Joe. People remembered what an honest, faithful, industrious fellow h* had been, and it was not possible lor anybody to draw comparisons be tween him and his former master that were not to the disadvantage of the latter. Then, too, his great provocat.on was borne in mind. The BETTER CLASS OF VIRGINIANS never sold their slaves when doing so could possibly be prevented, and when forced by necessity to part anil with any of them, endeavored, as far as possible to spare the closer family tie*. Consequently, there was no little reprobation, among Rangely's neigh bors, expressed concerning his ruthless sale of Joe'* wife and child. Furthermore, it had been pretty well understood by this time that Joe was waging war against none except those to whom he justly owed a grude. “What business,’ people asked, “had Sailford to meddle in the affair and to hunt him with dogs?” So Joe was not driven away, but whether he chose to go off somewhere on his own motion, or not, nobody knew. Anyway, he was not seen, or directly beard from in that vicinity, by white per sons at least, for twelve or fourteen months. There were rumors that he was still lurking in the neigh borhood and living on cat.fish mainly; but it was also averred that he had gone away down to the great Dismal Swamp, whore many fugitives lurked; and which story was true, probably none knew but Joe. But there was no uncertainty about his being around again when th* time came for him to give evidence that bis old hatred was undiminished, and his thirst tor vengeance uuslaked. Rangely had kept on in his old ways, carousing, drinking, gambling, and occasionally selling a slave, and eventually got himself in such financial difficulties that another “ bunch” sale of four or five became necessary. So he wrote to the slave dealer, Lindsley, to visit him for a trade. Whether the address upon that letter was read by the slave who carried it to the postoffice or not is not known. It is unquestionable that many of the slaves possessed A KNOWLEDGE OF READING AND WRITING that was not suspected by their masters, and it may even be that Kangley’s letter was opened and read before it reached its destination, and so the date of Lindsley’s expected arrival was known. Perhaps, too, the anticipation of bis coming was only the outcom* of that strange intuitive sense of. Which the colored people gave so many proofs. At all-events he was looked for by a gaunt, tall, black man, attired iu rags, who, grasping a long squirrel rifle, laid hidden in the bushes near the road leading through the forest to Bangley’s. The black man was Joe. A few yards beyond where he was ensconsed a small tree had been felled across the road, aud, lying against a standing tree, formed a barrier. Lindsley, the slave buyer, came riding along the road until he arrived at the barrier, then halted his nag, and, sitting still, relieved bis mind by sonor ously damning the small tree and th* man who cut it there. Before he had said all that seemed to him appropriate to the occasion, the sharp “crack” of the long squirrel rifle sounded through the wood, and with a scream Lindsley tumbled from ibis horse and laid in the road howling with agony, While his horse galloped away. “Are you hurt, sir?” asked a calm, quiet voice near him. “ Hurt I Oh, my God !” exclaimed the ‘trade? In human beings, "I am blind ! That infernal bullet has cut open both my eye-balls!” “Yes; that is what I intended to do.” “You intended to?” shouted Lindsley. “Who are you ?” and terror seemed to choke him. “I’m only “NIGGER JOE, whoso wife and child you bought and carried off down South—Nigger Joe. who was brutally whip ped at your suggestion when ho pleaded that all he had in this world to love might not be torn from him. Yos, I'm Nigger Joe, and I’ve been waiting now nigh onto three years for this chance. I had no notion of killing you—l just meant to do what 1 have done —I’ve blinded you for life, curse you ! You’re spoiled as a nigger buyer, any way.” “But not as a nigger killer I” yelled Lindsley, snatching a pistol from his belt, and firing two or three shots rapidly in the direction of Joe’s voice. He was not quick enough, however,to hit the black mau, who dropped to the ground and remained mo tionless until the firing ceased. Then, as Lindsley, after listening a moment, dropped the weapon and poured forth a torrent of curses, consigning to perdi tion the soul of the poor wretch he imagined he had killed, Joe leaped lightly up, and at a bouhd secured the pistol, uttering a savage chuckle as he did so. “ You black devii 1” exclaimed the slave dealer, “ didn't I hit you ?’’ “Not once. Rut I’ll have to take the will for the deed, aud treat you accordingly.” As he spoke, he seized;the slave trader’s right hand with a power. ul grip, planted his loot upon the fellow’s shoulder, and with a twist dislocated bis right arm, both at the elbow and the shoulder. Then, regardless of the wretch's howls and prayers for mercy, he treated the left arm in like manner. So Lindsley was left, blind, crippled, bathed in blood and suffering intensely; alive and |ittle more. So he was found, and in that HORRIBLE PLIGHT he was carried to the nearest house, which hap pened to be Rangely’s. If Rangely was scared be fore, as he certainly had been, his state of mind now may better be imagined than described. This sudden and utterly unexpected revelation of Joo’s fiendishly vengeful ferocity and vindictiveness hor rified him beyond measure. ' Sanford also took alarm, and both of Joe’s former hunters made hasty preparations for fleeing from the country. They realized something of the feeling of tho Frenchman, who said: “Ven ze Frenchman hunt ze tigaire, ze sport is grand—magnifique; but ven ze tigaire hunt ze Frenchman, zen zero is ze devil to pay.” Sanlord succeeded in getting safely away to Wash ington, thence to Baltimore, and deemed himself— as he was—safe. But Rangely, as usual, had to wait to “sell a nigger or two” before he could flee, and, the regular trader being so completely disabled, he found no small difficulty in procuring buyers of his chattels; neighbors being rather shy of taking any part in tho disturbance between him and Joe, the limits or which they did not exactly know. One evening there was intense excitement at Ben son’s, a country store that was the lounging place for all the country around. Martha Lee, a young white girl, bad been seized in the woods—where she was gathering berries—by an unknown negro, and had been criminally assaulted by him. In some way, the rumor spread that Joe Harney was THE GUILTY MAN, and that supposition created great alarm. If true, it was an evidence that Joe was carrying his law lessness beyond vengeance upon those who wronged him, to the point of warring against the community, aud they justly regarded him as a man to be feared in that new attitude. As night progressed and Benson's fire-water began to get its work in, hot-headed counsels prevailed, and event ually it was determined that the next day a general battue should be organized by ail the men and dogs in the community, to hunt Joe down and kili him upon suspicion, and to prevent his doing any mor* mischief. According to appointment, by nine o’clock the succeeding morning some fifty armed men. and at least as many dogs, were gathered at Benson's. Just as they were about setting forth, a black fel low, Jim Bates by name;' came galloping among them on a barebacked horse, the whites of his bulg ing eyes seeming a* big as saucers, and his big red mouth working with exci terne ut as he shouted: •• Ho/ on, gemmea—jes’ a minit 1 For de Laird’s sake, gemmea, hoi* oa I” Of course they “ held ou,” and Jim, as he got hi* breath, told them; “ Gemmen, I seed Joe in de aidge ob do swamp not more’n two hours ago, and he gub me dis for a shuah sign dat it wuz him,” saying which he drew forth from some place of concealment among his rags a piece of bark with the letters “JO ” carved roughly on its face. “Joe’s card 1” exclaimed twenty voices at one*. “ Yes, indeed, gemmea, Joo’s cyahd, from Joe hisself, added Jim. There was no qu, stion about hi* being Joe’s duly accredited ambassador, when he went on: “ JOE GUB ME DIS MESSAGE. “Joe hissef did, and he say he kill me *f I no Rib de message to the white gemmen at Benson’s. You’se gemmen he meaned, gemmen. An’ I know he kill me fo’ shuah ef Ino gib de message. H* say: 'Jim, tell ’em dis; Joe nebber done no ha m to Marfa Lee or any odder gal, white or colored; he nebber done no ha'm to nobody but dem what do ha'm to him.' An’ he say, ‘do fust I know ha’m don* to Marta Lo* was when word come to me from Benson’s las’ night. At de time somebody done ha m Marfa Lee I was busy fifteen miles away killin’ Mars. Rangely’ 1 done got him at las'. Luff de gemmen go to de fust thick bushes lef’ han' side ob de right turn in de road from Pataquan crossroads, cornin’ from Mars. Morey's place, an da' dey fin’ Mars. Rangely wit de froat cut from de yoah to de yeah an’ one ob Joe’s cyahds stuck in de froat. Luff de gemmen arsk de time Mars. Rangely lef Mars. Morey, wha’ he went yist’day to sell some ob his ban s, an’ d*y find fo’ shuah Ino done ha’m Marfa Lee ’cause I too busy kilim' Mara. Rangely too fa' 'way.’ “ There could be no doubt of the genuineness of an alabi established by the frank admission of perpe tration of so much greater a crime than that of which the accused was suspected, particularly if the evidence offered proved corroborative. Audit did. Rangely’s body was found in the exact location specified. He had been shot by a small rifle ball through the temples, and to make sure of killing him, Joe bad CUT HIS HEAD ALMOST OFF. And that tber* might b* no doubt about the per petrator of the murder, the bark card marked “Jo,” was stuck in the gash that almost severed the wretch's neck. Jo* was not pursued for his crime. Som* per. sons did say, in a sort of half-hearted way, that he ought to be arrested, but the proposition did not s'ecm to meet with much favor. For five years thereafter Jos continued to live his lonely life as a fugitive in the swamps and forests of Prince William county. That he did so was beyond a doubt, for every now and then, one of his cards would appear, nevermore in connection with any desperate deed, but always associated with some good thing done to somebody. Often horses and cattle that bad strayed into the swamp, and children lost there, were rescued and put in safety where they were readily found by owners and friends, and always upon such occasions a bit of bark marked “ Jo ” came back with the saved ani mal or child. At length Joe disappeared altogether. It was rumored that he bad been recognized as a non-commissioned officer in a Federal colored regi ment, in Tennessee, during the war, but that is not certain. What eventually became of him, nobody knows. JEROME MAWS CRIMES. A Recent Sensation in the French Capital. The Crooked Nose and the Cross . Eyes. Two Murders in One Night, and a Pipe in Each. A Very Strange Story of How Two Pa riTans Met their Death. In a criminal case, recently tried in Paris, some very remarkable disclosures were made. August Montemart, aged forty, kept a cigar store on the rue de Rambuteau. On the evening of No vember 17, 1885, Julee Ampoule wont into the store to buy a cigar. When he came out he met another man, a stranger to him, going into the store. Am perell stood outside smoking. The man came out of the store, and was joined by another mau, also a stranger to Ampoule. Ampoule particularly no* ticed this last man, on account of hie nose, which was turned to one side. This man said to the other : “ Give me a cigar. A scoundrel has stolen my m'.erschaum, but I will be even with him. I will kill him before twelve hours are over, if I get the chance." The man handed him a cigar, which he lighted, and the two walked off together toward the rue Beaubourg. Ampoule looked at his watch, and it was a quarter past eight. He went in the same di rection as the two men, and saw them turn up the rue Beaubourg. The next morning Ampoule read in the newspa per that at eleven o’clock the previous evening, while a cigar dealer on the rue de Rambuteau, named August Montemart, on closing his store, had been murdered, by some person unknown. His body had been found lying behind the counter in a pool of blood, which had flowed from a wound in the neck. The door had been closed after the deed was done, but the air had blew it open, and the officer on the post, seeing no one inside, went in and discovered the crime. THE NOSE AND EYES. Ampoule, who had walked down the rue Rambu teau the evening before by mere chance, and knew none of the tradesmen doing business upon it, went to the place, and found that the murdered man was the cigar dealer from whom he had bought cigars. Then the words of the man came to his memory: *•1 will kill him before twelve hours are over, if I get the chance.” He went to the Prefecture of Police, and related the incident of the evening before. '•The man,” said he, “ was decently dressed; the only peculiar thing I noticed about him being his nose, which was bent to the left aide. It was a prominent nose, and the eyes seemed to be looking at the end of it.” This, it will be admitted, was a very poor olew to the mau who had uttered the words which seemed to have so direct a bearing upon the crime. Never theless the description, as given by Ampoule, was taken down with minute care. Every officer in Paris was looking in a very short time for a man with such a nose and such eyes as had been pic tured. By night the report was that no such person had been seen anywhere; one sergeant of police report ing, however, that the description exactly tallied with one Jerome Maraiu, who was an employee in one of tho municipal bureaus. •We must take a look at this man,” said the Chief of Police. “ and Monsieur Ampoule must have a chauce to inspect him, likewise.” MONSIEUR MARAIN. Without any parade, Jerome Marain was notified by an officer iu plain clothes that he must present himself before the Chief of Police, forthwith. He hesitated and protested, but the officer said: ••Mousieur, it is none of my business to answer protests or to accept excuses or explanations. When you meet the chief, he will, no doubt, hear all yon have to say and give it due consideration.” So Mousieur Marain. perforce, accepted the invi tation and presented himself. Monsieur Ampoule was so placed that he could both see and hear Ma rain. After the latter had retired, he solemnly de clared his firm belief that Marain was the mau who had asked for a cigar, saying: ••A scoundrel has stolen my meerschaum, but I will be oven with him. I will kill him belore twelve hours are over, if I get the chance.” Under this strong identification, there was noth ing for it but to detain Marain, and put him through an examination. " Were you on the rue de Rambuteau on the night of November 17th ?” •• I was not. I have not been on the rue de Ram buteau for two years.” ** Where were you on the night in question from half-past seven until midnight?” ••I was at home with my family.” Marain brought proof of this, and was discharged. This was on the morning of November 19th. ANOTHER MURDER. The same day it was reported to the police that Napoleon Laperte, who lived at No. — rue Tique toune, bad not been seen since the afternoon of November 17tb, aud that his house was closed. The neighbors and the police had knocked, but no answer was returned. Laperte was rich and miserly. Some time before, his wife had left him, driven away by his cruelty and niggardly ways. The authorities burst open the front door and went in. They searched the house, but found nothing until they came to the attic. Thera they found blood upon the floor and walls, and in a closet, jammed iu so tight as to be almost inextricable, was the body of Laperte. He had been stabbed to the heart, evidently with a sharp-pointed knife, which lay upon the window-sill. A box under tho bed had boon rifled, and an attempt bad been made to set the place on fire, for a soap-box had been split up into fragments, and old clothes piled upon it against the closet, and a match had been applied, but, for some reason, after the clothes had smoldered a lit tle, the fire had gone out, Albert Lezay, who occupied an attic in the next house, testified that at about half-past nine or ten o’clock on the evening of November 17th. he opened his attic window to get some fresh air. He instantly became conscious that a struggle was going on at the window of tho attic in Laporte’s dwelling-house. He heard Laperte say : “Let me go, I say 1 If I had expected this. I would have been ready for you. Lot mo go, or I'll fling away this cursed meerschaum where you will never find it more.” Then there was a struggle, and the window was dashed to. "It was none of my business,” said Lezay, “ so I closed my window and went to bed. TWO SURPRISING FACTS. Here was an astonishing thing : Two murders within a comparatively short distance of one another the same night, and a meerschaum pipe in each of them 1 The chief of police was for a time nonplussed. But what was his amazement when he discovered, as he did very soon, that August Montmarte, the murdered cigar man, was the brother of the wife of Napoleon Laferte. Jules Ampoule was further examined, and in sisted upon the identity of Jerome Maraiu with the man whom he saw and heard speak to his compan ion, outside the cigar store, on the Rue de Ram buteau. " The nose is the same,” <ftid Ampoule, " and the eyes are the same, and the voice is the same. I have no more doubt of the identity than I have of my own existence.” “ How would it affect you,” said the chief of police, “if I were to tell you that Montmarte’s sister was the wife of Laperte ?” “My God:” exclaimed Ampoule. “Is that a fact? ’ “It is true as you are there,” was the reply; “and there is evidently a connection, which we can’t discover—or rather, have not discovered so far—between the two crimes.” “ Where is the wife of Leperte? What has she to say about it ?” “ We have been unable to discover where she is,” was the answer. “ She kept her residence conceal ed, except from her father, and no one seems to know where to find her. It is very singular, how ever, that she has not heard of her husband’s death, and put in a claim to his property, which is quite valuable. Money and probably other things were taken from the box under the bed at the time of Laperte’s murder, but papers show that he owns several houses and many thousands of dollars loaned on interest. MABAIN’S FRIENDS. Jerome Marain was quietly arrested and again examined. “On the night of November 17,” he said, “I was at home and we had visitors.” He gave the names of four of them and then tried to make it appear that he had mistaken the names. It was too late. They were down in the record. But he positively declared that he didn’t know where any of them lived. Ono of the names given was Pierre Gigelom. It was an uncommon name and the man was found. “Were you at Jerome Marain’a house on the night of November 17 ?” was asked. •■I was, from eight o’clock until nearly eleven.” “Who was there with you ?” “Guillaume Ginard, Andre Brienon, Robert Ve soul and Henri Jalons.” “ Do you know where any of these men live ?” “Ginard and Brienon live in the Rue de Angour* Vesoul lives in the Rue Joequer J. Rousseau. Ja lons was a stranger to me and came in with Marain about nine o’clock.” “How long did Marain remain with you ?” OFFICE, NO. 11 FRANKFORT ST. “He complained of a headache and snid be would take a walk. He went out but returned in less than five minutes, and said he would Ha down on a couch iu the kitchen, as he felt chilly. After that I heard the door close very quietly and, knowing that he was TO GALLANTRY, I thought he was out after an adventure. To satis fy my curiosity, just before eleven o’clock I went to the kichen. It was dark and I felt the couch. No one was there. As I was about to return to the parlor, I heard the front door open very quietly. I stood in the dark and saw a man enter and close tho door after him with care. Then ho went up stairs, treading lightly. Madame Marain was playing on the piano. When she had finished 1 asked her quietly whether she a boarder in the house. She said she had not. Then I told her that I had seen a man enter by the front doorand go up stairs, bho called me stupid and went up stairs with a lamp. Presently she came down and said no on« was there and that her husband was asleep iu tied. ' I Ginard, Vesoul and Brienon were found and ex amined. They corroborated Gigelom, but of course knew nothing of the entrance of the stranger and his going upstairs. The police wero very desirous of finding Jalons, as be was the man who accompanied Maraiu home on the night of November 17, and was supposed to be the person from whom Marain had asked a cigar outside of the store of August Montemart on the rue de Rambuteau. MADAME LAPERTE APPEARS. When things had reached this pass, Madame La perte unexpectedly turned up, and presented herself to the authorities. She had been living in the suburbs and never heard of the death of her brother until she went down to his store to inquire into his prolonged absence. When she was informed that, the same night on which her brother was murdered, her busband had also been assassinated, she was amazed beyond description. When she recovered I herself she told this story: “ My husband and myself lived very unhappily together, owing to his niggardly wavs and his going after other women. He visited one woman in par ticular, a Madame Grignan, who lived on tho rue Maudar, not far from our residence. As all expos tulations were in vain. I left him alter he had given me . authority to collect the rout of a house which be owned. This was not enough ior my sup port, and so my brother suggested that we should call on my husband and try to get him to increase my allowance. On the evening of November 17, my brother got the daughter of-a woman who lived over his store to mind his business for him, and at ten o’clock we started for my husdaud's abode on the rue Tiquet'onne. We knocked at the door, but there was no answer. After waiting some time, we went to the corner of the street and stood there. My brother said, • There is a light in the attic win dow.’ Then we went toward the house and stood near the curbstone, under the shadow of a tree aud near a lamp. A MAN CAME OUT of my husband’s house, and on reaching the side walk looked this way and that. Finally be turned and walked toward us. My brother stepped out of the shadow, and said, 'ls Monsieur Laperte in?’ • How should 1 know?’ said the man. • You came outof his house just now,’ my brother said. 'You're mistaken,’said tho man, and was moving on. ’I sm not mistaken,' said my brother, • for I saw you come out of the door.’ ‘I don't know you,’ said the man. • Well,’ said my brother, • I shall know you when I see you again, for I shall never forget your face.’ •* The man turned and walked away and I went off with my brother. He put me into a cab at his store aud that is the last I saw of him.” The theory of the police was that the mau whom Montemarte and Mrs. Laperte saw oome out of La perte’s house was the murderer and that, alarmed by Montemart’s statement that be would know him again and never forgot his face, he followed him and assassinated him as the only person *wlio could ever testily against him. Madame Laperte said that she did not see the man very distinctly, but that her brother on the way home said: “ I should certainly know that man again, for I never saw such a nose.” LAPERTE’S MISTRESS. Madame Grignan, Laperte’s mistress, was brought before the authorities. She admitted that Laperte visited her and that on the evening of November 15 he came to her house and found a friend there. “Who was that friend ?” “Jacques Nancois. I don’t know anything about him. ’ “Did Laperte and Nancois quarrel?” “They bad some words.” “What about ? ’ “A meerschaum pipe. It belonged to my late hus band, and I kept it for Monsieur Laperte to smoke when he called to see me.” •'How came they to quarrel about the pipe ?” “Nancois was smoking it and Monsieur Laperte grew very angry. After that they drank together and became iriends. Laperte was very talkative and said be was rich and ceuld buy all the meer schaums in Paris and still have money left. Mon sieur put the pipe in his pocket, but Nancois ob jected. saying that I had given it to him. Nancois left first.” “ When did Laperte leave ?” “Not until the morning.” “ What sort of a looking man was Nancois—as to the nose and eyes ?” “His nose was crooked, and he was cross-eyed.’ When Madame Grignan saw Marain through a small hole in the door, she said; “ That is Jacques Nancois.” DAMNING PROOF. Marain’s house was searched. Crammed into the hair of the mattress of his bed was found a meer schaum pipe which Madame Grignan identified. Among the coals in the cellar was found a bundle, containing papers belonging to Monsieur Laperte, and several thousands of francs. All these facts came out in the trial. But there was something more. Gigelom recognized in the crowd outside the court, the man Jalon, and he was captured. He ad. mitted that he was with Marain at tho Rue Ram buteau on November 17, and went home with him. He also swore that the next day Marain told him that he had settled the old man who stole his pipe, and that Jalons would never buy cigars again from the dealer in the Rus Rambuteau. A CONFESSION. After the second day of tho trial, Maraiu con fessed both crimes. He had known the woman Grignan for some time, and supposed that she was faithful to him. After he left her on the night of November 15, he waited outside and was soon satisfied that Laperte was staying there for the night. The next evening he went to the Rue Tiquetonne and met Laporte going home. They spoke, and Laperte invited him into the houee. They went to the attio where Laperte mostly lived, and drank wino and smokod. Laperte kicked something under the bod and said: “If that was yours, you could bo rich.” Marain protended to be very friendly, and prom ised to introduce Laperte to some very agreeable woman. By agreement, he was to go to Laperte’s house the next night. He had sharpened a pocket knife with the intention of murdering him aud tak ing the money in tho chest. On the Rue Rambu teau he met Jalons, with whom he was on very in timate terms, and tho circumstances transpired as testified to by Ampoule. Then he went home with Jalons. He went out, intending to go to Laperte’s, but returned and said ho would He down ON THE COUCH IN THE KITCHEN. He soon aroxe, put on a thick ovorooat aud a slouched hat, and slipped out. Then he went to Laperte’s bouse. He didn’t like the idea of killing Laperte in cold blood, so he picked a quarrel with him over the pipa, whereupon Laperte opened the window and threatened to throw it away. He forced him from the window and threw him down. The knife which he had sharpened was in his pock et, but his eye caught a sharp-pointed table-knife lying on a table. He seized it and plunged it into Laperte’s breast. Then he jammed him into the closet and piled up the wood aud old clothes. Drawing out the box under the bed. he rifled it and made up the money and papers which he thought might be valuable, into a bundle. Then he set fire to the old clothes and quitted the house. After leaving the door of Laferte's dwelling, he saw no one, and was therefore greatly startled and alarmed when a man stepped out aud accosted him. When this man said that he would never forget his face, he was seized with a DEADLY FEAR OF DETECTION. When the man and woman walked away—he then saw the woman lor the first time—he determined to follow them. To his surprise, the man went to tho cigar store on the rue Rambuteau, where Jalons bad bought cigars that very night. He waited near by until the man was closing his store; then he went in and asked to look at a package of tobacco on the shelf. As the man turned, he drew the knife, al ready described, from his pocket, opened it and reaching over, plunged it in his throat. Then he jammed the knife into ajar of snuff which stood upon the counter and left the store, drawing to the door after him. He returned homo and went up stairs, going to bed immediately. In the face of all this damning proof and the man’s admission of guilt, he was found guilty of the murder of both these unfortunate men, with mitigating circumstances, and sentenced to hard labor for life. G rad. xia tl ngf. LENIENCY AT THE START IN CRIME. Samuel Robertson, aged seventeen, was charged with sneaking out with a shawl from the store at No. 45 Leonard street. Jacob H. Maston, salesman, said he didn’t know how the boy got in, but he saw him go ou-t with this shawl. When he got near to him, he saw that be was a strange boy. When caught he made no explanation. The shawl was taken from a sample case near the door. He was about to hand the shawl to another boy, when wit ness grabbed him. The lad said two boys ran off with this shawl and threw it to him. ••Why not, then, take it in the store?” asked tie Court. “I didn’t know the store,” said the lad. The mother sai l they lived in Christie street. She never knew her boy to be iu trouble belore. The Court was lenient, giving him ten days. PRICE FI VE WHEN SHE COMES HOME. BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. When she comes home again 1 A thousand waye I fashion to myself the tenderness Of my glad welcome. I shall tremble —yes; And touch her, as when first in the old days I touched her girlish hand, nor dared upraise Mine eyes, such was my faint heart’s sweet diW tress. Then silence—and the perfume of her dress; The room will sway a little, and the haze Cloy eyesight—soulsight, even—for a space; And tears—yes, and the ache here in the throat—} To know that I so ill deserve the place Her arms make for me, and the sobbing note I stay with kisses, ere the tearful face Again is hidden in the old embrace. filtrating ®nle. HER JOHNNIE. BY VIOLET WHYTE. CHAPTER XXI. “WE MUST LOVE WHERE OUR HEARTS LEAD l)S.” We find a verdict of wilful murder against John L’Estrangeßerner..” Never perhaps did the verdict of a Coroner’s jury create so great a sensation before. The Coroner himself, who was used to dealing with what Mr. Firth called “a pack of fools,” raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders re signedly. Jack's lawyer said out loud that the verdict was utterly opposed to the evidence, and that it was simply giving his client trouble and expense for nothing, and was, moreover, keeping the police Irom tracking the right man; no properly-orgau 33d court of justice in the kingdom would convict on such evidence—the whole affair was m nifestly absurd. But the jury were firm; the Squire of Brook hurst had been murdered, and some one should “ swing ” for it. They had Jack; and better that an innocent man should “swing” than nobody. Beside, had not Jack, with his free bright manner and his blue eyes, actually stolen the Squire’s sweetheart irom him; and did he not deserve all he got ior that, letting the otheg affair alone ? It was in vain that the lawyers on every side represented to them that the evidence was in sufficient, would be insufficient to convict in any court—they did not care; they bad fully made up their twelve stupid minds, and go for trial the case must and should. It was in vain that Tom, the groom, blustered out in bis rage that lie only wished he bad the hanging of ail twelve ot them, and many other equally complimentary remarks, promptly brought to an abrupt conclusion by a tall police man on one side and Mary on the other, who drew Tom’s attention from the mrymen by going off into violent hysterics. It was in vain that poor overwrought Daisy collapsed into the great law yer’s arms and was carried out by him in a state ot complete unconsciousness. Everything was useless—the jury’s minds were made up, and their verdict was a verdict of wilful murder against John L’Estrange Berners. For a minute or two Jack stood per"ectly still, stunned by the unexpected result of the inqui ry. He felt bewildered and dazed—as if ha was not sure it was true—as if some horrible nightmare had taken bold of him from which he could not free himself, try as he would. Then Colonel Cameron strode back from the doorway, having seen Daisy open her eyes, and held out his hand. “ I knew those twelve con’oundod blockhead S were against you rom the first,” he said vex< edly. “ It’s their wretched bucolic idiocy. Upon my soul, I never came across twelve such idiots in one lot together before I How ever—though of course it's dused unpleasant and inconvenient lor you—it will be all right in the end, for no grand jury in England would return a true bill on such cock-and-bull «vi deuce.” “Thank you,” said Berners stupidly ; he was too bewildered quite to grasp the colonel’s meaning. “ Can I write or go to your commanding offi cer?” the colonel asked. “I wish you would,” answered Jack eagerly, suddenly seeing another difficulty in th. fore ground. “ Then I will. I’ll go to-morrow as early as possible. By-the-by, who is he ?” “ Colonel Covington.” “ What—Dick Covington ? Oh, I know him as well as I know myself! I’ll go to-morrow. And is there anything else I can do for you ] Don't hesitate to say so if there is.” “ I don't know ol anything else, thanks,” Jack answered. “ Well, what is it?” he asked sharpy ly, as a strong hand was laid on his shoulder. “ Sorry to disturb you, sir, but our time’s up,” said the tall policeman who had stood ot, guard behind Jack’s chair during the inquiry. The tone in which he spoke was so apologeiiq that Jack brightened up directly, recognizing at once that the man was only doing his duty, and was sorry to do it. “ Ob, all right; I’m ready! Good-by, Colonel Cameron I I’m really very much obliged to you for all your kindness.” “ Well, I’m dused sorry you need any kind ness of that sort,” said the colonel heartily. As Jack and his escort left the room they met Mr. Firth, who, having seen Daisy into a car riage and sent her and the maid home together, was coming back to look after hie client. “ I’ve just sent your daughter home,” he said to Colonel Cameron, who was immediately be hind Jack. “Better than staying here to bff gaped at—eh?” “ Very much so; I'm obliged to you,” the cob onel answered. “ ies, I thought so. As for you ’’—turning td Jack and laying his hands in a very friendly and reassuring way upon his shoulders—“ since these blockheads—l never saw twelve such ob stinate louts in all my experience before—have chosen to return such an absolutely idiotic ver dict, you will just have to make the best ot what the newspapers call ‘ incarceration ’. It won’t be long, you know—six weeks at the very out side-less if we can catch the proper lellow.” “You will try?” “Most certainly. Well, good-by—keep up your heart, and don’t be in the least uneasy. No grand jury in the kingdom will find a true bill in the face of such absurd evidence. Yes, yes, policeman ’’—seeing him look uneasily at his watch—" 1 am not going to keep him. Good-, by, Mr. Berners—good-by 1” Then Jack Berners passed out of sight, and the great lawyer turned to the colonel. “ That’s a fine fellow—as innocent as a baby I He bears himself well—remarkably well—in most trying circumstances. He's a very fine fel low.” “ Yes,” answered the colonel with a sigh; “my poor little girl seems to think so. Ob, but it is a miserable affair — miserable ! It will stick tc them all their lives, even if he gets off.” “If he gets off ? My dear sir, you don’t sup pose twelve more such thick-headed