CHAPTER XVI.
DAN MAKES A DISCOVERY
Dan's mother was much pleased with her new quarters. The large room, occupied by Althea and herself, was bright and cheerful, and well furnished. Besides the ordinary chamber furniture, there was a comfortable arm-chair and a lounge. Mrs. Mordaunt felt that she would not be ashamed now to receive a visit from some of her former friends.
She had anticipated some trouble about the preparation of meals, but Mrs. Brown made a proposition which wonderfully removed all difficulties.
"Mrs. Mordaunt," she said, "your family is about the same as mine. I have a son who is employed in a newspaper office down town, and you have two young children. Now, suppose we club together, and each pay half of the table supplies. Then one day you can superintend the cooking—you will only have to direct my servant Maggie—and the next day I will do it. Then, every other day, each of us will be a lady of leisure, and not have to go into the kitchen at all. What do you say?"
"The arrangement will be so much to my advantage that I can say only one thing—I accept with thanks. But won't you be doing more than your share? You will be furnishing the fuel, and pay Maggie's wages."
"I should have to do that at any rate. The plan is perfectly satisfactory to me, if it suits you."
Mrs. Mordaunt found that the expense was not beyond her means. Her income for the care of Althea was fifty dollars a month, and Dan paid her four dollars a week out of his wages, reserving the balance as a fund to purchase clothes. She went herself to market and selected articles for the table, and, for the first time since her husband's failure, found herself in easy circumstances.
There was no need now to make vests at starvation prices. She had thought of continuing, but Dan insisted upon her giving it up entirely.
"If you want to sew, mother," he said, "you can make some of Althea's clothes, and pay yourself out of the ten dollars a month allowed for her clothes."
This was sensible and proper, and Mrs. Mordaunt decided to follow Dan's advice. She lost no time in obtaining books for the little girl, and commencing her education. Althea knew her letters, but nothing more. She was bright and eager to learn, and gained rapidly under her new teacher.
Naturally, Dan and his mother were curious as to Althea's early history, but from the little girl they obtained little information.
"Do you remember your mother, Althea?" asked Dan, one evening.
"Yes," said the little girl.
"When did you see her last?"
"Not long ago. Only a little while before you brought me here."
"Your mother isn't dead, is she?"
"No; but she's gone away."
"Why did she go away?"
"She is sick. That's what auntie told me. Poor mamma cried very much when she went away. She kissed me, and called me her darling."
"Do you know where she went?"
"No; I don't know."
"Perhaps her lungs are affected, and she has gone to a warmer climate," suggested Mrs. Mordaunt. "She may have gone to Florida, or even to Italy."
"Where is your father?" asked Dan, turning to Althea.
"Father is a bad man," said the child, positively. "He made mamma cry. He went away a good while ago."
"And didn't he come back?"
"He came back once, and then mamma cried again. I think he wanted mamma to give him some money."
Dan and his mother talked over the little girl's revelations, and thought they had obtained a clew to the mystery in which the child's history was involved. Althea's mother might have married a man of bad habits, who wanted to get possession of her fortune, and rendered a separation necessary. Ill health might have required her to leave home and shift the care of the little girl upon strangers. It seemed rather odd that she should have been handed over to utter strangers, but there might have been reasons of which they knew nothing.
"We won't trouble ourselves about it," said Dan. "It's good luck for us, even if it was bad luck for Althea's mother. I like the idea of having a little sister."
Althea's last name was not known to her new protector. When Dan inquired, he was told that she could pass by his name, so Althea Mordaunt she became.
Both Dan and his mother had feared that she might become homesick, but the fear seemed groundless. She was of a happy disposition, and almost immediately began to call Mrs. Mordaunt mother.
"I call you mother," she said, "but I have a mamma besides; but she has gone away."
"You must not forget your mamma, my dear," said the widow.
"No, I won't. She will come back some day; she said she would."
"And I will take care of you till she does, Althea."
"Yes," said the child, nodding. "I am glad I came to you, for now I have a brother Dan."
"And I have a little sister," said Dan.
While Dan was away, and now he was away after supper regularly, Althea was a great deal of company for Mrs. Mordaunt.
In the pleasant afternoons she took the little girl out to walk, frequently to Union Square Park, where she made acquaintance with other little girls, and had a merry time, while her new mother sat on one of the benches.
One day a dark-complexioned gentleman, who had been looking earnestly at Althea, addressed Mrs. Mordaunt.
"That is a fine little girl of yours, madam," he said.
"Thank you," said Mrs. Mordaunt.
"She does not resemble you much," he said, inquiringly.
"No; there is very little resemblance," answered Mrs. Mordaunt, quietly, feeling that she must be on her guard.
"Probably she resembles her father?" again essayed the stranger.
Mrs. Mordaunt did not reply, and the stranger thought she was offended.
"I beg your pardon," he said, "but she resembles a friend of mine, and that called my attention to her."
Mrs. Mordaunt bowed, but thought it wisest not to protract the conversation. She feared that the inquirer might be a friend of the father, and hostile to the true interests of the child.
For a week to come she did not again bring Althea to the park, but walked with her in a different direction. When, after a week, she returned to the square, the stranger had disappeared. At all events, he was not to be seen.
We pass now to Dan and his interests.
Mr. Talbot heard of his engagement with anything but satisfaction. He even ventured to remonstrate with Mr. Rogers.
"Do you know that this boy whom you have engaged is a common newsboy?" he asked. "I have bought a paper more than once of him, in front of the Astor House."
"So have I," answered Mr. Rogers, quietly.
"Then you know all about him?"
"Yes."
"It is none of my business, but I think you could easily get a better boy. There is my nephew–"
"Your nephew would not suit me, Mr. Talbot."
The book-keeper bit his lip.
"Won't you give him a trial?" he asked.
"I have engaged Dan."
"If Dan should prove unsatisfactory, would you try my nephew?"
"Perhaps so."
It was an incautious concession, for it was an inducement to the book-keeper to get Dan into trouble.
It was Dan's duty to go to the post-office, sometimes to go on errands, and to make himself generally useful about the warehouses. As we know, however, he had other duties of a more important character, of which Mr. Talbot knew nothing.
The first discovery Dan made was made through the book-keeper's carelessness.
Mr. Rogers was absent in Philadelphia, when Talbot received a note which evidently disturbed him. Dan saw him knitting his brows, and looking moody. Finally he hastily wrote a note, and called Dan.
"Take that to – Wall street," he said, "and don't loiter on the way."
The note was directed to Jones & Robinson.
On reaching the address, Dan found that Jones & Robinson were stock brokers.
Jones read the note.
"You come from Mr. Talbot?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
"Tell him we will carry the stocks for him a week longer, but can't exceed that time."
"Perhaps you had better write him a note," suggested Dan, "as he may not like to have me know his business."
"Very well."
So Dan carried back the note.
"I believe I have made a discovery," he said to himself. "Mr. Talbot is speculating in Wall street. I wonder if he speculates with his own money or the firm's?"
His face, however, betrayed nothing as he handed the note to the book-keeper, and the latter, after a searching glance, decided that there was nothing to fear in that quarter.
CHAPTER XVII.
TALBOT'S SECRET
Some light may be thrown upon Mr. Talbot's operations, if the reader will accompany him to a brownstone house on Lexington avenue, on the evening of the day when Dan was sent to the office of the Wall street brokers.
Mr. Talbot ascended the steps, not with the elastic step of a man with whom the world is prospering, but with the slow step of a man who is burdened with care.
"Is Miss Conway at home?" he inquired of the servant who answered the bell.
"Yes, sir."
"Will you tell her I should like to speak with her?"
"Yes, sir."
Talbot walked in with the air of one who was familiar with the house, and entering a small front room, took a seat.
The furniture was plain, and the general appearance was that of a boarding-house.
Talbot seemed immersed in thought, and only raised his eyes from the carpet when he heard the entrance of a young lady. His face lighted up, and he rose eagerly.
"My dear Virginia," he said, "it seems a long time since I saw you."
"It is only four days," returned the young lady, coolly.
"Four days without seeing you is an eternity."
The young lady smiled. It was easy to see that Talbot was in love, and she was not.
"A very pretty compliment," she said. "Well, have you any news?"
"Not good news," said he, soberly.
She shrugged her shoulders, and looked disappointed.
Before going further, it may be as well to describe briefly the young lady who had so enthralled the book-keeper.
She had the advantage of youth, a complexion clear red and white, and decidedly pretty features. If there was a defect, it was the expression of her eyes. There was nothing soft or winning in her glance. She seemed, and was, of a cold, calculating, unsympathetic nature. She was intensely selfish, and was resolved only to marry a man who could gratify her taste for finery and luxurious living.
She was the niece of Mrs. Sinclair, who kept the boarding-house, and though living in dependence upon her aunt, did nothing to relieve her from the care and drudgery incidental to her business.
"It's too provoking," she said, pouting.
"So it is, Virginia;" and Talbot tried to take her hand, but she quietly withdrew it.
"You told me that you would have plenty of money by this time, Mr. Talbot."
"I expected it, but a man can't foresee the fluctuations of Wall street. I am afraid I shall meet with a loss."
"I don't believe you are as smart as Sam Eustis—he's engaged to my cousin. He made ten thousand dollars last month on Lake Shore."
"It's the fools that blunder into luck," said Talbot, irritated.
"Then you'd better turn fool; it seems to pay," said Virginia, rather sharply.
"No need of that—I'm fool enough already," said Talbot, bitterly.
"Oh, well, if you've only come here to make yourself disagreeable, I'm sure you'd better stay away," said the young lady, tossing her head.
"I came here expecting sympathy and encouragement," said Talbot. "Instead, you receive me with taunts and coldness."
"You are unreasonable, Mr. Talbot," said Virginia. "I will be cheerful and pleasant when you bring me agreeable news."
"Oh, Virginia!" exclaimed Talbot, impulsively. "Why will you require impossibilities of me? Take me as I am. I have an income of two thousand dollars a year. We can live comfortably on that, and be happy in a snug little home."
"Snug little home!" repeated the young lady, scornfully. "Thank you; I'd rather not. I know just what that means. It means that I am to be a household drudge, afraid to spend an extra sixpence—perhaps obliged to take lodgers, like my aunt."
"Not so bad as that, Virginia."
"It would come to that in time."
"I am sure you cannot love me when you so coolly give me up for money."
"I haven't given you up, but I want you to get money."
"Would to Heaven I could!"
"You could if you were in earnest."
"Do you doubt that?"
"Where there's a will, there's a way, Mr. Talbot. If you really care so much for me, you will try to support me as I want to live."
"Tell me, in a word, what you want."
"Well," said Virginia, slowly, "I want to go to Europe for my honey-moon. I've heard so much of Paris, I know I should like it ever so much. Then I want to live respectably when I get back."
"What do you call living respectably?" asked Talbot.
"Well, we must have a nice little house to ourselves, and I think, just at first, I could get along with three servants; and I should want to go to the opera, and the theater, and to concerts."
"You have not been accustomed to live in that way, Virginia."
"No; and that's why I have made up my mind not to marry unless my husband can gratify me."
"Suppose this is impossible?"
"Impossible for you!" said Miss Conway, significantly.
"You mean you will look elsewhere?" said Talbot, hastily.
"Yes, I think so," said Virginia, coolly.
"And you would desert me for a richer suitor?" he demanded, quickly.
"Of course I would rather marry you—you know that," said Virginia, with perfect self-possession; "but if you can't meet my conditions, perhaps it is better that we should part."
"You are cruel—heartless!" exclaimed Talbot, angrily.
"No; only sensible," she returned, calmly. "I don't mean to marry you and be unhappy all my life; and I can't be happy living in the stuffy way my aunt does. We should both be sorry for such a marriage when it was too late."
"I will take the risk, Virginia," said Talbot, fixing his eyes with passionate love on the cold-hearted girl.
"But I will not," said Virginia, decidedly. "I am sure you needn't take it to heart, Mr. Talbot. Why don't you exert yourself and win a fortune, as other people do? I am sure plenty of money is made in Wall street."
"And lost."
"Not if you are smart. Come now, smooth your face, and tell me you will try," she said, coaxingly.
"Yes, Virginia, I will try," he answered, his face clearing. "And if I try–"
"You will succeed," she said, smiling.
"Well, I hope I may."
"And now don't let us talk about disagreeable things. Do you know, sir, it is a week since you took me to any place of amusement? And here I have been moping at home every evening with my aunt, who is terribly tiresome, poor old soul!"
"I would rather spend the evening here with you, Virginia, than go to any place of amusement."
"Then I can't agree with you. One gets tired of spooning."
"I don't—if you call by that name being in the company of one you love."
"You would, if you had as little variety as I have."
"Tell me one thing, Virginia—you love me, don't you?" asked Talbot, in whose mind sometimes there rose an unpleasant suspicion that his love was not returned.
"Why, of course I do, you foolish man," she said, carelessly. "And now, where are you going to take me?"
"Where do you want to go, my darling?"
"To the Italian opera. To-morrow they play 'The Huguenots.'"
"I thought you didn't care for music, Virginia?"
"I don't go for that. I want to go because it's fashionable, and I want to be seen. So, be a good boy, and get some nice seats for to-morrow evening."
"Very well, my darling."
"And you'll try to get rich, for my sake?"
"Yes, Virginia. How rich must I be?"
"As soon as you can tell me you have ten thousand dollars, and will spend half of it on a trip to Europe, I will marry you."
"Is that a bargain?"
"Yes."
"Then I hope to tell you so soon."
"The sooner the better."
When Talbot left the house it was with the determination to secure the sum required by any means, however objectionable. His great love had made him reckless.
Virginia Conway followed his retreating form with her cool, calculating glance.
"Poor man! he is awfully in love!" she said to herself. "I'll give him two months to raise the money, and if he fails, I think I can captivate Mr. Cross, though he's horrid."
Mr. Cross was a middle-aged grocer, a widower, without children, and reputed moderately wealthy.
When Mr. Talbot had entered the house, Dan was not far off. Later, he saw him at the window with Virginia.
"I suppose that's his young lady," thought Dan. "All right! I guess he's safe for this evening."
CHAPTER XVIII.
TWO KNIGHTS OF THE HIGHWAY
Stocks took an upward turn, so that Talbot's brokers were willing to carry them for him longer without an increase of margin. The market looked so uncertain, however, that he decided to sell, though he only made himself whole. To escape loss hardly satisfied him, when it was so essential to make money.
He was deeply in love with Virginia Conway, but there was no hope of obtaining her consent to a marriage unless he could raise money enough to gratify her desires.
How should he do it?
He was returning to his boarding-house at a late hour one night, when, in an unfrequented street, two figures advanced upon him from the darkness, and, while one seized him by the throat, the other rifled his pockets.
Talbot was not a coward, and having only a few dollars in his pocket-book, while his watch, luckily, was under repair at Tiffany's, he submitted quietly to the examination.
The pocket-book was opened and its contents eagerly scanned.
An exclamation of disgust mingled with profanity followed.
"Only five dollars, Mike!" muttered one of the ruffians.
"Why don't you carry money, like a gentleman?" demanded the man called Mike. "Ain't you ashamed to carry such a lean wallet as that there?"
"Really, gentlemen, if I had expected to meet you, I would have provided myself better," said Talbot, not without a gleam of humor.
"He's chaffing us Bill," said Mike.
"You'd better not, if you know what's best for yourself," growled Bill. "Where's your ticker?"
"My watch is at Tiffany's."
"That's too thin."
"It's the truth. You ought to have waited till next week, when I'd have had it for you."
"You're a cool customer."
"Why not?"
"We might hurt you."
"You have already. Don't squeeze my throat so next time."
"Have you any jewelry about you?"
"Only a pair of sleeve buttons."
"Gold?"
"Yes; but they are small, and not worth much."
"You've took us in reg'lar! A gent like you ought to have diamond studs, or a pin, or something of value."
"I know it, and I'm sorry I haven't, for your sakes."
"No chaffing!" said Bill, with an ominous growl.
"Don't be afraid. I look upon you as gentlemen, and treat you accordingly. In fact, I'm glad I've met with you."
"Why?" asked Mike, suspiciously.
"I may be able to put something in your way."
"Are you on the square?" asked Bill, rather surprised.
"Yes."
"What is it?"
"I can't tell you in the street. Is there any quiet place, where we shall not be disturbed or overheard?"
The men looked at each other in doubt.
"This may be a plant," said Mike, suspiciously.
"On my honor, it isn't."
"If it is," growled Bill, "you'd better make your will."
"I know the risk, and am not afraid. In short, I have a job for you."
The men consulted, and finally were led to put confidence in Talbot.
"Is there money in it?" asked Mike.
"Two hundred dollars apiece."
"We'll hear what you have to say. Bill, let's go to your room."
"Is it far away?" asked Talbot.
"No."
"Lead on, then."
The three made their way to a dilapidated building on Houston street, and ascended to the fourth floor.
Bill kicked open the door of a room with his foot and strode in.
A thin, wretched-looking woman sat in a wooden chair, holding a young child.
"Is it you, Bill?" she asked.
"Yes, it's me!" growled her husband. "Just clear out into the other room. Me and these gentlemen have business together."
She meekly obeyed the command of her lord, glancing curiously at Talbot as she went out. Mike she knew only too well, as one of her husband's evil companions.
The door was closed, but the wife bent her ear to the keyhole and listened attentively.
Suspecting nothing, the conspirators spoke in louder tones than they were aware of, so that she obtained a pretty clear idea of what was being planned.
"Now go ahead," said Bill, throwing himself on the chair his wife had vacated. "What's your game?"
"Can you open a safe?" asked Talbot.
"We might, 'specially if we knowed the combination."
"Perhaps I can manage that."
"Where is it?"
Talbot gave the name of his employer and the number of his store.
"What have you got to do with it?"
"I'm the book-keeper."
"You are? What are you going to make out of it?"
"Leave that to me. I'll guarantee that you'll find four hundred dollars there to pay you for your trouble."
"That isn't enough. The risk is too great."
"It is only one night's work."
"If we're caught, it'll be Sing Sing for seven years."
"That's true. How much do you require, gentlemen?"
The men consulted.
"We might do it for five hundred apiece," said Bill.
There was a little discussion, but finally this was acceded to. Various details were discussed, and the men separated.
"I'm goin' your way," said Mike. "I'll show you the way out."
"All right, thank you, but we'd better separate at the street door."
"Why? Are you too fine a gentleman to be seen with the likes of me?" demanded Mike, feeling insulted.
"Not at all, my friend; but if we were seen together by any of the police, who know me as book-keeper, it would excite suspicion later."
"You're right. Your head's level. You're sure you're on the square?"
"Yes, my friend. I shouldn't dare to tamper with men like you and Bill. You might find a way to get even with me."
"That's so, stranger. I guess we can trust you."
"You may be sure of that."
"More crime!" said the miserable wife to herself, as she heard through the keyhole the details of the plan. "Bill is getting worse and worse every day. Where will it all end?"
"Here, Nancy, get me something to eat," said Bill, when his visitors had departed.
"Yes, Bill, I will get you all there is."
The wife brought out from a small closet a slice of bread and a segment of cheese.
"Pah!" said the burly ruffian, turning up his nose. "What are you giving us?"
"It's all I've got, Bill."
"Where's the meat, I say?"
"There is none."
"You and your brat have eaten it!" said he, irritably.
"God help us, Bill! We have had no meat for a week."
"That's a lie! I can't eat such trash as that. Do you mean to starve me?"
"I can't make food, Bill. If you will give money, I will provide better. I can't do anything without money."
"Whining, are you?" said the brute, furiously. "I'll teach you to complain of me. Take that, and that!" and he struck the woman two brutal blows with his fist. One, glancing, struck the child, who began to cry. This further irritated Bill, who, seizing his wife by the shoulders, thrust her out on the landing.
"There, stay there with the cursed brat!" he growled. "I mean to have one quiet night."
The wretched wife crept down stairs, and out into the street, scarcely knowing what she did. She was not wholly destitute of spirit, and though she might have forgiven personal injury, felt incensed by the treatment of her innocent child.
"My poor baby!" she said, pitifully, "must you suffer because your father is a brute? May Heaven avenge our wrongs! Sooner or later it will."
She sat down on some steps near by; the air was chilly, and she shivered with the cold, but she tried to shelter her babe as well as she could. She attracted the attention of a boy who was walking slowly by.
It was Dan, who had at a distance witnessed Talbot's encounter with the burglars, and his subsequent friendly companionship with them, and was trying to ascertain the character of the place which he visited.
"What's the matter with you?" asked Dan, in a tone of sympathy.
"My husband has thrust me out of doors with my poor baby."
"He must be a nice husband. Do you want a lodging?"
"I have no money."
"I can let you have enough for that. There's a cheap hotel near by. I'll take you to it, and pay for your lodging, and pay for it in advance."
"Heaven bless you! You are indeed a friend."
"Take my arm."
Supported by Dan, the poor woman rose and walked to an humble tavern not far away.
"She may know something about Talbot's visit. I'll question her," thought Dan.