"I was tried, found guilty, and condemned for four years to State's prison. A light sentence, the judge pronounced it, but those four years put streaks of gray in my hair and changed me wonderfully, physically and mentally.
"I had gone in a tall, straight young fellow, with beardless face and fresh color; I came out a grave man, with stooping shoulders, sallow skin, and hair streaked with gray.
"My mother had died during my imprisonment; my promised wife had married another man. I sold my farm and went again to the city; this time with a fixed purpose in my heart. I would find my enemies and revenge myself.
"I let my beard grow, I dropped all habits of correct speaking, I became a slouching, shabbily-dressed loafer. I had no reason to fear recognition, – the change in me was complete."
He paused, and seemed lost in gloomy meditations, then resumed:
"It was more than three months before I struck the trail of the gang, and then one day I saw Brooks on the street, followed him, and tracked him to Trafton. He had just purchased the 'Brookhouse farm' and I learned for the first time that he had a wife and family. I found that Lowenstein, too, had settled in Trafton, having been arrested, and escaped during my long imprisonment; and I decided to remain also. I had learned, during my farm life, something about farriery, and introduced myself as a traveling horse doctor, with a fancy for 'settling' in a good location. And so I became the Jim Long you have known.
"I knew that the presence of ''Squire Brookhouse' and 'Captain Manvers, late of the navy,' boded no good to Trafton; I knew, too, that Lowenstein was an escaped convict, and I might have given him up at once; but that would have betrayed my identity, and Brooks might then escape me. So I waited, but not long.
"One day 'Captain Manvers,' in his seaman's make-up, actually ventured to visit the city. He had so changed his appearance that, but for my interference, he might have been safe enough. But my time had come. I sent a telegram to the chief of police, telling him that Jake Lowenstein was coming to the city, describing his make-up, and giving the time and train. I walked to the next station to send the message, waited to have it verified, and walked back content.
"When Jake Lowenstein arrived in the city, he was followed, and in attempting to resist the officers, he was killed.
"Since that time, I have tried, and tried vainly, to unravel the mystery surrounding these robberies. Of course, I knew Brooks and his gang to be the guilty parties, but I was only one man. I could not be everywhere at once, and I could never gather sufficient evidence to insure their conviction, because, like all the rest of Trafton, I never thought of finding the stolen horses in the very midst of the town. I assisted in organizing the vigilants, but we all watched the roads leading out from the town, and were astounded at our constant failures.
"And now you know why I hailed your advent in Trafton. For four years I have hoped for the coming of a detective. I would have employed one on my own account, but I shrank from betraying my identity, as I must do in order to secure confidence. In every stranger who came to Trafton I have hoped to find a detective. At first I thought Bethel to be one, and I was not slow in making his acquaintance. I watched him, I weighed his words, and, finally, gave him up.
"When you came I made your acquaintance, as I did that of every stranger who tarried long in Trafton. You were discreetness itself, and the man you called Barney was a capital actor, and a rare good fellow too. But I studied you as no other man did. When I answered your careless questions I calculated your possible meaning. Do you remember a conversation of ours when I gave my opinion of Dr. Bethel, and the 'average Traftonite'?"
"Yes; and also told us about Miss Manvers and the treasure-ship. Those bits of gossip gave us some pointers."
"I meant that they should. And now you know why I preferred to hang on the heels of Joe Blaikie rather than go with the vigilants."
"I understand. Has Blaikie been a member of the gang from the first?"
"I think not. Of course when I heard that Brooks intended to employ a detective, I was on the alert. And when Joe Blaikie and that other fellow, who was a stranger to me, came and established themselves at the Trafton House, I understood the game. They were to personate detectives. Brooks was too cunning to make their pretended occupations too conspicuous; but he confided the secret to a few good citizens who might have grown uneasy, and asked troublesome questions, if they had not been thus confided in. I think that Blaikie and Brooks went their separate ways, when the latter became a country gentleman. Blaikie is too cowardly a cur ever to succeed as a horse-thief, and Brooks was the man to recognize that fact. I think Blaikie was simply a tool for this emergency."
"Very probable. When you told my landlord that Blaikie was a detective, did you expect the news to reach me through him?"
"I did," with a quizzical glance at me; "and it reached you, I take it."
"Yes; it reached me. And now, Long – it seems most natural to call you so – I will make no comments upon your story now. I think you are assured of my friendship and sympathy. I can act better than I can talk. But be sure of one thing, from henceforth you stand clear of all charges against you. The man who shot Dr. Bethel is now in limbo, and he will confess the whole plot on the witness stand; and, as for the old trouble, Joe Blaikie shall tell the truth concerning that."
He lifts his head and looks at me steadfastly for a moment.
"When that is accomplished," he says, earnestly, "I shall feel myself once more a man among men."
CHAPTER XLI.
A GATHERING OF THE FRAGMENTS
There was a meeting of the vigilants that night and Gerry Brown, Mr. Harris, Justice Summers and myself, were present with them.
I gave them the details of my investigation, and related the cause of Doctor Bethel's troubles. When they understood that the outlaws had looked upon Bethel as a detective, and their natural enemy, the vigilants were ready to anticipate the rest of my story.
When everything concerning the male members of the clique had been discussed, I entered a plea for Adele Lowenstein, and my audience was not slow to respond.
Mr. Harris arose in his place, and gave a concise account of the visit paid by his wife and Miss Barnard to the dethroned heiress, as he had heard it described by Mrs. Harris.
Adele Lowenstein had been sincerely grateful for their kindness, and had consented to act precisely as they should advise, let the result be what it would. She would give her testimony against the horse-thieves, and trust to the mercy of the Traftonites. Her story may as well be completed here, for there is little more to tell.
She was not made a prisoner. Mrs. Harris and Louise Barnard were not the women to do things by halves. They used all their influence in her favor, and they had the vigilants and many of the best citizens to aid them. They disarmed public opinion. They appealed to men high in power and won their championship. They conducted their campaign wisely and they carried the day.
There were found for Adele Lowenstein, the counterfeiter's daughter, "extenuating circumstances: " what the jury could not do the governor did, and she went out from the place, where justice had been tempered with mercy, a free woman.
The Hill was sold, and Miss Lowenstein, who had avowed her intention of retaking her father's name, sullied as it was, prepared to find a new home in some far away city.
One day while the trial was pending, Gerry Brown came to me with fidgety manner and serious countenance.
"Old man," he said, anxiously, "I've been thinking about Miss Lowenstein."
"Stop it, Gerry. It's a dangerous occupation for a fellow of your age."
"My, age indeed! Two years, four months and seventeen days younger than your ancient highness, I believe."
"A man may learn much in two years, four months, and seventeen days – , Gerry. What about Miss Lowenstein?"
"I'm sorry for the girl."
"So am I."
"Don't be a bore, old man."
"Then come to the point, youngster."
"Youngster!" indignantly, "well, I'll put that to our private account. About Miss Lowenstein, then: She is without friends, and is just the sort of woman who needs occupation to keep her out of mischief and contented. She's ladylike and clever, and she knows the world; don't you think she would be a good hand on the force."
I paused to consider. I knew the kind of woman that we sometimes needed, and it seemed to me that Adele Lowenstein would "be a good hand." I knew, too, that our Chief was not entirely satisfied with one or two women in his employ. So I stopped chaffing Gerry and said soberly:
"Gerry, it's a good idea. We'll consult the lady and if she would like the occupation, I will write to our Chief."
Adele Lowenstein was eager to enter upon a career so much to her taste, and our Chief was consulted. He manifested a desire to see the lady, and she went to the city.
The interview was satisfactory to both. Adele Lowenstein became one of our force, and a very valuable and efficient addition she proved.
I had assured Jim Long, – even yet I find it difficult to call him Harvey James, – that his name should be freed from blot or suspicion. And it was not so hard a task as he evidently thought it.
Blake Simpson, like most scamps of his class, was only too glad to do anything that would lighten his own sentence, and when he found that the Brookhouse faction had come to grief, and that his own part in their plot had been traced home to him by "the detectives," he weakened at once, and lost no time in turning State's evidence. He confessed that he had come to Trafton, in company with Dimber Joe, to "play detective," at the instigation, and under the pay of Brookhouse senior, who had visited the city to procure their services. And that Arch Brookhouse had afterward bribed him to make the assault upon Bethel, and planned the mode of attack; sending him, Simpson, to Ireton, and giving him a note to the elder Briggs, who furnished him with the little team and light buggy, which took him back to Trafton, where the shooting was done precisely as I had supposed after my investigation.
Dimber Joe made a somewhat stouter resistance, and I offered him two alternatives.
He might confess the truth concerning the accusations under which Harvey James had been tried and wrongfully imprisoned; in which case I would not testify against him except so far as he had been connected with the horse-thieves in the capacity of sham detective and spy. Or, he might refuse to do Harvey James justice, in which case I would put Brooks on the witness stand to exonerate James, and I myself would lessen his chances for obtaining a light sentence, by showing him up to the court as the villain he was; garroter, panel-worker, counterfeiter, burglar, and general utility rascal.
Brooks or Brookhouse was certain of a long sentence, I assured Blaikie, and he would benefit rather than injure his cause by exposing the plot to ruin and fleece James. Would Mr. Blaikie choose, and choose quickly?
And Mr. Blaikie, after a brief consideration, chose to tell the truth, and forever remove from Harvey James the brand of counterfeiter.
The testimony against the entire gang was clear and conclusive. The elder Brookhouse, knowing this, made very little effort to defend himself and his band, and so "The 'Squire" and Arch Brookhouse were sentenced for long terms. Louis Brookhouse, the two Briggs, Ed. Dwight, the festive, Larkins and the two city scamps, were sentenced for lesser periods, but none escaped lightly.
Only one question, and that one of minor importance, yet lacked an answer, and one day, before his trial, I visited Arch Brookhouse in his cell, my chief purpose being to ask this question.
"There is one thing," I said, after a few words had passed between us, "there is one thing that I should like you to tell me, merely as a matter of self-gratification, as it is now of no special importance; and that is, how did you discover my identity, when I went to Mrs. Ballou's disguised as a Swede?"
He laughed harshly.
"You detectives do not always cover up your tracks," he said, with a sneer. "I don't object to telling you what you seem so curious about. 'Squire Ewing and Mr. Rutger went to the city to employ you, and no doubt you charged them to be secret as the grave concerning your plans. Nevertheless, Mr. Rutger, who is a simple-minded confiding soul, told the secret in great confidence to Farmer La Porte; and he repeated it, again in great confidence in the bosom of his family."
"And in the presence of his son, Johnnie?"
"Just so. When we learned that a disguised detective was coming into the community, and that he would appear within a certain time, we began to look for him, and you were the only stranger we discovered."
"And you wrote me that letter of warning?"
"Precisely."
"And undoubtedly you are the fellow who shot at me?"
"I am happy to say that I am."
"And I am happy to know that I have deprived you of the pleasure of handling firearms again for some time to come. Good morning, Mr. Brookhouse."
That was my final interview with Arch Brookhouse, but I saw him once more, for the last time, when I gave my testimony against him at the famous trial of the Trafton horse-thieves.
When the whole truth concerning the modus operandi of the horse-thieves was made public at the trial, when the Traftonites learned that for five years they had harbored stolen horses under the very steeples of the town, and that those horses, when the heat of the chase was over, were boldly driven away across the country and toward the river before a lumbering coal cart, they were astounded at the boldness of the scheme, and the hardihood of the men who had planned it.
But they no longer marveled at their own inability to fathom so cunning a plot.
CHAPTER XLII.
IN CONCLUSION
When Winter closed in, and the first snow mantled the farms of Groveland, the poor girl whom Johnny La Porte had reluctantly made his wife, closed her eyes upon this earthly panorama.
She never rallied after her return from the South. They said that she died of consumption, but her friends knew, whatever medical name might be applied to her disease at the end, that it began with a broken heart.
When it was over, and Nellie Ewing had no further need of his presence, Johnny La Porte, – who, held to his duty by the stern and oftentimes menacing eye of 'Squire Ewing, as well as by the fear which Carnes had implanted in his heart, had been as faithful and as gentle to his poor wife as it was in his worthless nature to be, – now found himself shunned in the community where he had once been petted and flattered.
There was no forgiveness in the heart of 'Squire Ewing, and his door was closed against his daughter's destroyer; for such the Grovelanders, in spite of his tardy reparation, considered Johnny La Porte.
He attempted to resume his old life in Groveland; but 'Squire Ewing was beloved in the community, and when he turned his back upon Johnny La Porte his neighbors followed his example.
Nowhere among those cordial Grovelanders was there a place or a welcome for the man who had blighted the life of Nellie Ewing, and so he drifted away from Groveland, to sink lower and lower in the scale of manhood – dissolute, brainless, a cumberer of the ground.
Nellie Ewing's sad death had its effect upon thoughtless little Mamie Rutger. She was shocked into sobriety, and her grief at the loss of her friend brought with it shame for her own folly, and then repentance and a sincere effort to be a more dutiful daughter and a better woman.
Mrs. Ballou put her threat into execution after mature deliberation. She put her daughter Grace into a convent school, and then, to make assurance doubly sure, she rented her fine farm, and took up her abode near that of the good sisters who had charge of her daughter's mental and spiritual welfare.
As for the Little Adelphi and Fred Brookhouse, they both lost prestige after coming under the severe scrutiny of the police. One iniquitous discovery concerning the theatre and its manager led to more; and before another Spring visited the Sunny South, the Little Adelphi and Fred Brookhouse had vanished together, the one transformed into an excellent green grocers' establishment, and the other into a strolling disciple of chance.
Amy Holmes clung to the Little Adelphi to the last; and, after its final fall, she, too, wandered away from New Orleans, carrying with her, her secret which had been so serviceable a weapon in the hands of Carnes, but which he never knew.
It is written in the book of Fate that I shall pay one more visit to Trafton.
This time there is no gloom, no plotting; there are no wrongs to right. The time is the fairest of the year, May time, and the occasion is a joyous one.
Doctor Denham, funny, talkative, and lovable as ever; Carnes, bubbling over with whimsical Hibernianisms; Gerry Brown, handsome and in high spirits; and myself, quite as happy as are the rest; all step down upon the platform at the Trafton depot, and one after another grasp the outstretched hands of Harvey James, whom we all will call Jim Long in spite of ourselves, and then receive the hearty welcome of the Harris's, senior and junior, and many other Traftonites.
We have come to witness the end of our Trafton drama, viz., the marriage of Louise Barnard and Carl Bethel.
Bethel is as happy as mortals are ever permitted to be and as handsome as a demigod. There are left no traces of his former suffering; the wound inflicted by a hired assassin has healed, leaving him as strong as of old, and only the scar upon his breast remains to tell the story of the long days when his life hung by a thread.
Of the blow that was aimed at his honor, there remains not even a scar. The plot of the grave robbers has recoiled upon their own heads. Dr. Carl Bethel is to-day the leading physician, and the most popular man in Trafton.
"I have waited for this event," says Harvey James, as we sit chatting together an hour before the marriage. "I have waited to see them married, and after this is over, I am going West."
"Not out of our reach, I hope!"
"No; I have still the surplus of the price of my farm; enough to buy me a ranche and stock it finely. I mean to build a roomy cabin and fit it up so as to accomodate guests. Then by-and-by, when you want another Summer's vacation, you and Carnes shall come to my ranche. I have talked over my plans with Bethel and his bride, and they have already accepted my hospitality for next year's vacation. I anticipate some years of genuine comfort yet, for I have long wanted to explore the West, and try life as a ranchman, but I would not leave Trafton while Brooks continued to flourish in it. Do you mean to accept my invitation, sir?"
"I do, indeed; and as for Carnes, you'll get him to come easier than you can persuade him to leave."
"Nothing could suit me better."
Louise Barnard made a lovely bride, and there never was a merrier or more harmonious wedding party.
During the evening, however, the fair bride approached Jim – or Harvey James – and myself, as we stood a little aloof from the others. There was the least bit of a frown upon her face, too, as she said:
"I can't help feeling cross with you, sir detective. Somebody must bear the blame of not bringing Adele Lowenstein to my wedding. I wrote her that I should take her presence as a sign that she fully believed in the sincerity of my friendship, and that Trafton would thus be assured of my entire faith in her, and yet, she declined."
I do not know what to say in reply. So I drop my eyes and mentally anathematize my own stupidity.
"Do you know why she refused to come?" she persists.
While I still hesitate, Jim – I must say Jim – touches my arm.
"Your delicacy is commendable," he says in my ear. "But would it not be better to tell Mrs. Bethel the truth, than to allow her to think the woman she has befriended, ungrateful?"
I feel that he is wise and I am foolish; so I lift my eyes to her face and say:
"Mrs. Bethel, Adele Lowenstein had one secret that you never guessed. If you had seen her, as I saw her, at the bedside of your husband, on the day after the attempt upon his life, you, of all women in the world, would understand best why she is not at your wedding to-day."
She utters a startled exclamation, and her eyes turn involuntarily to where Carl Bethel stands, tall and splendid, among his guests; then a look of pitying tenderness comes into her face.
"Poor Adele!" she says softly, and turns slowly away.
"Adele Lowenstein is not the woman to forget easily," I say to my companion. "But there," and I nod toward Gerry Brown, "is the man who would willingly teach her the lesson."
"Then," says Jim, contentedly, "it is only a question of time. Gerry Brown is bound to win."
THE END1
Handsome.
