THE general belief is that the most exciting incidents of a law-firm's practice occur during the trial of cases in court. When every nerve is strained in an important legal contest, and attorneys are alert to discover the slightest flaw in an opponent's case, the conditions are certainly favorable for the occurrence of dramatic incidents; yet it is probable that the various phases of life observed by a counselor outside the court-room are even more dramatic. The lawyer who counsels his clients can perceive men as they really are. The mask behind which men of the world usually conceal their emotions and aspirations is then thrown aside, and the counselor often sees much of the baseness of humanity, occasionally its noblest traits. The problems presented for his consideration are often intricate, sometimes even seemingly unsolvable. Lately a case was placed in the hands of our firm that especially illustrates this phase of a lawyer's life.

      When I arrived at the office one morning I found a Mr. Andrus waiting for me in my private room.

      "Judge," he said, as soon as I was seated, "you have counseled me frequently, and I have always followed your advice. I wish to say, at the outset, that my wealth is greatly overrated. I am reputed to be a millionaire, but half a million would be an excessive estimate of my property. As you are aware, I have five daughters; one happily married, two moving in society, and two at school in New Haven. My family is somewhat extravagant, and my income barely suffices to support us in the style in which we live. Under these circumstances, it was not unwelcome news when my second daughter, Isabel, informed me that Mr. Thaddeus Skervin had proposed to her. Mr. Skervin is a little over thirty years of age, educated, refined, fairly good-looking, amiable, and a member of a number of leading clubs. He is reputed to be worth about three million dollars. His business is that of a broker and a promoter of important industrial enterprises."

      "I know Mr. Skervin quite well," I remarked. "He has consulted our firm on several occasions. He always impressed me as being upright and honorable, though somewhat peculiar in his manner. He seems to have had, or perhaps I should say to have, some great grief weighing on him; and he also impresses me as a man who lives in constant dread of some ever-present danger."

      "Judge," resumed Mr. Andrus, "you have partly anticipated the matter regarding which I have called. Isabel informed me that she loved Mr. Skervin sincerely and had accepted him, subject to her parents' approval. Mr. Skervin told her that there was a secret in his life, regarding which he had no right to inform her till after their marriage; it could be told only to one united to him by the strongest ties. His father, it appears, was a Polish nobleman; his mother an Englishwoman. The father was killed many years since he did not say how-and the residence of his mother is unknown to her friends. His father's name was Skervinski; but this was anglicized, prior to the birth of the son, who was born in London.

      "Mr. Skervin called on me, as in duty bound, after he had proposed to Isabel, and was quite frank regarding his financial affairs. I am free to say that his business methods are peculiar. He informed me that he had no account at any bank. I remarked that this was strange. He said that he had a most important reason for this, and that he invariably collected all cheques and drafts himself.

      "His means, which are quite extensive, are always under his own control; and he holds large sums at his disposal, ready for instant use if the necessity should arise. He owns, it appears, the house in which he lives on Forty-sixth street, as well as those on each side, and several others in the upper part of the city. He estimated his wealth at over two million dollars.

      "He gave me as references two friends, both members of the Millionaires' Club, to which Mr. Skervin himself belongs. I called on one of them, and found that Mr. Skervin was mistaken in believing this man to be his friend. He is in the same business as Mr. Skervin, and evidently envious of the latter's phenomenal success. He, however, said nothing discreditable to Mr. Skervin's character, or derogatory to his financial position; but after some remarks, which could not be termed friendly, he said: 'I suppose, Mr. Andrus, that you are aware Mr. Skervin is known as "The Vanishing Millionaire"?'

      "I naturally expressed surprise at the use of such a term, and he informed me that it rose from the fact that Mr. Skervin was never known to leave his house, yet was always at his office during business hours. This statement seemed so extraordinary that I deemed it merely club gossip; yet it worried me. I cannot bring myself to consent to the marriage of Isabel with a millionaire who dares not have a bank-account, and who is so eccentric in his habits — yes, more than this, so mysterious in his movements.

      "Under the circumstances, I did something, judge, that you will doubtless think uncalled-for, and perhaps ungentlemanly. I employed detectives to watch Mr. Skervin. They have traced him through the business centre and back to his residence, they have watched the house night and day; and have verified the report. Except on rare occasions, he is never seen to leave his house, yet each day he is promptly on hand for business. Where he starts from, the detectives have been unable to ascertain."

      Mr. Andrus closed his statement by asking what course he should take in the matter.

      With so few facts before me, I felt unable to advise him. I said that I would consult the other members of the firm, and then give him such counsel as I could under circumstances so singular. Leaving the matter thus, Mr. Andrus went out.

      I deemed that the first step should be a determination of how far the firm desired to go in the matter; and accordingly we went into consultation. We unanimously decided that no desire to advise Mr. Andrus would justify us in placing Mr. Skervin, who had also been a client of the firm, under the espionage of detectives; so long, at least, as he was not charged with some criminal act.

      We also decided that, unless some steps were taken to ascertain the truth of the reports, the matter might become remarkably unpleasant for Mr. Skervin, and even, perhaps, subject him to unwarrantable suspicion. It was to his advantage as much as to that of Mr. Andrus to have the truth known. It was finally agreed that we would obtain all the reports of the detectives who had been employed by Mr. Andrus, and also request Mr. Germaine to investigate the situation of Mr. Skervin's residence, that we might have an intelligent idea of its surroundings. If the facts thus learned were such as would enable us to reach a solution of the mystery, we would advise Mr. Andrus on the subject; otherwise we would decline any further connection with the case.

      I have said it was agreed, but it is only fair to state that Judge Egert did not approve this course of action. He insisted that the direct way out of the difficulty was not only the better but the more honorable, both on the part of Mr. Andrus and of the firm. Judge Egert's proposition was that Mr. Andrus should state to Mr. Skervin the facts, and demand a full and complete explanation; and that in case Mr. Skervin should refuse, then Mr. Andrus should request him to make no further effort to secure the hand of Miss Isabel.

      As both methods could be pursued at the same time, Mr. Germaine was directed to obtain, by a written order from Mr. Andrus, the reports from the detective agency, and then to examine the surroundings of Mr. Skervin's residence.

      When I called on Mr. Andrus that afternoon and suggested the plan proposed by Judge Egert, he assured me that it would be useless to approach Mr. Skervin on the subject; but he promised to make the attempt. Mr. Germaine secured the reports from the agency; and my partner, Mr. Rumsey Miller, and I examined them at my bachelor-apartments that evening. They covered a period of three weeks. Mr. Andrus had employed twelve detectives, at an expense of nearly two hundred dollars a day. Six of these had been assigned to the vicinity of Mr. Skervin's residence, and two to the business district. It appeared that one detective had been placed at each corner of the block in which Mr. Skervin's residence was situated; one had rented a room in the house immediately in the rear of the residence; and another, in the guise of an apple-peddler — with the permission of the policeman on the beat — had established a stand on the opposite side of the street. By relieving those on post, the residence, except the hours when Mr. Skervin was known to be in his office down-town, had been watched day and night for three weeks.

      The facts established by the reports of the detectives were even more extraordinary than those stated to me by Mr. Andrus. It appeared that Mr. Skervin was remarkably regular in his habits. He usually returned from business at about five o'clock in the afternoon. On Monday, Wednesday and Saturday evenings he also came in again after ten o'clock. On these evenings it was found that he usually visited the clubs to which he belonged, and sometimes called at the Andrus residence. On Sunday and Thursday evenings he always remained at home; at least, these nights he was never seen to reënter the house. On Tuesday and Friday Mr. Skervin habitually returned to his home late at night, and on these occasions he attended either the theatre or the opera. Moreover, he was occasionally a guest at some social entertainment.

      In view of all these facts, the next statement in the report was simply astounding: "Mr. Skervin is never seen to leave the house except sometimes on Tuesday and Friday evenings, and on Sunday afternoon, when he always takes a stroll on Fifth avenue."

      After Mr. Skervin had returned home from business, he was sometimes seen at one of the clubs within an hour afterward, and while it was still daylight; so there could be no possible doubt regarding his departure from the house. One singular fact regarding this was that on these occasions he had always changed his attire; indeed, Mr. Skervin was known seldom to wear the same suit of clothes twice, and sometimes changed twice, or even three times, a day; yet no one knew when or how he did this.

      The four servants in the house were all men. They were Poles, and could not speak English. The fact that none of them ever left the house except between ten o'clock in the morning and three in the afternoon, while Mr. Skervin always reached his office by half-past nine, exploded the theory that he might leave the house disguised as one of his servants.

      One report, I presume, came into our hands by a mistake of the manager of the agency. It was a report made directly to him in confidence by his own private assistant; but instead of helping to clear matters, it only darkened them. It served, however, to give us a hint that perhaps the twelve detectives on the case were not trusted too far, even by the manager himself. This report showed that about three o'clock one morning, this special detective had removed the iron grating from one of the small cellar windows, and had entered the cellar. I quote from this report:

      "The cellar is in no way peculiar. The floor is of Portland cement, and gives out no hollow sound when tapped at any point. There is a large furnace in the centre, and a coal-bin, partially filled, adjoins one of the small windows at one side of the cellar. There is a large cupboard, filled with canned goods, evidently for the use of the household; this rests against the same side wall. There is also a very large refrigerator, which stands against the front wall. Both the cupboard and the refrigerator rest on the cement floor and are without rollers. The doors of the cupboard were not fastened, but those of the refrigerator were locked. The cupboard and the refrigerator, each of which must weigh several hundred pounds, are the only articles of furniture in the cellar, except two dilapidated chairs and an old bureau that stands against one side of the coal-bin. There is no door or opening in the outside wall of the cellar, although I very carefully made the most minute examination of it, both by tapping on it and closely scanning it with a magnifying glass."

      "It seems almost beyond the bounds of belief," said Mr. Miller, when we had finished this report.

      "He certainly does not go out through the cellar," I asserted, "however else he may go. I wonder if there is any crime a private detective agency will not commit when there is a sufficient reward offered for information?"

      The detectives in their reports had made no comments, but simply stated the facts. The manager of the agency, however, had endorsed on the envelope that contained the reports these words: "This is the most puzzling and inexplicable mystery this agency ever investigated during the fourteen years of its existence."

      We were still discussing the reports, when Mr. Germaine came in with fresh information. He informed us that Mr. Skervin's grounds occupied three lots, and that the house was built in the centre of this space, completely detached, with twenty feet intervening on each side between it and the adjoining residences, which Mr. Skervin also owned. These, however, he never entered — the rents being collected by an agent — nor did he visit any of his other neighbors. There were several foreigners, most of them Poles, living in the neighborhood, which was one of comfortable rather than of showy residences. The neighbors were very much exercised over the mysterious actions of Mr. Skervin, and had various ways of accounting for his vagaries. Some of them believed that he was maintaining his reserve and secrecy because he was engaged in some criminal transaction, such as counterfeiting bonds or forging cheques. None of them, however, could give any facts consonant with their suppositions.

      Mr. Skervin had been engaged in his present business for seven years; prior to that time, he had been an assistant civil engineer in the employ of the city. The servants in the house seemed very well disposed toward their master. They never gossiped, even when questioned, regarding the affairs of the owner of the mansion. Mr. Skervin was an athlete, and exhibited some remarkable feats of strength at the athletic club of which he was a member. Such was Mr. Germaine's report; but it revealed nothing. We consulted him regarding the detectives' reports; and he was positive that no one could leave the house without being seen, if watched by competent detectives in the manner the reports described. Indeed, he himself was quite as sorely puzzled as were the rest of us.

      "This seems to me," said Rumsey, "a case that presents more impossibilities than any we have heretofore investigated. It is confusing, not only by reason of the singularity of the facts presented, but also because of the difficulty in forming any plausible theory as to the motives that would lead a wealthy man, like Mr. Skervin, to such a mysterious course of action."

      "Rumsey," I said, "we have learned from experience that impossibilities do not exist. The more singular the facts, the easier should be the solution of the mystery. I am no solver of mysteries myself; my mind is unfitted for the accurate observation of minutiæ, but I think I know mankind, and I believe that Mr. Skervin's motives are pure, noble and unselfish. He is a cultivated gentleman, and I cannot force my mind to the conviction that such a man is willingly a criminal." Then we closed the discussion for the night, and Mr. Miller went home.

      When Mr. Andrus came to the office the next morning, it was to report a complete failure in his conference with Mr. Skervin. The latter had listened in silence, till Mr. Andrus had fully stated his views.

      "Mr. Andrus," he had replied, "it is not that I am unwilling to tell you all regarding myself, but I dare not. It is a matter of life and death to another. A time may come, perhaps to-morrow, perhaps not for years — yet it might come in a few days if I could bring myself to take a certain course — when I can tell you all. Consider what I have said, and if your determination is that I must abandon all hope of marrying Isabel, I will bear my disappointment like a man. The danger that surrounds me daily seems more imminent now; for during the last few weeks I have been watched by spies; but for what reason, I must not tell."

      Mr. Andrus had informed Mr. Skervin that during the next ten days he would determine the matter and acquaint him with the decision. He asked Mr. Skervin, in the meantime, to consider seriously taking such a course of action, which he admitted he could do if he wished, as would end all the difficulties and clear up the situation. Of course, as matters then stood, we could do nothing for Mr. Andrus; nevertheless he decided to leave the affair with us till next day.

      The consultation of the firm that followed Mr. Andrus's departure was rather a stormy one. There were as many diverse views as there were participants. Mr. Howard Freeman took the initiative.

      "I am," he began, "well acquainted with Mr. Skervin. He is a member of the Millionaires' and the Culture clubs, and a royal good fellow. Any girl ought to be proud to receive his attentions; and it is no disparagement to say that Miss Isabel Andrus, however worthy a young lady she may be, is certainly not a beauty. What Mr. Andrus ought to do, when he has four very plain-looking daughters on his hands to marry off, is to trust Mr. Skervin, give his consent to the marriage, and rely on the honor of his son-in-law to disclose the mystery afterward."

      "Yes," observed Judge Egert, "that's very nice — just like a society novel, in which the good are always happy. Of course, Howard's sympathy is all with the love-sick man and the maiden all forlorn. Marriage is a failure; at least, in nine cases out of ten. If this advice be given, the chances are a hundred to one that Mr. Andrus will have a grass-widow on his hands in less than a year. In view of the facts before us, it is highly probable that this man Skervin is an escaped convict."

      "While I know nothing of marriage," I ventured, "except by observation, still I could never advise Mr. Andrus to permit this union; especially if Mr. Skervin will not end the difficulties, as he says he can. If we give advice in an ordinary business transaction, and disappointment results, our error is not irreparable; but here, in case the result should be disastrous, we would deserve censure. There is a very simple course to take: inform Mr. Andrus that in a matter so entirely personal, he must make his own decision; that we decline to advise him, and that we must give up the case."

      "I was anticipating exactly that," broke in Judge Egert. "You invariably want to 'give up the case' if any difficulty arises outside of the most ordinary experience. With your view of affairs, it is a wonder that this firm makes money enough to pay street-car fares."

      "What, then, would you propose, Judge Egert?" I asked, rather warmly.

      "Go ahead and solve the mystery, of course. All mysteries are simple. It is only because the mind is confronted with seeming impossibilities that this matter appears deep or complex. I say 'seeming impossibilities,' for that any circumstance actually occurs is proof that it is not impossible. Assuming that some of these detectives have not been bribed by Mr. Skervin, and that their reports are true, the logic of the case is convincing. Mr. Skervin certainly does not go up in a balloon from the top of his house; he does not pass out in any way that permits him to be seen; he cannot render himself invisible; so, however improbable it may seem, he must pass out underground, perhaps to one of those adjoining houses, which he owns."

      "You fail to notice, Judge Egert," remarked Mr. Miller, "that the entire block has been watched by men posted at each corner. It would do him no good to gain admittance to an adjoining house."

      "Failed to notice it!" exclaimed Judge Egert. "Of course I noticed it; but I don't think the report of a private detective is as infallible as a pope's bull. How should I, or any one else, know exactly where he goes? He might go in as many directions as there are points of the compass. What I assert is that he must pass out underground. Now, the floor of the cellar is not hollow; and the walls have been examined, except where the cupboard and refrigerator rest against them. When you have excluded the impossible, what remains, however improbable it may seem, must contain the true solution of the mystery. Along these lines we must search for the truth."

      "You assume too much, judge," rejoined Mr. Miller; "nor do you cover all the facts in the case. In the first place, there may be some other way, either under the furnace or the coal-bin. Again, I do not see how you are to pursue your investigations along the line you suggest without committing burglary. Besides, we are not sure that there may not be some secret passage in the walls leading down under the ground."

      "Oh, yes," replied Judge Egert, with some warmth, "this is so probable a solution! While Howard is imbued with the society novel, your taste runs to romantic fiction like the 'Mysteries of Udolpho,' with secret panels, concealed stairways and all the rest of the rubbishy paraphernalia. If what I suggest will not solve the mystery, how would you go about it, Rumsey?"

      "Begin at the other end," returned Mr. Miller. "The true clue is not to find how, or where, Mr. Skervin leaves his own house; but to ascertain where he goes, where he comes out on the street. It must be a very peculiar and retired spot in a city like New York, where a man can emerge from a hole in the ground and not be visible. Of course, you will say he enters some other house, but this will not help you much. If this were so, and the place not very retired, we should have a corollary to our problem; and something deeper even than the present mystery, for we should have a man coming out repeatedly from a house he was never seen to enter. There is no such mystery known to the residents of that portion of the city, or the detectives would have heard of it."

      "Very pretty theory, indeed," sneered Judge Egert. "Beautiful as a dream. The only trouble with it is that it does not have a single fact to support it, and proves about two and a half times too much, if it proves anything; for the fact remains incontestable that he does come on the streets — somewhere."

      "Exactly what I was going to say," resumed Mr. Miller; "and therefore he must emerge at a very retired spot, where he is free from observation, and can reach the street without being noticed. It must also be not very far from Mr. Skervin's residence. I am going to take a walk in that part of the city this afternoon, and I believe that with even a cursory examination I can solve this mystery."

      "I wish you good luck, Rumsey," laughed Mr. Freeman, "but for my part I think you are wasting your time. Mr. Skervin is all right — of that I am sure."

      "You are welcome to your opinion, Howard," responded Rumsey, "but I, too, know Mr. Skervin, and I can frankly say I do not like him. He is too reserved. He seems to me to be always thinking about himself. He wears as many different suits of clothes as the veriest dude. He may be a royal good fellow, as you think; but I believe that when a man starts from a simple sub-engineer in a city department, and accumulates over two millions in seven years, no one knows how, his methods of acquiring a fortune may well be regarded with suspicion. I do not think it will take me long to lift this veil of mystery in which Mr. Thaddeus Skervin has ——"

      "Mr. Thaddeus Skervin is waiting in your room to consult you, judge," said my office boy, opening the door and addressing me.

      The effect was startling. I cannot say whether it was dramatic or not. Mr. Miller paused in the middle of his sentence, and stood almost breathless. Mr. Freeman smiled as he said, "That spoils your peroration, Rumsey." Judge Egert, as he rose to his feet, remarked, "We shall never solve the mystery: Mr. Skervin will explain all to the judge."

      I went at once to my room and found Mr. Skervin awaiting me. He looked careworn and heavy-eyed, as though he had slept badly the previous night.

      "Judge," he began, "I have come to you for advice regarding some personal interests that are certainly not within the purview of an ordinary consultation. I am deeply in love with a young lady; but her father, before giving consent to our union, desires me to explain certain somewhat unusual matters connected with my course of life. I have offered to explain all after my marriage. I wish to ask you a question, judge. Do you not think, if the young lady really loves me, she would trust me, and ——?"

      "Forgive me for interrupting you, Mr. Skervin, but you need go no further. If there is any man on this footstool of the Almighty who knows what any particular woman will do, under any given conditions, I have failed to make that person's acquaintance. How should I, of all men in the world, know what a woman will do when she is in love? You have come to the wrong place. Perhaps a skilled physician, an alienist, one who has studied the effect of emotions on the female mind, might give a fair guess at an answer to your question; but you must excuse me from going further on this subject."

      "Pardon me," said Mr. Skervin. "In the past you have been very kind in advising an almost friendless man; and I did not, for the moment, think how strange my question might appear. I was thinking of you as a friend, rather than as a lawyer.

      "But, judge," he continued, after a brief pause, "I wish your advice on another matter regarding which I have studied deeply. Suppose an intimate friend of yours was threatened with death, and suppose your whole life was saddened thereby, and you could release your friend from danger by contributing a large sum of money to — to —" He hesitated a moment, and then went on: "We will say to people whom you detest and abhor, and you knew this money would be used for evil purposes, would an honorable man be justified in paying this money to criminals, simply to secure his own personal comfort and the safety of his friend?"

      "Mr. Skervin, you certainly must have queer ideas regarding a legal consultation. I am no keeper of men's consciences, nor yet an analyst of the ethics of criminal action. If you wish to obtain light on a moral question, why don't you consult a minister of the gospel; or, if you are a Catholic, a priest?"

      "You are in error now," he responded. "What I wish to ask is whether by a certain course of action I may not become an accomplice, if a criminal act follows my payment of money to criminals?"

      "Your questions, Mr. Skervin, give me no light on your situation. If I am to advise you it will be necessary for you to state fully all the facts, that I may judge intelligently of your position, for I cannot act in the dark. If someone is trying to levy blackmail on you, I shall certainly advise you not to pay a cent, no matter what may be the penalty."

      "Judge," he answered, with feeling, "much as I need your advice, I cannot, I dare not, state the circumstances, even to you. They are so extraordinary that I should only rouse your incredulity. The need of concealment has been so great as to embitter the years of my early manhood, and now I fear the happiness of my maturer years must be yielded as a sacrifice to the stern necessity that confronts me."

      "I sympathize with you deeply," said I, "and would willingly aid you if I could. I do not see how I can do so, however, unless you can bring yourself to confide in me. I can only give you the general advice that, in this imperfect world of ours, the first great rule of action is that every man should look out for himself, and let others do the same. With this rule as a guide, perhaps, you can work out the solution of the problem you have only dimly hinted to me."

      "You will act for me, judge, if I need a lawyer?" he inquired.

      "I cannot tell till I know the facts. I can only say that from your present statement it looks unlikely that I shall be able to serve you. There are enough pettifoggers and scalawags in the profession who would be glad to do so, if you pay them. However, if you can bring yourself to confide in me I may be able to assist you. I cannot say more till I know all."

      Mr. Skervin withdrew, and I can say frankly that the mystery of "The Vanishing Millionaire" seemed to be growing deeper, darker, more obscure and puzzling as additional light was thrown on it. It seemed evident that Mr. Skervin was in some way shielding a criminal, whose life was sought by other criminals. Was this the secret of his suddenly acquired fortune? However well we may know mankind, we all occasionally make mistakes regarding character. Perhaps Mr. Miller's clear, analytical reasoning, which led him to believe in Mr. Skervin's criminality, was more to be relied on than my impressions, formed only from casual conversations with this man. At any rate, Mr. Skervin had confessed to having dealings with the worst criminals.

      The following morning Mr. Miller came to my room.

      "Judge," he said, "the coils are tightening round Mr. Thaddeus Skervin. A very short walk in the vicinity of his residence revealed his method of reaching the street. As you know, Mr. Skervin's house is on the north side of Forty-sixth street. St. Aloysius's Convent, a Polish Catholic school for girls, is situated between Eighth and Ninth avenues and Forty-fifth and Forty-sixth streets.^* It is surrounded by a high wall. On the east side of this wall is a small court or passageway. Only one residence faces this court, and the high wall is opposite it. One can stand in the bay-window of this house and see if anyone is coming either way through the court; and if not, then step at once to the street, without the slightest danger of being seen. This house, an entirely unpretentious two-story brick, is about three hundred feet in a direct line from Mr. Skervin's residence, and is the only place in many blocks where he could gain the street unobserved. As to Mr. Skervin's motives, I am still in the dark; but I have solved the mystery of how he leaves his house."

* The location of this house has been purposely misstated, for obvious reasons; although those familiar with New York City can doubtless recognize the real locality.

      "No one," I observed, "can even approximately state the motives that may actuate another. How often our actions are misjudged, and evil is imputed to us, when we are acting from the highest motives! I, too, have gained some information from Mr. Skervin's own statement. Leave the case in my hands for the present, Rumsey, and I believe, ere a week is over, I shall learn from Mr. Skervin himself the secret of his mysterious actions."

      A few days later Mr. Skervin called on me again. I have never seen a man more changed in so short a time. He was pale, haggard, nervous and evidently much excited.

      "Judge," he began, "you promised to assist me, if possible, should I confide in you?"

      "Yes, if I know the facts, so I can do so intelligently."

      "I do not wish," he continued, "to employ your firm in the business I have to do. It needs a shady lawyer for shady business. Besides, the other parties have selected their own lawyer, a hanger-on at police-courts. What I wish to know is if you have some clerk or employee who has sufficient legal knowledge to see that I am not imposed on, who will accompany me as a witness."

      "I think Mr. Germaine can do that much for you," I answered.

      "How strange it is," he continued, "that a man can never know how others regard him! None of my club companions ever hinted to me that I was regarded with distrust, or was known by such a nickname as 'The Vanishing Millionaire.' I never dreamed that I was the centre of a mystery. It remained for a dishonest private detective, who had been hired to spy on my actions, to come to my office and tell me the facts; in the hope, as he expressed it, 'of getting money from the other side.' Perhaps it was a good thing he came to me: it determined my course of action. I can maintain the vain struggle no longer. It would be useless if I did; for, after all my precautions, the secret I have guarded so well would now soon become known. I am going to pay over the money and secure immunity. It is an awful thing, judge, when one has to pay money to further criminal plots in order to save his good name and secure protection that the law cannot give."

      "The time has come, Mr. Skervin," I said, "for you to act. If I am to assist you it will be necessary for you to make a plain statement of all the facts."

      "The story I am about to tell you, judge, will sound strange to an American, but to one familiar with European plots and cabals, it will not seem remarkable. My father, Alexander Skervinski, was the only son of a very wealthy Polish nobleman. One of our family once sat on the throne of Poland, and the Skervinskis have always been nationalists, hoping that the time would yet come when Poland should have her own again. My father attended the University of Warsaw; and there, when quite young, joined a secret political society known as the propagandists — at least, that is the equivalent term in English.

      "The avowed object of the order was the furtherance and propagation of the ideas of the nationalists and the continuance of the use of the Polish language. My father had not long been a member of this organization when he found that it resembled the nihilists of Russia and the Carbonari of Italy; that its members were willing to commit any crime to further the political schemes of the leaders. He endeavored to withdraw from the order, but found he was bound by his pledges during life. To escape the consequences of the rash act of joining such an organization, he sold all his Polish possessions and fled to London.

      "He anglicized his name; and hoped, by living in retirement, to avoid being called on to take part in the criminal acts of the propagandists. He had a fair clientèle as a consulting civil engineer, and married an English lady. I was a child of eight, and can just remember when a 'head,' or chief, of a section of the order called on him for the first time. He informed my father that he was to pay a fine of two thousand pounds to the organization for having concealed his whereabouts. My father paid the sum, moved to Birmingham, and thought his hiding-place was secure. His precautions were in vain. Four years later the head of the section visited him late at night and informed him that he was again fined two thousand pounds, and that he was also one of five selected to assassinate the chief of police of Warsaw. My father refused to pay the money or to join in the criminal enterprise. The head told him the penalty would be inflicted, and not only himself, but his wife, my mother, would be marked for assassination.

      "That night, my father, leaving everything in the house except a few papers, fled with my mother and me to London. He took up his residence in a remote suburb of that great city, deposited his money in a London bank, and changed his name. To avoid suspicion, my mother kept a small candy-shop, while my father was supposed to be an invalid, unable to leave the house. After several years of peaceful life, the suspicions of my parents were lulled and fewer precautions were taken. One night, while I was asleep and my parents were quietly talking, a bomb was thrown through the window of our sitting-room. The explosion was terrific. My father was instantly killed, my mother crippled and frightfully disfigured. She lay for months in a London hospital, suffering untold agonies. The sight of one eye was saved, but her features were so frightfully mangled that from the day of her discharge no man except myself has looked on her poor, distorted face.

      "After my mother's recovery, she had great difficulty in securing the large sum of money my father had deposited in the bank, there being many legal formalities to comply with, on account of his change of name. Shortly after she had secured this money, another head of the society called on her, and said that the fine assessed against my father was still due, notwithstanding his death, and that if it were not paid the penalty of death would be inflicted on her. Her money was deposited in another bank, and the following day she made the pretense of going there to draw out this sum. She went to the bank, drew out a part of her funds, but then went to a sea captain's wife of her acquaintance. With her as a companion she sailed at once for Australia, and for years was a wanderer, known always as 'The Veiled Lady.'

      "I was then nineteen years of age, and my mother left me sufficient money to complete my education. It was necessary to wait seven years — until my mother's absence was presumptive proof of her death — before I could secure the money she had deposited in the bank. Meanwhile I came to New York, and obtained employment as a civil engineer. When I had secured the money from the London bank, I opened an office as a broker, and appeared soon to acquire wealth, but it was really only my own money that I received.

      "My mother had grown weary of her wanderings. She was tired of flitting from place to place, with her face always covered. I found a house in St. Aloysius's Court that was quite free from observation, and also where she could receive the ministrations of the sisters and mother superior of the convent, for she is a devout Catholic. I knew that I was still under espionage, and might be followed to my mother's abode if she came to the city.

      "I finally conceived the idea of purchasing this house, in the name of a Polish friend, and securing a residence for myself in the neighborhood, but not in the same block. This I did, securing four houses in all. I then, with my servants, who are descendants of tenants on the Polish estates our family once owned, faithful as dogs, and expert miners, dug a tunnel from the cellar of my own house, deep under the street, and also under my houses on the opposite side, to my mother's house by the convent. It was slow, hard, costly work, especially as it had to be done in secret. We worked from both ends. When we met rock we blasted silently by means of quicklime cartridges. The dirt was removed gradually in sacks, a few at a time to avoid suspicion, in my carriage; taken on board my steam launch and dropped in the Hudson. Water bothered us a great deal, but being an engineer myself, I conquered this by making a secret connection with the sewer. The tunnel is small, and one must crawl to pass through it. The entrance is through a large refrigerator in my cellar, which is always locked. The labor of constructing this small tunnel was Herculean; but I felt repaid when I knew that I could once more be in safety with my afflicted mother, and comfort her declining years.

      "My mother arrived in New York about two years since. The lady with whom she made her voyages, now a widow, lives with her. Every morning before I go to business I visit my mother, the dearest being in the world to me, and cheer her for the day. I always pass two evenings of each week with her. For a time I used to return to my own house on each occasion, crawling the second time through the tunnel, and then starting from there to go out. This became irksome, and as there is very little travel in St. Aloysius's Court, and as it is free from observation of neighbors, I deemed it much simpler, and equally safe, to start from there when I had occasion to go out after visiting my mother. I had only to provide a dressing-room and a sufficient wardrobe to make this easy, for my clothes were always soiled by passing through the tunnel. The result, as you know, has given me the strange nick-name by which I am known.

      "About a year ago, one of the chiefs of the Polish society called and said that the organization had no claim on me, nor would it ever take any action against me; but that, even now, I could secure immunity for my mother if I would pay the penalty originally assessed against my father. My mother violently opposed this. She declared that she would disown me if I ever paid a penny to my father's murderers. I knew not at what moment I might have to flee with her to save her life, and I always keep my ready means in my own possession in case such a necessity should rise. After my experience with banks, it is needless to say I never deposit a cent in such institutions.

      "Circumstances have now become too strong for me. I have decided to pay the sum demanded and to live in peace. I know I am doing wrong in taking this course; it would kill my mother if she should ever learn of my action. I feel as if I were a real criminal, and I know not whose blood may be on my hands because of paying this money to such an association of murderers. But oh, judge, what else can I do?"

      Here Mr. Skervin broke down completely, and I passed one of the most painful half-hours of my life endeavoring to reassure him. I did not attempt to dissuade him from his course. I could not even conjecture what I myself might do under similar circumstances.

      The next day Mr. Germaine accompanied Mr. Skervin, and the payment for immunity was made. Mr. Germaine found it necessary to take an oath of secrecy in order to aid our client; and I never learned exactly what took place, or how the transaction was completed. Mr. Skervin married Miss Andrus; and his mother lived with the young couple in the splendid residence he erected on Fifth avenue.

      Years have passed since then, but the story of the heroic devotion of this son has remained untold. Changes have come with the ever-changing years, and the narration of these facts can now affect none injuriously; so I have turned to my notes of the case, and here make clear what I know has always been a mystery to most of my club associates.