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“Boys,” says Walter Parks, solemnly, swinging the lantern upon his arm and carefully wrapping the bit of match in a paper as he speaks, “poor Pearson was never killed by lightning. That sear upon his forehead was made by the simple application of a burning match. I’ve seen men killed by lightning.”
“But you said – ”
“No matter what I said then, Joe; what I now say to you and Menard is the truth. You have promised to keep what I am about to tell you a secret, and to act according to my advice. Menard, Blakesly, Arthur Pearson has been foully murdered!”
“No!”
“Parks, you are mad!”
“You will believe the evidence of your own senses, boys. I am going to prove what I assert.”
“But who? how? – ”
“Who? – ah, that’s the question! There are ten men of us; if the guilty party belongs to our train, we will ferret him out if possible. If we were to gather all our party here, and show them how poor Pearson met his death, the assassin, if he is among us, would be warned, and perhaps escape.”
“True.”
“Boys, I believe that the assassin is among us; but I have not the faintest suspicion as to his identity. We are ten men brought together by circumstances. We three have known each other back there in the mining camps. The others are acquaintances of the road; good fellows so far as we know them: but nine of us ten are innocent men; one is a murderer! Come, now, and let me prove what I am saying.”
As men who feel themselves dreaming; silently, slowly, with anxious faces, they follow their leader to the wagon where the dead man lies alone.
“Get into the wagon, boys; here, at this end, and move softly.”
It is done and the three men crouch close together about the body of the dead.
“Hold the lantern, Joe. There, Menard lift his head.”
Silently, wonderingly, they obey him.
Then Walter Parks removes the cap from the lifeless head, and shudderingly parts away the thick hair from about the crown.
“Hold the lantern closer, Joe. Look, both of you; do you see that?”
They bend closer; the lantern’s ray strikes upon something tiny and bright.
“My God!” cries Joe Blakesly, letting the lantern fall and turning away his face.
“Parks, what —what is it?”
“A nail! Touch it, boys; see the hellish cleverness of the crime; think what the criminal must be, to drive that nail home with one blow while poor Pearson lay sleeping, and then to rearrange the thick hair so skillfully. That was before the storm, I feel sure. If we had found him sooner, there might have been no mark upon his forehead. Then we, in our ignorance, would have called it heart disease, and poor Pearson would have had no avenger. After the storm, the cunning villain crept back, struck a match, and applied it to his victim’s temple. And but for an accident, we would all have agreed that he was killed by a lightning-stroke.”
Menard lays the head gently back upon the damp hay and asks, shudderingly:
“How did you discover it, Parks?”
“In examining the sear, you may remember, I brushed the hair away from the temple. As I ran my fingers through it, I touched – that.”
They look from one to the other silently for a moment, and then Joe Blakesly says:
“Has he been robbed?”
“Let us see;” Menard says, “he wore a money-belt, I know. Look for it, Parks.”
Parks examines the body, and shakes his head.
“It’s gone; has been cut away. The belt was worn next the flesh; the print of it is here plainly visible. The belt has been taken, and the clothing replaced!”
“What coolness! what cunning! Shall we ever run the fellow down, Parks?”
“Yes! Boys, you know why I am leaving the mountains. I am going home to England, to be near my father who must die soon. I am not a poor man; I shall some day be richer still. If we fail to find this murderer, I shall put the matter in the hands of the detectives, and I will never give it up. Arthur Pearson met his death while traveling for safety with a party which calls me its leader, and I will be his avenger! It may be in one year, or two, or twenty; it may take a fortune, and a lifetime; but Arthur Pearson shall be avenged!”
CHAPTER I.
“STARS OF THE FORCE.”
“Yes, sir,” said Policeman No. 46, with an air of condescending courtesy, “this is the office.”
It is characteristic of the metropolitan policeman; he is not a man to occupy middle ground. If he is not gruffly discourteous, he is pretty certain to be found patronizingly polite.
Number 46 had just breakfasted heartily, and had swallowed a large schooner of beer at the expense of the bar keeper, so he beamed benignly upon the tall, brown-faced, grey-bearded stranger who had just asked, “Is this the office of the City Detective Agency?”
“This is the office, sir; up two flights and turn to your left.”
The stranger shifted his position slightly, glanced up and down the street, drew a step nearer the policeman, and asked:
“Is it a large force?”
“Well, I should say!”
“I suppose you know some of them pretty well?”
“Yes, sir; I know some of the best men of the lot.”
The stranger jingled some loose coin in his pocket, and seemed to have forgotten his interest in the detective force.
“Officer, where does a man go to get a good brandy cocktail?”
Policemen are not over bashful, and No. 46 smiled anew as he replied.
“Just wait a few minutes, and I’ll show you. I must stop that con – ”
The last syllable was lost to the stranger as 46 dashed off to wave his club before the eyes of an express-man, who was occupying too much space on the wrong side of the street. In a moment he was back again, and, as he approached, the stranger said:
“I’m a new-comer in the city, and want to see things. I take a sort of interest in the doings of the police, and in detectives especially. I’d like to have you point me out some of these chaps, officer. Oh, about that brandy cock-tail; you’ll join me, I hope?”
No. 46 consulted his watch.
“I’ll join you, sir. Yes sir; in ten minutes, if you’ll wait. There’s a capital place right here handy. And if you want to see detectives, just you stand here with me a while. Vernet and Stanhope went down to breakfast half an hour ago.”
“Vernet and Stanhope?
”“The Stars of the force, sir; a perfect matched team. Splendid fellows, too. They always spend their mornings at the office, when not ‘on the lay.’ They’ve been back in the city four or five days; hard workers, those boys.”
“Young men, I suppose?”
“Well, yes, they’re young, but you can’t fool them much. A little under thirty, I should call Vernet; Stanhope is the younger of the two.”
“Americans?”
“Stanhope is, an out-and-outer. Vernet’s got some French in him.”
“Um, yes; well, I’d like to take a look at them, after we refresh ourselves.”
“They won’t be back for a good half hour; there’s no fear of missing them.”
Half an hour, and a brandy cock-tail, makes some men firm friends. When that period of time had elapsed, No. 46, more affable than ever, and the tall stranger, looking quite at his ease, stood again near the entrance to the office of the City Detective Agency.
Two men were coming down the street, walking and talking with the air of men on good terms with themselves and each other.
Both were young, well dressed, well-looking; but a more marked contrast never was seen.
One, the taller of the two, was dark and decidedly handsome, with black waving hair, dusky eyes, that were by turns solemn, tender, severe, and pathetic; “faultily faultless” features, that wore an habitual look of gravity and meditation; an erect, graceful carriage, and a demeanor dignified and somewhat reserved. Slow of speech and punctillious in the use of words, he was a man of tact and discretion; a man fitted to lead, and capable of ruling in stormy times. At first sight, people pronounced him “a handsome fellow;” after long acquaintance, they named him “a perfect gentleman.”
His companion was not quite so tall, of medium height, in fact, but muscular and well built. He walked with a springy, careless stride, carrying his head erect, and keeping his observant, twinkling, laughing brown eyes constantly employed noting everything around and about him, but noting all with an expression of careless unconcern that seemed to say, “all this is nothing to me, why should it be?” His hair, brown, soft, and silky, was cropped close to his head, displaying thus a well developed crown, and brow broad, high and full. The nose was too prominent for beauty, but the mouth and chin were magnificent features, of which a physiognomist would say: Here are courage and tenderness, firmness and loyalty. He was easy of manner – “off-hand,” would better express it; careless, and sometimes brusque in speech. At first sight one would call him decidedly plain; after a time spent in his society you voted him “a good looking fellow,” and “a queer fish.” And those who had thoroughly tested the quality of his friendship, vowed him a man to trust and to “tie to.”
“Here they come,” whispered No. 46; “those two fellows in grey.”
“Which is which?”
“To be sure. The taller is Van Vernet; the other Dick Stanhope.”
As they approached, Van Vernet touched his hat with a glance of courteous recognition. But Richard Stanhope merely nodded, with a careless, “how are you, Charlie?” And neither noted the eager, scrutinizing glance bent upon them, as they passed the grey-bearded stranger and ran lightly up the stairs. “You’re wanted in the Chief’s office, Mr. Vernet,” said the office boy as they entered; “And you too, I think, Mr. Stanhope.”
“Not both at once, stupid?”
“Um, ah; of course not. Now look here, Mr. Dick – ”
And Stanhope and the office boy promptly fell into pugilistic attitudes, the former saying, with a gay laugh:
“You first, Van, if the old man won’t let us ‘hunt in couples.’”
With the shadow of a smile upon his face, Van Vernet turned his back upon the two belligerents and entered the inner office.
“Ah, Vernet, good morning,” said his affable chieftain. “Are you ready for a bit of business?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“I don’t think it will be anything very deep, but the young fellow insisted upon having one of my best men; one who could be courteous, discreet, and a gentleman.”
Van Vernet, who had remained standing, hat in hand, before his chief, bowed deferentially, and continued silent.
“There are no instructions,” continued the Chief. “You are to go to this address – it’s a very aristocratic locality – and act under the gentleman’s orders. He wants to deal with you direct; the case is more delicate than difficult, I fancy. I am only interested in the success or failure of your work.”
Taking the card from his outstretched hand, Vernet read the address.
“A. Warburton.
No. 31 B – Place.”
“When shall I wait upon Mr. Warburton?”
“At once. Your entire time is at his disposal until the case is finished; then report to me.”
Vernet bowed again, turned to go, hesitated, turned back, and said:
“And the Raid?”
“Oh, that – I shall give Stanhope charge of that affair. Of course he would like your assistance, but he knows the ground, and I think will make the haul. However, if you are not occupied to-morrow night, you might join them here.”
“Thank you. I will do so if possible,” turning again to go.
“Send Stanhope in, Vernet. I must settle this business about the Raid.”
Opening the door softly, and closing it gently after him, Vernet approached his comrade, and laid a light hand upon his arm.
“Richard, you are wanted.”
“All right; are you off, Van?”
“Yes;” putting his hat upon his head.
“On a lay?”
“Yes.”
“Wish you good luck, old man; tra la.”
And Dick Stanhope bounced into the presence of his Chief with considerable noise and scant ceremony.
Number 46, who, with the stranger beside him, was slowly pacing his beat, lifted his eyes as Vernet emerged from the stairway.
“There comes Vernet, and alone. I’ll bet something he’s off on a case,” he said.
“Looks like it.”
“He looks more serious than usual; wonder if he’s got to work it without Stanhope.”
“Do they always pull together?”
