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from The New York Evening World, (1889-jul-18), p03

   "And that is your final decision?"

   Dick Treadwell gazed sternly at Penelope Howard's downcast face, and waited for a reply.

   Instead of answering, as good-mannered young women generally do, Penelope intently watched the tips of her russet shoes as they appeared and disappeared beneath the edge of her gown, and remained silent.

   When she raised her head and met that look, so sad and yet so stern, the faintest shadow of a smile placed a pleasing wrinkle at the corners of her brown eyes.

   "Yes, that is — my final decision," she repeated, slowly.

"Yes, that's my final decision," she repeated slowly.

   Dick Treadwell dropped despondently on a bench and, gazing steadily over the green lawn, tried to think it all out.

   He felt that he was not being used quite fairly, but he was at a loss for a way to remedy it.

   Here he was, the devoted slave of the rather plain girl beside him, who refused to marry him, merely because he had never soiled his firm, white hands with toil, nor worried his brain with a greater task, since his school days, than planning some way to kill time.

   He was one of those unfortunate mortals possessed of an indolent disposition, and had been left a modest legacy, that, though making him far from wealthy, was still enough to support him in idleness.

   He lacked the spur of necessity which urged men on to greater deeds.

   In short, Richard was one of those worthless ornaments of society that live and die without doing much good or any great harm.

   That he was an ornament, however, none dared to deny, and the expressive brown eyes of the girl, who had seated herself beside him bore ample testimony that she was not unconscious of his manly charms.

   Dick took off his straw hat, and after running his firm, white fingers through his kinky, light hair, crossed one leg over the other, while he brooded moodily on his peculiar fate. His frank, boyish expression, that had won him so many admirers, was displaced by a heavy frown, and his bright blue eyes gazed unseeingly over the beautiful vista before him.

   He could not understand why a girl should get such crazy ideas, any way. There were plenty of girls who made no effort to hide their admiration for him, and he knew that they could be had for the asking, if it only wasn't for Penelope.

   But, somehow, Penelope had more attraction for him than any girl he had ever met. Her very obstinacy, her independence, made her all the more charming to him, even if it was provoking.

   Penelope Howard was in no wise Dick Treadwell's mate in beauty.

   She was slender to boniness and tall, but willowy and graceful, and one forgot her murky complexion when gazing into the depths of her bright, expressive eyes and catching the curve of a wonderfully winsome smile.

   Penelope was an heiress, though, to a million dollars or more, and so no one ever called her plain.

   She was an orphan and had been reared by a sensible old aunt, who would doubtless leave her another million.

   Penelope knew her defects as well and better than did other people. She had no vanity and was blessed with an unusual amount of solid sense.

   Penelope Howard was well aware that she would not have to go begging for a husband. While she had loved handsome Dick Treadwell ever since the year before she graduated at Vassar, where he had gone there to pay his devotions to another fair graduate and came away head over heels in love with Penelope, yet she was in no hurry to marry.

   She loved Richard with all her heart, but there was a barrier between them which he alone could remove.

   "You know, Dick," she said, softly, as he still gazed across the green lawn, trying to find a mental foothold, as it were, "that I told you this before —–"

   "Yes, this makes the sixth time I have proposed," he said, savagely, still looking away.

   "I have always told you," smiling slightly at his remark and lowering her voice as she glanced apprehensively at a girl seated on a bench near by, "that I will not marry you as long as you live as you do. I have money enough for two, so it makes no difference whether the man I marry has any or not. But I can't and won't marry a — a worthless man — one who has never done anything and is too indolent to do anything. I want a husband who has some ability — who has accomplished something — just one worthy thing even, and then, well, it won't make so much difference if he is indolent afterwards. You know, Dick, how much I care for you," softly, "how fond I am of you, but I will not marry you until you prove that you are able to do something."

   "It's all very easy to talk about," he replied savagely, "but what can I do? I don't dare risk what little I have in Wall street. I don't know enough to preach, or to be a doctor, or a lawyer, and it takes too infernally long to go back to the beginning and learn. You object to my following the races, and I couldn't sell ribbons or run a hotel to save me. Tell me what to do, Penelope, and I will gladly make the attempt. When you took a — a craze to walk in the Park every morning before your friends, who don't think it good form, were out to frown you down did I not promise to be your escort, and haven't I faithfully got up at unearthly hours to keep my promise?"

   "And only late — let us see how many times?" she asked roguishly.

   "Penelope, don't," he pleaded. "You know I love you. Why, Penel', love, if I thought that your foolish whim would separate us forever I'd — Oh, darling, you don't doubt my love, do you?'

   "Hush!" she whispered, warningly, pointing to the girl on the other bench.

   "Oh, she is asleep," Dick replied carelessly. "See, her parasol has rolled off her knee to the ground, and no young woman is going to allow a new La Tosca sunshade to lie on the ground if she's awake.

   "She must be sleeping," Penelope said taking several peanuts from her reticule and tossing them towards the gray squirrels, which, with their bushy tails held stiffly erect, ran across the drive, and catching sight of the unhappy lovers, stopped to view them curiously.

   The one, with a little whistling noise scampered up the nearest tree and the other, taking a nut in his little mouth, quickly followed.

   "I have not seen her move since we came here," she said, returning to the subject of the girl. "Do you suppose she put her hat over her eyes in that manner to keep the light out of them or was it done to keep a chance passer-by from staring at her?"

   "I don't know," carelessly. "Probably she is ill."

   "Ill? Do you think so, Dick? I am going to speak to her," declared Penelope, impulsively.

   "Don't, I wouldn't," urged Dick. "You don't know anything about her. She may have been out all night, or you can't tell but that she has been drinking too much, and if you wake her she will doubtless make it unpleasant for you."

   "How uncharitable you are," indignantly exclaimed Penelope, who feared no one. She had spent much time and money in doing deeds of charity, and she had met all sorts and conditions of women. That a woman was in trouble and she could help her, was all Penelope cared to know.

   Richard walked along with her, and when they stopped, Penelope, bending down, peeped beneath the brim of the lace hat which, with its abundance of red roses, was tilted over the motionless girl's face.

   "She is sleeping," she whispered softly to Dick. "Her eyes are closed. She has a lovely face."

   "Has she, indeed?" and Dick, with increased interest, bent to look. "She is very pale and — I am afraid that she is ill," in an awed tone. "Young lady!" he called nervously.

   The girlish figure never moved. Richard's and Penelope's eyes met with a swift expression — a mingled look of surprise and fear.

   "My dear!" called Penelope, gently shaking the girl by the shoulder.

   The lace hat tumbled off and lay at their feet; the little hands, which had been folded loosely in her lap, fell apart and the girlish figure dropped lengthwise on the bench.

   Breathlessly and silently the frightened young couple looked at the beautiful upturned face framed in masses of golden hair; the blue-rimmed eyes, with their curly dark lashes resting gently against the colorless skin; the parted lips in which there lingered a bit of red.

   Nervously Richard touched the cheek of pallor and felt for the heart and pulse.

   "What's wrong there?" called a gray-uniformed officer, who had left his horse near the edge of the walk.

   Penelope silently looked at Richard, waiting for him to answer, and as he raised his face all white and horror-stricken, he gasped:

   "My God! The girl is dead."

"My God! the girl is dead."

[To be continued to-morrow.]

from The New York Evening World, (1889-jul-19), p03

   Richard Treadwell was not mistaken.

   The golden-haired girl was dead.

   The fair young form was taken to the Morgue, and for some days the newspapers were filled with accounts of the mystery of Central Park, and everybody was discussing the strange case.

   And what could have been more mysterious?

   A young and exquisitely beautiful girl, clad in the most expensive garments, found dead on a bench in Central Park by two young people who belonged to the most exclusive circles.

   And to add to the mystery of the case there was not a spot on the body or the faintest clue as to the cause of the girl's death.

   The newspapers had all their own theories. Some were firm in their belief of foul play, but they could not even hint at the cause of death, and how such a lovely creature could have been murdered, if murder it was, in Central Park and the assassin or assassins escape unseen, were riddles they could not solve.

   Other journals hooted at the idea of foul play. They claimed the girl had, while walking in Central Park, sat down on the bench, and died either of heart disease or of poison administered by her own hand.

   The police authorities maintained an air of impenetrable secrecy, but promised that within a few days they would furnish some startling developments. They did not commit themselves, however, as to their ideas of how the girl met her death. In this they were wise, for the silent man is always credited with knowing double what the man does who talks, and so the public waited impatiently from day to day, confident the police would soon clear the mystery away.

   Hundreds of people visited the Morgue, curious to look upon the dead girl.

   Many went there in search of missing friends, hoping and yet dreading that in the mysterious dead girl they would find the one for whom they searched.

   People from afar telegraphed for the body to be held until their arrival, but they came and went and the beautiful dead girl was still unidentified.

   Penelope Howard and Richard Treadwell were made to figure prominently in all the stories about the beautiful mystery, much to their discomfort. The untiring reporters called to see Penelope at all hours whenever a fresh theory gave them an excuse to drag her name before the public again, and poor Richard had no peace at his club, at his rooms, or at Penelope's home. If the reporters were not interviewing him his friends were asking all manner of questions concerning the strange affair, and pleading repeatedly for the story of the discovery of the body to be told again.

   Not the least important figure in the sensation was the Park policeman who found Penelope and Richard bending over the dead girl. He became a very great personage all at once. The meritorious deeds which marked his previous record were the finding of a lost child and the frantically chasing a stray dog, which he imagined was mad, and wildly firing at it — very wide of the mark, it is true — until the poor frightened little thing disappeared in some remote corner.

   This officer became the envy of the Park policemen. Daily his name appeared in connection with the case as "the brave officer of the 'Mystery of Central Park.'" Daily he was pointed out by the people, who thronged to the spot where the girl was found, curious to see the bench and to carry away with them some little memento. He always managed to be near the scene of the mystery during the busy hours of the Park, and the dignity with which he answered questions as to the exact bench was very impressive.

   But the officer's pride at being connected with such a sensational case was not to be wondered at.

   Rarely had New York been so stirred to its depth over a mysterious death. The newspapers published the most minute descriptions of the dead girl's dainty silk underwear, of her exquisitely made Directoire dress, of her Suede shoes, the silver handled La Tosca sunshade, and more particularly did they dwell on descriptions of her dainty feet and tiny hands, of her perfect features and masses of beautiful yellow hair.

   There was every indication of refinement and luxury about her.

   How came it, then, that a being of such beauty and grace could have no one who missed her; could have no one to search frantically the wide world for her?

   The day of the inquest came.

   Penelope, accompanied by her aunt and Richard, were forced to be present. Penelope in a very steady voice told how they found the body, and she was questioned and cross-questioned as to the reason why she should have become so interested in the sight of apparently a sleeping girl as to accost her.

   It was a most unusual thing.

   Did she not think that it had been suggested by the young man who accompanied her? Penelope's cheeks burned and she became very indignant at their efforts to connect Richard more closely with the case, and she related all that had transpired after they spoke of the girl with such minuteness and ease that it was hinted afterwards that she had studied the story in order to protect the culprit.

   Poor Richard came next.

   His story did not differ from Penelope's, and while no one said in so many words that they suspected him of knowing more than he divulged, yet he felt their suspicions and accusations in every question and every look.

   A very knowing newspaper had that same morning published a long story, relating instances where murderers could not remain away from their victims, and always returned to the spot, in many cases pretending to be the discoverer of the murder. The story finished by demanding that the authorities decide at the inquest whose hand was in the murder of the beautiful young girl.

   Dick, remembering all this, felt his heart swell with indignation at the tones of his examiner.

   Penelope was more indignant, if anything, than Dick, but she had read in a newspaper that repudiated the theory of murder a long rehash of deaths which had been thought mysterious that were proven to be the result of heart disease or poison, and she quietly hoped that the doctors who held the post-mortem examination would set at rest all the doubts in the case.

   The park policeman, in a grandiloquent manner, gave his testimony.

   He told how he found the young couple bending over the dead girl, who was half lying on a bench. When he asked what was wrong the young man, who seemed very excited and frightened — and he laid great stress on those words — replied "the girl is dead." He had then looked at the body but did not touch it. The young people denied any knowledge of the girl's identity, and then his suspicions being aroused he asked the young man why he had replied "the girl is dead," if he did not know her?

   The young man repeated that he had never seen the dead girl before, and his companion gave him a quick, frightened glance; so the officer said sternly:

   "Be careful, young man, remember you are talking to the law; I'll have to report everything you say."

   And then the officer paused to take breath and at the same time to give proper weight to his words. Everybody took the opportunity to remove their gaze from the officer and to see how Dick Treadwell was bearing it. They were getting more interested now and nearly every one felt that the elegant young man would be in the clutches of the law by the time the inquest was adjourned.

   The officer cleared his throat and in a deep, gruff voice continued his story. At his warning the young man had flushed very red, then paled, and then he called the officer a fool.

   Still the conscientious limb of the law determined to know more at out two young people, who, while able to drive, were doing such unusual and extraordinary things as walking early in the Park and happening upon the body of a young girl; so he asked the young man why, if he did not know the girl, he did not say "a girl is dead here," instead of "the girl is dead," whereupon the young man told the officer again that he was a fool, adding several words to make it more emphatic, and at this the young girl, who stood by very gravely up to this time, had the boldness and impudence to laugh.

   Richard Treadwell was called again, and had to repeat the reason of his early walk in the Park, and had to tell where he spent the previous evening, which was proven by Penelope and her aunt. He was questioned why he used the definite article instead of the indefinite in answering the officer's question. He could offer no explanation.

   That a man should say "the girl" instead of "a girl," and that he should be excited over finding the body of a girl unknown to him, were things that looked very suspicious to the law and they had no hesitancy in showing the fact.

   A few persons whose testimony was unimportant were called, and then came the men who had made the post-mortem examination. Nothing was discovered to indicate murder or suicide, nor, indeed, was there any definite conclusion as to the cause of death.

   The coroner's jury brought in an indefinite verdict, showing that they knew no more about the circumstances or cause of the girl's death than they did at the beginning of the inquest. With this unsatisfactory conclusion the public was forced to rest content.

   They did know that the girl had not been shot or stabbed, which was some satisfaction, at any rate.

   Penelope persuaded her aunt and Richard to accompany her through the Morgue. She was deeply hurt at the way in which Dick had been treated. Still she wanted to look on the face of the fair young girl, the cause of all the worriment, before she was taken to her grave.

   "How dreadful!" exclaimed Penelope's aunt, as the keeper unbolted the door and waited, before he closed it, for them to enter the low room.

   She tiptoed daintily over the stone floor — which, wet all over, had little streams formed in places flowing from different hose — holding her skirts up with one hand and with the other hand held a perfumed handkerchief over her aristocratic nose. Penelope, with serious but calm face, kept close to the keeper, and Richard walked silently with the aunt.

Penelope, with calm but serious face, kept close to the morgue-keeper.

   "I thought the ladies lay on marble slabs," said Penelope, glancing at the row of plain, unpainted rough boxes set close together on iron supports.

   "They did in the old Morgue, but ever since we've been in this building we put them in the boxes. They keep better this way," explained the keeper, delighted to show the sights of the Morgue to persons of social prominence.

   "Do you know the history of all these dead?" asked Penelope, counting the fifty and odd coffins which came one after the other.

   "We know somethin' about most all 'cept those found in the river, and the river furnishes more bodies than the whole city do. We photograph every body and we pack their clothes away, with a description of 'em, and keep them six months. The photographs we always keep so that years after people may find their lost here. Would you like to see them, miss?"

   "You see," lifting a lid, "we burn a cross on the coffins of the Catholics and the Protestants get no mark. The boxes with the chalk mark on are the ones that's to be buried to-morrow. This man here, miss," holding the lid up, "was a streetcar driver; want to see him, mam?"

   Penelope's aunt shook her head negatively.

   "He struck, and could not get work afterwards, so as he and his family was starvin', he made them one less by committing suicide."

   "Hard? Not a bit, miss; death's a great boon to poor people. This 'ere fellow," holding another lid while Penelope gazed with dry, burning eyes down on a weather-beaten face, which, seared with a million premature wrinkles, wore a smile of rest, "he was a tramp, they 'spose. Fell dead on Sixth avenue, an' he had nothin' on him to identify him. And this 'ere woman who lies next the Park mystery girl, though she do smile like she got somethin' she wanted — an' they nearly all smile, miss, when they've handed in their 'counts — she were a devil. She's done time on the island, and they've had her in Blackwell's Insane Asylum, but 'twan't no good; soon as she got out she was at her old tricks. Drink, drink, if she had to steal it, an' fight an' swear! They picked her up on a sidewalk the last time and hauled her to the station-house, but when mornin' come an' they called her she didn't show up; an' when they dragged her out, thinkin' she was still full, they found she'd got a death sentence and gone on a last trip to the island where they never come back."

   "Ah! she do look desolate," wailed a little fat woman in shabby black, who had come in with one of the men and now stood peering into a labelled box. "She hasn't a fri'nd in all the world. She was eighty years old, and paralyzed from her knees down. Poor thing, they took her to the Almshouse not quite a month ago, and she looks like she'd had a hard time, sure enough. Poor Mrs. Lang, she do look desolate," and the man closed the box and the wailing woman went out.

   "What becomes of the bodies of these poor unfortunates?" asked Penelope, with a catch in her voice.

   "Most of 'em we give to the medical colleges as subjects. Yes, men and women, black and white alike. That nigger woman, who wouldn't tell on the man who gave her a death stab, lying to the other side of the Park mystery girl, will be taken to a college to-night. The bodies not sold are all sent up to Hart's Island, where they're buried in a big trench."

   The beautiful mystery of Central Park was not sent to a medical college nor to the Potters Field. Penelope, encouraged by her kind aunt, made arrangements to bury the girl in a quiet graveyard on the outskirts of Brooklyn. Penelope, her aunt, with three charitable old lady friends, and Richard, drove to the burial ground to see the body interred.

   Penelope was greatly wrought up over the case.

   Added to her interest in the dead girl, the evident suspicions entertained against Richard had worked her up to an unusual state of excitement. While she never doubted Richard's innocence in the affair, still ugly thoughts concerning his careless nature, and the recalled rumors of affairs with actresses, of more or less renown, which the newspapers darkly hinted at, almost set her wild. Could it be possible that he had known the girl, or ever seen her before they found her dead?

   She recalled his excitement when he leaned down and for the first time saw the face of the girl as she sat on the bench. The officer had laid great stress on Dick's excitement, and Penelope, as she looked back, seemed to see more in it than she saw at first.

   "And I love him, I love him," she cried to herself during the long ride to the cemetery, "and with this horrible suspicion hanging over him I could never marry him; I could never be happy. If we only knew something about it; if only people did not hint things; if I could only crush the horrible idea that he knows more than he told!"

   An unknown but Christian minister said a prayer over the dead, and Penelope dropped some tears as well as flowers on the unknown's newly filled grave.

   "It is ended," said Dick with a relieved sigh, as he led Penelope back to her carriage. "Now let us forget all the misery of these last few days and be happy."

   "It is not ended," exclaimed Penelope, spiritedly. "It has only begun. I can never be happy until I know the secret of that girl's death."

   "That is impossible, Penelope," replied Dick. "That mystery can never be solved."

   "Dick, you have sworn you love me; you have sworn that you would do anything I asked if I would marry you. Will you swear that again?" cried Penelope, breathlessly.

   "Upon my life, I swear," responded Dick, warmly.

   "Then solve the mystery of that girl's death and I will be your wife."

"Then, solve the mystery of that girl's death and I will be your wife."

[To be continued to-morrow.]

from The New York Evening World, (1889-jul-20), p03

   Richard Treadwell was in despair.

   Days had passed since the burial of the unknown girl, and he was no nearer the solution of the mystery than he was on the morning of the discovery. He had not learned one new thing in the case, and what was infinitely worse, he had not the least idea how to set about the task.

   He had taken to wandering restlessly about the city racked with the wildest despondency.

   "Great Lord, if I only had an idea," he thought, desperately, as he walked up Fifth avenue. "If I only knew how to begin — if I only knew where to begin — if I only knew what to do — if I only —– Confound the girl, anyhow. Why couldn't she have died somewhere else, or why didn't some one else find her instead of us. Confound it, I'll be hanged if I hadn't enough to worry about before. Women will take the most infernal whims. Gewhiz! If I wasn't suspected of being connected with her death, and if Penelope —– But I'll be switched if I can give it the go-by. It's solve the mystery or lose Penelope. If I only knew how to go to work. But, by Jove, I know I could preach a sermon, or set a broken leg, or — or cook a dinner easier than find out why, where, when, how, that yellow-haired girl died. Curse my infernal luck."

   Dick stopped and looked up to the windows of Penelope's home, where his wandering feet had brought him. He had not seen her for two days; so busy on the case, he wrote her with a groan, and then he had sent her a bunch of roses, and gone forth to kill another day in aimless wanderings.

   But here, before her door — how could a lover resist the temptation to enter and be happy in the presence of his divinity for a few moments at least? Richard was not one of the resisting kind any way, so, after a moment's thought, he ran up the broad stone steps and was ushered into Penelope's room off the library — half sitting-room, half study — to wait for her.

   Nothing was wanting in Penelope's special den that luxury could suggest to make it an exquisite retreat for a young woman with a taste for the beautiful. There were heavy portieres, soft, rich carpet, handsome rugs here and there on the floor and thrown carelessly over low divans. Chairs and lounges of different shapes, all made for comfort, little tables strewed with rich bric-a-brac, unique spirit lamps, and on easels and hanging around were paintings and etchings, all of which, as Penelope said, had a story in them.

   There were some fine statues, among which were several the work of Penelope. A little low organ, with a piano lamp near it, stood open and there were music and books in profusion.

   Near where the daylight came strongest was a sensible flat-top desk littered with paper, cards, books and the thousand little trinkets — useless, if you please — which a refined woman gathers about to please her eye.

   The most unusual things that would have impressed a stranger, if by some unknown chance he could gain admittance here, was a skull in the centre of the desk, which was utilized as an inkstand and a penholder, and a mixed collection of odd canes and revolvers.

   "Why, Dick," said Penelope, as she tripped lightly in, clad in an artistic gray carriage gown. "I am glad to see you. I wish you had been earlier so you could have enjoyed a drive with aunt and me."

   "I have been busy," Richard said bravely, releasing the hand she had given him on entering.

   They sat down together on a sofa.

   "I have been so occupied that I haven't had time for a drive these last few days."

   "And have you discovered anything yet?" Penelope asked, eagerly.

"And have you discovered anything yet?" Penelope asked, eagerly.

   "Well, not exactly," hesitatingly, "it will take time to clear it all up, you know."

   "Tell me, do you know her name yet, and where she came from, and was she really murdered?"

   "Slowly, slowly; would you have me spoil my luck by telling what I have done?" asked Richard evasively, his eyes twinkling.

   "Oh, you superstitious boy," laughed Penelope, lightly tapping him with her hand which he immediately caught and held imprisoned in his own.

   "Auntie has accepted an invitation to go to Washington for a few days to visit Mrs. Senator —–, and I am to go along. I rather dread it, but auntie says they won't know as much about the Park mystery there and I won't be worried with reporters."

   "I hope not," replied Dick, beginning already to feel the ghastly emptiness which pervaded the city for him when Penelope was not in it. As long as he knew Penelope was in the city, even if he did not see her, he had a certain happiness of nearness, but when she was away he felt as desolate as Adam must have done before Eve came.

   "Penelope, girlie," he said, with a sudden hope, "could we not be engaged while I am working on this case? It would not embarrass you in any way, for we only need tell your aunt, and it would be such help, such encouragement, such happiness, sweet, to me. You see, it may take months to solve this mystery." Poor Richard thought it would take years. "And if I only knew, darling, that I had your promise, I could do so much. It would help me to conquer the world. Don't be hard-hearted, dear; don't be cruel to the one who loves you more than anything on earth or in heaven."

   "No, no, Dick, you must wait," said Penelope, struggling to free her hands. "Wait until the mystery is solved, it shouldn't take you a great while" — (Richard sighed) — "and then, and then" —–

   "Then?" repeated Dick, questioningly. She looked down, he put his arms around her slender waist and drew her close to him. "Then? my love, my soul" —–

  "Dearest, come here!" called Penelope's aunt, in that well-bred voice of hers which charmed all hearers. "Richard, come, I want you to see the man standing on the other side of the Avenue. I have been watching him and I think it is quite probable that he is watching the house. Are we never to have done with that Park mystery business?"

   They all looked cautiously through the curtains and they all agreed that the man was watching the house for some purpose.

   "They are after you, Dick," exclaimed Penelope. "Oh, I am so afraid this will result seriously to you."

   Richard thought so too, only where she was concerned, though; but he did not give voice to his fears.

   "My dear child," laughed the aunt, with that pleasant ring. "Do not talk such nonsense! Richard is able to take care of himself, and especially now that he knows some one is following him."

   Dick made his call short. He was anxious to know if the man across the street really wanted him; so as soon as he could he made his adieu, wishing them a pleasant visit in Washington — for which place they started in the morning — and sauntered down the avenue.

   Sure enough, the man dogged along on the other side, much after the manner of a disobedient dog who had been told to stay at home. Dick hailed a passing stage, after walking a little way, and almost as soon as he was seated the man got on and went on top. Richard was not in a mood to bear watching, so he jumped out when he saw an empty hansom cab, and, engaging it, told the driver to cross town. He did not drive far until he had made sure that he had eluded his would-be follower, and having no appetite yet for dinner he ordered the driver to go to Central Park, where he paid and dismissed him.

   Now that he was alone, he became conscious of a desire to visit the scene of the mystery which promised to be so fatal to his happiness.

   "I'll go there and think it over," he mused; "it may give me some idea how to work it out." And on he walked over the course he and Penelope had taken that direful morning.

   Night was coming on and the Park was deserted, except for an occasional workman taking a hurried cut across the Park home. How dreary and quiet everything was, and then he thought about the officer who had made himself so obnoxious. This led him to wonder if there were no policemen on duty at night in the Park. He could not remember of ever having noticed any the few times he had visited the Park after nightfall, and there were none visible now anywhere.

   He stopped to look for a few moments at the bench where they had found the dead girl, and then he walked on until he came to a bench near the reservoir, where he sat down.

   "If only the Fates would throw something in my way to help me solve that mystery," he thought. "Unless the most extraordinary things occur I shall never be able to tell anything about it. Penelope firmly believes it was a murder, but I can't see what grounds she has for it. She thinks it was a deliberate and well-planned murder because no one has claimed the girl, and I sometimes think so myself, but how to prove it? — that's the question."

   And Dick gazed seriously at the space of light made by the opening for the reservoir, and on to the dense thickness of trees where night seemed to be lurking, ready to pounce down on all late comers. As he looked he became aware of something moving between him and the spot of light. He was a brave young man, yet his heart beat a little quicker as he strained his eyes to see what the moving object was. Again it passed in view, and this time it looked to be something climbing; another moment and it was on the edge of the reservoir.

   Now, plainly outlined between him and the strip of light sky, he saw the figure of a woman, a slender girl with flowing hair.

   Quick as a flash came the horrible thought that she had come there to die — that she intended to commit suicide.

   With a choking cry of horror he ran swiftly towards her.

With a choking cry of horror he ran swiftly towards her.

(To be Continued To-Morrow.)

from The New York Evening World, (1889-jul-22), p03

   Richard Treadwell sat moodily on a bench, half supporting the limp form of the girl he had just saved from death.

   He had caught her just as she threw up her hands with a pitiful, weak cry, ready to spring into the reservoir.

   "My dear young woman, don't take on so," he said, vexedly, as the girl leaned against his shoulder and sobbed in a heart-broken, distracted manner. "You are safe now."

"My dear young woman don't take on so," he said vexedly.

   As if that could be consolation to a woman who was seeking death which sought her not.

   "Really, I am sorry, you know, but there's a good girl, don't cry," making a ludicrous attempt to console her. "I did it before I thought; if I had known how much you would have been grieved, I — I assure you, upon my honor, I wouldn't have done it. I — I haven't much to live for, either, still when I saw what you intended to do — it shocked me that you should be so desperate. Now that it's all over I wouldn't cry any more. I'd laugh, as if it were a joke, you know. I'd say the fates had saved me for some treat they had reserved for me. There, that's better, don't cry, you are not hurt — not even wet."

   The girl broke into a nervous, hysterical laugh, in which the sobs struggled for mastery. Dick, much relieved, added a laugh that sounded rather hollow and mirthless.

   "I c—can't help it," said she, endeavoring to stop her sobs. "It seems so unreal to be still living when I thought to be dead. I — I thought it all over, and it seemed so comforting to think of it being ended. Then I couldn't see, nor think, nor hear, nor suffer. Oh, why did you stop me?"

   "I didn't know, you see; I didn't understand it all. I thought you would regret it — that you were making a mistake," he tried to say cheerfully.

   "What right has anybody — what right had you to prevent me from ending my life? I don't want to live! I am tired of life and of misery. I want to know what right any one has to interfere — to make me live a life that doesn't concern them and only brings me misery?" she cried indignantly.

   "Come now, don't be so blue." At this burst of anger Richard was himself again. "Tell me all about it, maybe I can help you. Have things gone wrong?"

   "Have they ever gone right? It's easy to preach to people who have friends and money and home. I have nothing! I am all alone in this great big heartless world. I haven't a cent, a home or a friend, and I'm tired of it all. There is no use in talking to me. Some people get it all, and the others get nothing, and as I am one of the unlucky ones, there is nothing for me to do but die."

   Richard talked to her in his frank, healthy way. He saw the girl was very much depressed and morbid, so he concluded it would be best to have her relate her woes to him.

Troubles brooded over grow mountainous — Confide them to another and they dwindle.

   It was not long until the girl told the story of her life to Richard.

   Her name was Dido Morgan, she said. She was a country girl, the only child of a village doctor, who lived in comfort but died penniless. Her mother died at her birth. She had been raised well, and when reduced to poverty she was too proud to go to work in her native village, so after her father was buried she came to New York.

   She soon found that without experience and references she could not get any desirable work in New York. At last, in desperation, applied for and obtained a position in a paper-box factory. She learned the work rapidly, and in a few months was able to earn as much as the best workers. She rented a little room on the top floor of a large tenement-house, where she slept and cooked her food. Every week she managed to save a little out of her scant earnings.

   One day a girl who worked at the same table with Dido fainted. The girls crowded around them as Dido knelt on the floor to bathe the sick girl's head and rub her hands.

   "Aha! Away from yer tables durin' work hours. I'll pay yer fer this, I'll dock yer every one," yelled the foreman, who at this instant entered the work-room.

"I'll pay yer fer this; I'll dock yer, every one," yelled the foreman.

   The girls, frightened, crept quietly back to their work, but Dido still continued to bathe the girl's head.

   "Here, you daisy on the floor, you'll disobey me, hey? I'll dock yer twice," brutally spoke the foreman as he caught a glimpse of Dido's head across the table.

   She looked at him with scorn. If glances could kill he would have died at her feet. Still, she managed to say, quietly:

   "Maggie Williams has fainted."

   "And because a girl faints must all the shop stop work and disobey rules, eh? I'll pay yer for this. I'll teach yer," he vowed, as he quitted the room.

   Dido, unmindful of his brutal threats, turned her attention to Maggie, who in a short time opened her eyes and tried to rise.

   "Lie still awhile yet, Maggie," urged her self-appointed nurse. "I'll hold your head on my knee. Now, don't you feel better?"

   But the girl made no reply. Her small gray eyes stared unblinkingly, unseeingly, up at the smoked rafters of the ceiling.

   "What is it, Maggie?" asked the kindly Dido, smoothing the wet, tangled hair, her slender fingers expressing the sympathy which found no utterance in words. "Are you still ill? Shall I take you home to your mother?"

   The stare in the small gray eyes grew softer and softer; the corners of the mouth drew down into a pitiful curve, the under lip quivering like a tiny leaf in a strong wind; turning her face down, she sobbed vehemently.

   Drawing the poor thin body into a closer embrace Dido sought to comfort the weeping girl.

   Some of the nearest workers hearing those low, heavy sobs, started nervously and their hands were not as cunning as usual as they covered the boxes, but they dared not go near their unhappy companion or speak the sympathy they felt.

   "I'm awfully sorry, Maggie," whispered Dido, "don't cry so; you'll feel better by-and-by."

   "Mother's dead," blurted out Maggie.

   Dido was stunned into silence by this communication. She could say nothing.

   What could you say to a girl when her mother is dead?

   What could console a girl at such a time?

   Maggie told Dido that her mother, who, for a year past, had been confined to her bed with consumption, was lying alone, uncared for, at home.

   "I loved her so, and I didn't want her to die," she said pitifully. "I was afraid to go home after work for fear I'd find her dead, and I was afraid to sleep at night for fear I'd wake up and find her dead. She lay so still and she looked so white and death-like, and I would lean on my elbow and watch her, fearing her breath would stop. Every few moments I prayed, 'O God, save her!' 'O God, have mercy!' I — I couldn't say more, and I would choke down the thing that would choke my throat and wink away the tears that would come, and watch and watch, until I couldn't bear the doubt any longer, then I would touch her gently with my foot to see if she was still warm, and that would wake her, and I would be so sorry.

   "All last night I never took my eyes off her dear face," Maggie continued between her sobs, and Dido was softly crying, too, then.

   "She wouldn't eat the things I had brought her, and when I talked to her she didn't seem to understand, but said things about father, who died so long ago, and once or twice she laughed, but it only made me cry. She didn't seem to see me either, and when I spoke to her it only started her to talk about something else, so I watched and watched. I didn't pray any more. Somehow all the prayer had left my soul. Just before morning she got very still, sometimes a rolling sound would gurgle in her throat, but when I offered her a drink she couldn't swallow, and then I called to her, I couldn't stand it any longer, 'Mother, mother, speak to me, I have always loved you, speak to me once,' and her dear lips moved and I bent over her and she whispered, 'Lucille — my — pretty — one,' and then her eyes opened and her head fell to one side, but she didn't see; she was dead — dead without one word to me, and I loved her so."

   Dido Morgan shared her own scant dinner with Maggie that day, and the unhappy girl remained at work that she might earn some money, which would help towards burying her mother.

   That afternoon foreman Flint came in, and, nailing a paper to the elevator shaft, told the girls to read it, saying he'd teach them to disobey another time, and that next week they would work harder for their money.

   In fear and trembling the girls crowded timidly about the shaft to read what new misery the foreman had in store for them. They instinctively felt it was a reduction, and the first glance proved their fears were not unfounded.

   Some of the girls began to cry, and Dido, the bravest and strongest, spoke excitedly to them of the injustice done them. Even now they were working for less than other factories were paying.

   "There is surely justice for girls as well as men somewhere in the world, if we only demand it," she cried, encouragingly. "Let us demand our rights. We will all go down and I will tell the proprietor that we cannot live under this new reduction. If he promises us the old prices, we will return to work. If he refuses, we will strike."

   The braver girls heartily joined the scheme and the weaker ones naturally fell in, not knowing what else to do under the circumstances and frightened at their own boldness.

   Dido Morgan, taking little Margaret Williams by the hand, naturally headed the line, and the girls quietly marched down the almost perpendicular stairs after her.

   Dido stopped before the ground-glass door on the first floor, on which was inscribed: TOLMAN BIKE,
Private.

   Her heart beat very quickly, but, clasping Maggie's hand closer, she opened the door and entered.

(Continued To-Morrow.)

from The New York Evening World, (1889-jul-23), p03

   Tolman Bike was engaged in conversation with foreman Flint when Dido opened the door and entered.

   He lifted his head and, never noticing Dido, fixed a look of absolute horror on Maggie Williams's tear-stained and swollen face as he rose pale and trembling and gasped in a husky tone:

   "Why do you come to me?"

   Margaret gazed stupidly at him with her small, gray eyes, offering no reply.

He fixed a look of absolute horror on Maggie Williams's tear-stained face.

   Dido, greatly astonished at Mr. Bike's manner, stammered out that she represented the girls he employed, who had decided to appeal to him not to enforce the proposed reduction, as they were already working for less than other factories were paying.

   When she began to speak a strange look of relief passed over his face and with a peculiar, nervous laugh, he sat down again.

   "Get out of this," said he roughly. "If you don't like my prices leave them for those who do."

   Turning his back to the girls he cooly began arranging the papers on his desk.

   When Dido began to plead for justice he calmly ordered foreman Flint to remove these young persons.

   "If you do dare touch me, I'll kill you!" exclaimed Dido in a rage, as Flint made a movement to obey orders.

   He cowered, stepped back and stammered an excuse to his employer. He felt the scorch in Dido's blazing midnight eyes and he respected her warning and his own person.

   Mr. Bike moved quietly to the door and holding it open, said:

   "My beauty, you be careful, or that fine spirit of yours will get you into trouble."

   Dido gave him a scornful glance as she and Maggie walked out, and the door was closed behind them.

   She related her failure to the waiting girls, and they all went home after promising to be there Monday morning to prevent others taking their places.

   That evening Dido pawned all her furniture and extra clothes, and the money she received for them, added to her savings, went towards saving the body of Mrs. Williams from the Potter's Field. There was not quite enough to pay the undertaker, so Dido was forced to borrow the remainder from Blind Gilbert, the beggar, who occupied the room in the rear of that occupied by the Williamses.

   Monday morning the girls all gathered around the entrance to the factory and urged the new girls, who came in answer to an advertisement, not to apply for work and thereby injure their chances of making the strike successful.

   Only the foreigners stubbornly refused the girls' request and applied for and received work. Tuesday more foreigners were given work, and the weaker strikers, getting frightened at this, quitted their companions and returned to the factory.

   This so enraged the other strikers that they waited for the deserters in the evening, when they were going home from work. They first tried to persuade their weaker companions to reconsider their decision and somehow the argument ended in a fight.

   Dido Morgan, who was on a stand further down the street, came rushing up to the struggling, pulling, crying girls, hoping to pacify them.

   Almost instantly foreman Flint arrived, accompanied by an officer. Pointing out Dido, with a diabolical grin he told the officer to arrest her. The now frightened girls fell back while the officer dragged Dido away, despite her protests.

   That night she spent in the station-house and in the morning she was taken to the Essex Market Court, where the Judge, listening to the policeman's highly imaginative story, asked her what she had to say, and though she endeavored to tell the truth, hustled her off with "Ten days or ten dollars."

   Being penniless she was sent to the Island, where she spent the most miserable ten days of her life.

   Still her final release brought her no happiness or joy. She knew that it was useless to return to her bare rooms, because of the rent being overdue, and she had no friend but Margaret Williams, who had as much as she could manage to provide for herself.

   Disheartened, penniless and hungry, she spent the day wandering around from one place to another, begging for any kind of work. At every place they complained of having more workers than they needed.

   Night came on and she thought of the Christian homes, ostensibly asylums for such unfortunate beings as herself. She applied to several along Second avenue and Bleecker street, but she found no refuge in any. They were either filled, or because she had no professed religion and had long since quit attending church, they barricaded their Christian (?) quarters against her.

   The last and only place, in which they made no inquiries about religion, they charged twenty cents for a bed, and so the weary, hungry girl was forced again to go out into the darkness.

   She noticed an open door, leading to a dispensary, on Fourth avenue, and hiding herself in a dark corner of the hallway there, she spent the night.

   In the morning she got a glass of milk and a cup of broth in the diet kitchen, and then she resumed her search for work.

   It was useless. Tired out and discouraged she wandered on and on, until she came to the park. The unhappy girl sought the enticing shade, where she watched the gay, merry people who passed before her. The more she saw, the more despondent she became. They looked so blest, so happy.

   Life gave them everything and gave her nothing.

   It began to grow dark, and every one hurried from the Park. She had no place to go, no one to care for her, nothing to live for, and she walked further into the Park, helpless, hopeless.

   How grand it would be to rest forever more!

   The thought came and shamed her. How sweet, how blessed a long, easy, senseless slumber would be with no pain, no unhappiness, no hunger!

   She noticed the reservoir, she climbed up and looked in. Like a bed of velvet the dark waters lay quietly before her, and the rough darkness of the surrounding country seemed to warn her to partake of what was within her grasp.

   A great wave of peace welled up in her heart, her weariness disappeared in an exquisite languor, which enwrapped her body and mind.

   "'Rest, everlasting rest,' rang soothingly in my ears," said Dido, in conclusion, "and with a little cry of joy I went to plunge in —–"

   "And I saved you from a very rash deed," broke in Dick. "My poor girl, don't you know there are hundreds of noble-hearted people in New York who are always ready to help the unfortunate? There is charity and Christianity in some places."

   "But they are hard to find," said the girl, "and they do not exist in so-called benevolent homes."

   "Now, I tell you what we will do," said Dick, cordially, lighting a match and looking at his watch. "We will first try to find something to eat, for I am beastly hungry, and then I will take you to your friend, Maggie Williams, if you will kindly show the way, and we will see what can be done for a young woman who gives up so easily."

   To be frank, Richard doubted the girl's story. Yet he did not want to act hastily in the matter. If the girl had suffered all she said, he felt that not only would he gladly help her, but Penelope would be delighted to make life brighter for the poor victim of fate. So he decided to take her to the home of Margaret Williams, if such a person really existed, and learn from others the true story, if this be false.

   In this Richard showed himself very wise for a young man, If it was really a case of charity no one would be kinder or more liberal, but he doubted.

   In a small oyster-house near the Park they found something to eat, and Dick also found that he had saved the life of a remarkably pretty girl.

   As she sat opposite, eating daintily but appreciatively, the color came into her dark, creamy cheeks, and her brown eyes sparkled like the reflection of the sun in a still, dark pool. Her loose, damp hair, hanging in little rings about her broad brow and white throat, was very appealing to the artistic sense.

   And her look — it was so frank, so sincere, so trusting, and her eyes had such a way of looking startled, that Dick felt a warmer thrill of interest invade his soul than he ever thought possible for any other girl than Penelope.

   Before dinner was finished Richard had called her "Dido" and "Miss Dido," and she had not even thought of resenting it.

   There are a great many false ideas that are forgotten in such moments as these.

   The one had seen the other face death, and a human feeling had for the time swept all false pretenses and hollow etiquette away.

   They drove down to Mulberry Street in a coupé. Dido pointed out the house where she said Maggie Williams lived, and then suggested they drive to the corner and there alight, as the unusual sight of a carriage stopping before the door of such humble quarters would likely attract a crowd.

   Then, she added, Richard Treadwell looked so unlike the people who frequent that neighborhood that if he were noticed he might find it a very uncomfortable place for an elegant young man to be in at almost midnight.

   Richard had no sooner dismissed the driver than he regretted it. He again felt the old mistrust of the strange girl, and recollections of tales he had read of female trappers and the original snares they lay for their victims returned forcibly to his mind.

   He felt he was a fool to come here at night, but he was ashamed to go back now. The night was warm and the heat had driven many of the people out of the tenements in search of a breath of air, and the dark groups of silent men and women who filled the doorsteps and basement entrances and curbstones, and the ill-favored people who passed them offered Dick little hope for succor, if indeed he was the victim of a plot.

   There were no officers to be seen anywhere, although Dick knew the police headquarters were not far distant.

   Quietly he walked beside the girl, who, too, had grown silent. He scorned to confess his fears, and he felt a determination to meet what there might be waiting for him, even if it be death, before he would weaken and retreat.

   The girl entered the doorway of a dark, dilapidated house, the only doorway which had no lounger, a fact in itself suspicious to Dick. He, with many misgivings and a decided palpitation of the heart, stumbled on the step as he started to follow.

   Had he done right and was he safe in trusting and following this clever girl?

   Before he had time to decide she caught his hand and led him into the dark hall.

   Doubtless holding his hand was part of the plan to give him less chance for self-defense, he thought.

Before he had time to decide she caught his hand and led him into the dark hall.

   Gropingly he put forth his other hand, and a thrill of horror shot through him like an electric shock as it came in contact with a man's coat and a warm, pliable body.

(Continued to-morrow.)

from The New York Evening World, (1889-jul-24), p03

   "Did you run against something?" asked Dido, as she felt Richard start.

   "It's only me," said a deep bass voice, which had such an honest and harmless ring, that Richard's fear and nervousness dropped from him like a cloak.

   "It's all right," Dido responded cheerfully, as she stopped and knocked on a door.

   Dick knew it was a door from the sound, but he was unable to distinguish door from wall in the darkness.

   It was opened by some one inside. Dick saw the outlines of a girlish figure between himself and the light, and heard a surprised exclamation: "Why, Dido!"

   They stepped in, and the girl closed the door and hastened to set chairs for her visitors.

   "Mr. Treadwell, this is Margaret Williams," said Dido; then turning to Maggie she added simply, "Mr. Treadwell has been kind to me."

   "We were frightened about you," Maggie said, her eyes beaming warmly on Dido. "I heard you got in trouble 'round at the shop. I went out to look you up, but I couldn't find out anything about you either at the station-house or at your house."

   "I s'pose you know," she added, "that the girls went in? Yes, the strike is off. They wouldn't take me back, so I'm doing what I can for Blind Gilbert, and he pays rent and buys what we eat."

   Dido in a few simple words frankly told Maggie all that had befallen her since her arrest. She did not omit her rash attempt to commit suicide, and Richard's timely intervention.

   Meanwhile Richard had taken a glance about the little bare room.

   A plain, single-board table, covered with a bit of badly worn oilcloth, had been pulled out into the room, and they now sat around it. A little low oil lamp, with a broken chimney — which had been patched with a scrap of paper — was the only light in the room. Dick carefully slipped a paper bill under THE EVENING WORLD which lay on the table where Margaret had flung it when she came to open the door for them.

   A small stove stood close to the wall, and on it was a tin coffee-pot and an iron tea-kettle with a broken spout.

   Above the stove was a little shelf, which held some tallow candles in a jar and some upturned flat-irons.

   The bed looked very unsafe and uncomfortable. It was covered with a gayly colored calico patchwork quilt. The patchwork was made in some set pattern, which was unlike anything Richard had ever seen or dreamed of.

   Several pieces of as many carpets lay on the floor and a much worn blanket was hung on two nails over the window.

   Dick's heart ached at the evident signs of poverty, and a warm instinct of protection possessed him.

   "I hope you will allow me to be of some assistance to you," he said when the girls, having finished their confessions, became silent. "I think I can, in a few days, assure Miss Dido of a better position than the one she has lost."

   As he spoke, there came a timid knock on the door, and Maggie sprang to open it.

As he spoke there came a timid knock on the door and Maggie sprang to open it.

   "I jest thought I'd drop in tew see how you wuz gettin' along, Maggie," said from the darkness the same deep bass voice that had restored Richard's courage in the hallway.

   It was followed by a tall, lank man, who awkwardly held a black, soft felt hat in his big red hands. His rough clothes seemed to hang on him, and he held one shoulder higher than the other in an apologetic manner, as if to assure the world that his towering above the average height of people was neither his fault nor desire. His bushy and unattractive dust-colored hair seemed determined to maintain the stiffness which its owner lacked. His red mustache and chin-whiskers were resolved to out-bristle his hair. His shaggy eyebrows overhung modest blue eyes that looked at if they fain would draw beneath those brows as a turtle draws its head under its shell.

   He bashfully greeted Dido, and she introduced him to Richard as "Mr. Martin Shanks, who boards with some friends upstairs." He held out his big hand to Dick, saying:

   "Glad to make yer acquaintance, sir!" all the while blushing vividly.

   "We ran against you in the hall, I think," ventured Dido.

   "Yes, I was standin' there when you came," he answered, slowly, shooting a glance from under his brows at Maggie.

   Maggie looked down, and Dido was surprised to see her blush. She would have been more surprised if Maggie had told her that this great, big, hulking man had stood guard at her door every night since her mother died.

   "I should jedge you don't belong to this yer neighborhood," he remarked to Richard, shooting forth a jealous look.

   "You are correct," replied Richard, pleasantly.

   "What might yer business be?" he demanded further, nervously turning his hat.

   "Down here, or my professional employment?" asked Richard, waking up.

   "What do ye do fer a livin?"

   "Oh! I see. I'm a lawyer," Dick replied, glibly.

   "A lawyer, eh? An' I take it as yer not a married man, else ye wouldn't be payin' attentions to this 'ere orphaned girl."

   "You don't understand," Maggie interrupted, startled. "Dido was in trouble and Mr. Treadwell found her and brought her here."

   "Martin should mind his own business," exclaimed Dido indignantly. "If this was my house I would show him the door.

   "Not on my account," interposed Dick warmly. "If Mr. Shanks is a friend of the family he has a right to know the reason of a stranger being here."

   "These young girls 'ere, sir," explained frightened Martin Shanks, "have no parints to take care on them, an' I says to meself, when Mis' Williams wuz a lyin' dead here, that I'd see no harm come aninst them while I wuz about."

   "That was very good of you, Mr. Shanks," cordially replied Dick, and then, bidding the girls good night, he left. Martin Shanks, wishing to see the stranger well out of the neighborhood before he quit his post of guardianship for the remainder of the night, accompanied Dick as far as Broadway and Dick was not sorry to have his escort.

   The next day Richard visited Mulberry street again. This time he made the acquaintance of Blind Gilbert, the beggar, and his dog Fritz, a short-tailed, spotted dog, with a world of affection bound up in his black and white hide.

   "Maggie is very wretched about her sister Lucille," said Dido, confidentially, during Dick's visit. "She went away two weeks before Mrs. Williams died, and she hasn't come back yet."

   "Did she say that she would be away for any time?" Richard asked, with a show of interest that he was far from feeling. He was rather weary of troublesome girls just then.

   "No, that's it," eagerly. "They hadn't any idea that she wasn't coming home."

   "Indeed! Where had she gone?"

   "They don't even know that. She said she was going out to do some extra work." —–

   "What kind of work?"

   "She was a typewriter and a stenographer," Dido explained, "and in the evenings she used to get extra work. This night she went to work, but she did not come back, and Maggie worries over it."

   "I should think she would," Richard replied kindly. "Why didn't Maggie go to her sister's employer? Probably he could throw some light on the subject."

   "She did go to him, and he said Lucille had asked for two weeks' vacation, which he had given her, and Maggie didn't want to tell him that Lucille had gone out to do some extra work, for fear he wouldn't like it. He paid her by the week, and didn't know she did outside work. Maggie thought then she would be back, but now it is five weeks and she hasn't come back yet."

   "And poor mother loved her so," added Maggie huskily, as she re-entered the room, having left Blind Gilbert on his corner.

   "Do you think we could do anything towards finding her?" Dido asked eagerly.

   "I hardly see what you could do, unless you notify the police and advertise for her," Dick replied, listlessly. He had enough girls on his mind now, with Penelope, the Park Mystery girl and Dido, and he did not feel anxious to add another to his already too large list. He felt satisfied to look after Penelope, and was desirous of assuming sole charge of her, but did not want any more.

   "I should say that she had received a better position somewhere, and that you will hear from her before long," Dick added, encouragingly.

   "Oh, she would surely send for her clothes if she had," Dido said, earnestly. "If you will tell us what to do — what is the best thing — we will try to do it; Maggie is so anxious to find her."

   "I can easily do for you all that can be done," Dick replied. "If you can give me a description of her I will send it to Police Headquarters and have them search for her."

   "She was slender, and had a lovely white complexion and blue eyes, and black hair," Dido began, Richard writing it in a little notebook.

   "Was she tall or short?" he asked, pausing for a reply. "About my height — don't you think so, Maggie? I'm five feet four ½ inches."

   "How was she dressed?"

   "She had on her black alpaca dress, and wore a round black turban, with a bunch of green grass on the back of it," said Dido.

   "And she carried her light jacket along to wear home, 'cause mother thought it would be cold," Maggie said, helping Dido along. "Lucille always had nicer dresses than I had. She was twenty-one, though she didn't look it. I am older than she is."

   This description Richard Treadwell sent to the police authorities, and also inserted a cautious but alluring personal in all the leading newspapers; still the missing Lucille did not return, and nothing was heard of her.

   "My God, what it is to be poor!" Richard mused one morning as he walked up Broadway. "Why, the glimpses I get during my visits to Mulberry street, of the trials and privations the poor endure, makes me heartsick. There's Gilbert, blind and helpless, forced to spend his time on a Broadway corner begging his living. Sitting there waiting for people to give him pennies, and yet he doesn't want to die. Why, he clings to life as if he had the wealth of Monte Cristo. And all those untidy, unhappy women with peevish, crying, dirty children, live on in their garrets and cellars, for what?

   "They have no pleasures, no happiness, no comfort, and they are raising families to live out the same miserable existence. Ugh!

   "And there are Maggie and Dido! They live in that miserable, God-forsaken room and haven't a decent-looking dress to their backs. There are no drives, no jewels, no pretty dresses, no fond petting for them, yet, bless their brave hearts, they are more cheerful than most girls I know who live on the avenue. Dido is happy now that she has work, and Maggie would be happy if it wasn't for her absent sister. By Jove, I respect those girls. I admire their spirit, and if I don't find Maggie's sister it won't be my fault. It's just as easy to solve the mystery of two girls, as it is to solve the mystery of one," he thought, with grim humor, as he had made no progress in either case.

   "I haven't the least doubt that Maggie's sister, tiring of the poverty at home, found snugger quarters and is sticking to them. If I only knew what she looked like I would likely run across her in some of my rounds. New York is a very little place to those that go about. I'll wager if I knew that girl, and she was running around, I'd meet her inside of three evenings. If I could only identify her — – By Jove! I have it. I'll get Dido, who knows the girl, and I'll take her to the places where we are likely to meet the missing sister. Whew! Why didn't I think of it before? If I don't know all about her inside of a week I'll think — well, I'll find the little scamp, that's all."

   Delighted with his new scheme, Richard cut across Twenty-fourth street and went into the Hoffman House barroom. Without stopping he went through to the office, where he wrote and sent a note to Dido, asking her to take dinner with him that evening. Then he walked back to the bar room to congratulate himself — after the manner of his sex — for taking the road, whose way, he thought, led to success.

   Richard stood before the famous bar and marvelled how daylight seemed to rob the room of half its fascination. The men of the world, the men of fashion, the outlandish youth of dudedom, the be-diamonded actor and bejewelled men whose modes of life would ill bear investigation, had all fled with the night.

   The Flemish tapestry looked dull, and the exquisite Eve was a less glaring white and seemed to have lost expression in a new-found modesty, and the nymphs and satyr looked dull and tired. How different from the hours when the gas brought beautiful colors into the cut-glass pendants on the chandeliers, and everything seemed awake and alive where now they slept. The bartenders looked dull and uninterested, and a man who stood alone at the bar drank as if he had nothing else to do.

   He was a low, heavy-set man, dressed handsomely. He wore a black beard and mustache, and his small, black, bright eyes critically surveyed, across his high nose, the handsome and genial Richard. He set down an empty whiskey glass from which he had just been drinking, and, after taking a swallow of ice water, he remarked, in a voice perfectly void of emotion:

   "I beg your pardon, you are being 'shadowed.' I thought, perhaps, you would like to know it."

"I beg your pardon, you are being shadowed."

   "Thank you; you are very kind," Dick replied, gratefully, putting down his glass without drinking. "I knew they were after me some days ago, but I thought they had given me up."

   "I saw him dog you, though, when you first came in, and when you returned he came after you."

   "You are very kind," Dick repeated, cordially.

   "No trouble at all," the man said, gruffly. "I'll walk out and show you the man, if you care to know him."

  "Won't you join me first?" asked Dick. "What will you have? Whiskey" — to the bartender. "I am very much obliged for your kindness, and if I can ever be of any service to you command me," and the impulsive Dick took his card-case from his pocket and handed one of the square bits of pasteboard to the man just as they both lifted their glasses.

   The stranger glanced at the name and turned ghastly pale. His glass fell from his nerveless fingers to the floor with a crash, and he leaned heavily against the mahogany bar.

[To be continued to-morrow.]

from The New York Evening World, (1889-jul-25), p03

   "Isn't the matter of likes and dislikes a strange thing?" Dick asked, refilling the glasses which stood by his and Dido's plates. "This is very good wine, don't you think? Let me help you to some Spaghetti. I have often wondered why at first meeting we conceive a regard for some people and a dislike for others.

"This is very good wine, don't you think?" said Dick.

   "You remember the incident I related to you the first, or rather the second time you dined with me, of the man I met in the Hoffman House who warned me that I was shadowed. Well, I have run across him several times since. I have the strangest feeling for him, and he apparently dislikes me. I can't say that I like him, but I have such a desire to be with and near him that I can't say I dislike him either. By Jove, I was surprised when he fell against the bar that day and looked so miserably ill. I thought at first it was the sight of my name that affected him, but he assured me that it was a spasm of the heart, a chronic complaint of his."

   "What was his name?" asked Dido, breaking off a bit of bread. She was growing prettier every day since Richard had secured a position for her, and to-night she was bewitching in a new gray cloth gown.

   "Clark, he said; I think I asked him for it," said Dick laughing.

   Richard was not feeling very happy or comfortable this evening. He was carrying in his coat-pocket — on the right side too — a letter he had just received from Penelope. He had read it hastily, but its contents disturbed his tranquil mind.

   "Have you seen THE EVENING WORLD?" he asked Dido in the interval between the course, handing her a copy of the paper. "Will you excuse me? I would like to glance over an important letter I received this evening."

   Dido took the newspaper, but she was interested in the other diners more than in the news. The bright lights and nicely clad, happy-looking people, and the busy, silent waiters, were a never tiring sight to her.

   She admired an actress in a cherry-red dress and hat who sat near by and audibly related her former great triumphs to a small, dark man, who looked proud of having captured such a great woman for his opposite at dinner. At another table she saw a pretty, dark-eyed girl, with very white brow, and very red cheeks, and very dark shadows about her eyes, and very, very golden hair, who smiled and chatted with an insipid-looking man with a villain's mustache, enormous nose and bald head, and simple Dido wondered how such a sweet girl, with such a fair round throat could waste all her beauty and sweetness on such a horrid man who talked through his nose.

   At another table were two little men, children in form and voice, who made a great display of their mustaches and diamonds. They could barely see over the table when standing, but she judged them very great personages indeed from the way in which the proprietor had rushed to assist them to their places.

   A girl came through, trying to sell some badly assorted flowers, and a black and yellow bird in a cage, high above their heads, thrusts his long beak and head through the wires and, impudently twisting his head to see what was taking place below him, gave vent at intervals to a shrill, defiant cry.

   Meanwhile, Richard was absorbed in Penelope Howard's letter.

   "Dear Richard," she wrote, "I am glad to say our prolonged visit has drawn to a close, and to-morrow we return to dear old New York and — Dick. I wonder how much we have been missed. You cannot imagine how anxious I am to see you. I feel sure that you are ready to tell me all about the poor dead girl.

   "You can't imagine how I feel about her. When I go to bed at night and close my eyes I can see her again lying before us, her masses of golden hair, her pretty little hands, her delicate clothes, and I can't go to sleep for wondering whose darling she was and how she came to stray so far away from home and that they never found her.

   "I firmly believe she eloped with some rascal who tired of her at last and murdered her to free himself.

   "When will you solve this unhappy mystery?

   "Your short, unsatisfactory letters, I have felt all along, were a mere blind to keep me from suspecting the surprising story you have in reserve for me.

   "I forgot to tell you in my last that we met Clara Chamberlain and her mother here. They came over for a day to arrange with their lawyers something about Clara's Washington property. Clara confessed to me that the report which was published a while ago concerning her engagement was true. You remember none of us credited it at the time. Well, it is true, and the wedding is to be celebrated privately on the 7th. Auntie is to go and I promised Clara I would be there. Will this not be rather a blow to your friend Chauncey Osborne?

   "Her fiance, I believe, is quite unknown in our set. You know how very peculiar dear Clara always was! She, of course, says that he is charming and a man of culture and ability, a prominent politician and bound to make a stir in the world. He is, I have been told, the sole proprietor of some kind of a factory downtown which assures him quite a nice income. His name is Tolman Bike. Did you ever hear of him?"

   "The name sounds familiar to me," thought Dick, as he folded the letter and put it in his pocket. "Still I do not remember ever knowing such a person. Probably I recollect it, from reading that notice of Clara's engagement, although I had forgotten the whole occurrence;" and Dick returned to his dinner.

   "I think it is useless to hunt for Maggie's sister any longer," said Dick to Dido as they resumed their dinner. "We have made a pretty thorough search of the resorts where I thought we were likely to meet her. I confess I am disappointed. I was sure we would run across her somewhere, and that you would recognize her. Do you think it is at all possible for you not to recognize her?"

   "No, indeed. I'd recognize Lucille Williams anywhere," Dido replied earnestly.

   "My private opinion — don't tell Maggie — is, that she tired of her family and home and that she took herself to better quarters and means to keep them in ignorance of her whereabouts, fearing they would ask her to give towards their support."

   "I hardly think Lucille was as heartless as that," thoughtfully replied Dido. "She was vain and fond of dressing, but I don't think she would be as mean as that."

   "What were her habits?" asked Dick.

   "Habits? What she did regularly? Well, she used to go to Coney Island and Rockaway and such places in the Summer, with some boys she met in the places she worked, but after she got work in the office at the factory where we worked, she got very steady and she wouldn't go out with anybody any more. The nights she went out she went to do extra work."

   "How did she get along with your employer? You gave me the impression that he was very brutal," Dick said musingly.

   "Oh, Lucille got along splendidly with him. I always thought he was horrible, but she never said anything about him. She was very easy natured, any way, and I have a bad temper," said Dido in a shamefaced way.

   "How did he like her, do you know?"

   "Who? Tolman Bike?" asked Dido, quickly.

   "Tolman Bike? Why" — stammered Dick.

   "He was the proprietor, you know, and Lucille was his stenographer," exclaimed Dido. "I don't know what he thought of her, for Lucille didn't talk much, but she seemed to get along well enough."

   Dido became silent, as Richard was intent on his own thoughts.

   Tolman Bike was the name of the man who was to marry Clara Chamberlain.

   Tolman Bike was also the name of the employer of Lucille and Maggie Williams and Dido Morgan.

   Tolman Bike, Miss Chamberlain's fiance, was the proprietor of a down-town factory, so it must be one and the same man.

   Well, and if so could it be possible that Tolman Bike, the man who was engaged to marry a banker's daughter, could have been in love with Lucille Williams, a poor stenographer, and persuaded her to leave her home for him?

   Richard was a young man, and the idea was not a surprising one to him. According to what he could learn, the dark-haired stenographer was fond of the things she could little afford to possess, and it was likely that her employer, knowing her desires, made it possible for her to gratify them.

   Now that he was to marry, he would not be likely to hold out any inducement for the girl to stay with him, and if they should happen across her now it was possible that she would gladly return to the humble home of her sister.

   Still, supposing Tolman Bike had found no attraction for him in the stenographer? It was a very delicate thing to handle, considering that Richard's knowledge was mostly supposition.

   "Do you think that Maggie's sister really worked those nights she was away from home?" Dick asked Dido.

   "She always brought extra money home, which proved she did," Dido replied positively.

   "Did she ever talk about Tolman Bike?" "Never, except when she mentioned that he had dictated more work than usual, or something of that kind."

   "Well, I believe that Tolman Bike can tell me something about Maggie's sister," Richard said. Dido looked at him with a smile of doubt. "If she is not with him, he can tell me who she is with, and that is just as well. I must see him immediately, for three days from to-morrow he is to be married."

(Continued to-morrow.)

from The New York Evening World, (1889-jul-26), p03

   But Tolman Bike was not easily found.

   Richard Treadwell got up early and went to the box factory, only to be told that Mr. Bike, suffering from ill-health, had gone out of the city for a time.

   The people in charge of the shop either feigned ignorant or did not know when he was to return, but Dick knew, in view of Mr. Bike's approaching marriage, on the evening of the 7th, that he could not be absent from the city more than two days at the very most.

   But one thing he determined on. He would see Tolman Bike before his marriage to Miss Chamberlain, and for Maggie Williams's sake he would know the whereabouts of her sister. And also for Maggie's sake would he do what he could for the sister to induce her to return to her home.

   In the meantime Richard intended to make an extra effort to learn something about the Park mystery girl.

   He drove to the Morgue, and after some persuasion he got the bundle of clothes the pretty dead girl had worn when found in the Park.

   He took the gloves and gown and left the remaining articles with the keeper.

   He decided from the appearance of the dress that it had been made at some expensive establishment. He further decided that he would make a round of the fashionable dressmaking places and see if some one of them would not be able to recognize the work.

   If they recognized the work, tracing the owner home should be very easy, he thought.

   He took the gloves also, but like the dress, they had no mark that would assist him in his search.

   After trying several glove stores he abandoned this as impracticable, for no one claimed the gloves as having been bought from them, and even if they had known the gloves were from their stock, it would have been impossible to tell who bought them.

   Carefully he made a tour of the fashionable dressmakers. He felt dreadfully embarrassed as he entered the different establishments with the large parcel in his arms. The women in waiting, as well as the women customers, looked at him curiously, and when he asked, in a hesitating way, to see the proprietor or the forewoman, he could hardly endure the amused smiles of those who were eagerly listening to hear him state his business.

   He thought all sorts of things which made him uncomfortable. First, the idea came to him that they would think he had brought a dress to be made to wear in amateur theatricals, or at a masquerade. But that was not half as bad as to imagine they thought he had a wife who was displeased with a dress which she had returned by him.

   The worst part of all was, when he showed the crumpled gown to the persons in charge and inquired if they had made it to have them first show surprise at the unusual proceedings, then quiet indignation when they found that if Richard had a secret concerning the gown he meant to keep it, and when he guarded well his reasons for such a strange visit they bowed him out with such an air of injured dignity that Richard felt very small and unhappy.

   There were a few that instead of assuming an injured air, laughed at Richard, and one familiarly asked him if his wife refused to tell where she got it.

The worst of all was when he showed the crumpled gown to persons in charge.

   The majority of the dressmakers denied the gown so emphatically that Richard began to have a dim idea that the workmanship was not so fine as had been thought and that the dress had come from a humbler shop. He, not being a woman, did not know that one dressmaker never saw any good in another dressmaker's work.

   When he reached the last establishment of any note and importance it was almost dinner time. There were no customers about and the employees were making preparations for closing the shop. A girl came forward and politely asked Richard his business.

   He told her he wished to see whoever had charge of the place. Requesting him to be seated she left soon to return with a man.

   Richard felt more comfortable than he had all day. He explained to the man, who listened kindly and politely, showing neither surprise nor curiosity, that he wished to find the persons who had made the gown he had with him, in order to find out who had paid for the dress and where it had been delivered.

   The man took the gown and went to the workroom. Later he returned and went inside the small office.

   Richard waited impatiently, and for the first time a hope of solving the mystery of Central Park entered his heart. Surely when the man took so much time he had discovered something.

   Still Richard tried to keep his expectations from running away, lest he be compelled to suffer a severe disappointment; so when the man came towards him with the crumpled gown flung across his arm Richard offered the consolation to himself that he had still left for his inquiry the less fashionable dressmakers.

   "The dress was made here," the man said. Dick's pulse started off at a two-minute gait.

   "A letter was sent here containing an order for a dress. The measurements were inclosed and with them over half the price of the dress in bills. The letter stated that the person for whom it was intended was out of town and that in ten days the dress would be called for.

   "We often have customers order dresses from a distance," the man continued, "and we make them from measure. Ten days afterwards a messenger boy came in with an order for us to receipt for the price of the dress and a $100 bill, from which I took the rest of the price and gave him the dress."

   "Have you the letter that was sent you with the measurements and order?" asked Richard with a calmness that covered his excitement.

   "No. The boy said he must have the letter containing the measurements, and I sent up to the forewoman in the workroom. She had transferred the order to her book, but had the letter pinned to the same page, so she sent it down and I gave it to the messenger."

   "Have you not even the name and address of the person who ordered the dress?" asked Dick, very much cast down by the turn things had taken.

   "The name we have — it was Miss L. W. Smith — but there was no address. It was an unusual thing for us to do, but as I told you, we have many customers who send us orders for dresses when they are away from town, and ladies are not always careful and exact about addresses. They are liable to fall into the error of thinking that if we have once made a garment for them, by merely signing their name we are sure to recall their address and histories. We keep very satisfactory books, which contain little histories of every garment we make, so we always refer to that when a lady forgets to write us as much as is necessary for us to know.

   "I suppose it is absurd to ask if you have any idea of where the messenger was from," Dick said rather faintly.

   "I do not know, of course, but there is a messenger office on the block above, where you might inquire. It is almost useless, though, for the lady doubtless got the boy in her district, and as you are aware, this is not a district of residences. Still you would not lose anything by asking. They may be able to offer you some assistance. I can give you the date the boy called for the gown and I am very sorry I cannot do more for you."

   The man had the gown put in a box for Richard, who left the establishment feeling happier than he had since he and Penelope had found the dead girl. He was on the track of her identity at last, and, though a faint clue, he felt it a very sure one.

   They did not show much inclination to help Richard at the District Telegraph office. At first they said it was impossible to tell which messenger it was even if he had been from that place, and then, after a fashion, they did make a search, but with no success.

   "I know it," said one of the messengers, who was standing at the counter. "I had stopped out front to scrap with Reddy Ryan, who was takin' a basket of clothes home, and a duffer drove up in a carriage and asked if I'd do a job for him, 'n I told him I'd been sent on a call, so he said he'd give me a dime if I'd run an' get him a messenger. I came, an' Shorty, No. 313, was sent out. I remember it 'cause he told me the man just sent him into Moscowitz's to get a dress an' pay a bill, an' gave him a dollar for doin' it."

   "Where is No. 313?" asked Dick, his spirits rising 50 per cent.

   "He's off on a call. No, here he is," said the messenger, who knew something. "Come here, Shorty, you're wanted."

   Shorty was a red-headed boy with a freckled face and one eye. The other messenger recalled the circumstances to him, and he sniffed his nose and said he remembered.

   Richard then asked if there was a lady with the man in the carriage, but No. 313 thought not. Richard then asked him what the man looked like, but No. 313 could not say, except that he had a mustache and wore a soft felt hat. No. 313 had no opinion as to whether the carriage was private or hired, but he "guessed" it wasn't a livery hack, 'cause the harness jingled.

   The other and brighter messenger said the man was young, denied the soft felt hat and pronounced the carriage a hired one.

   Richard hurried through his dinner, possessed of an unusual feeling of happiness, and went for Dido Morgan to spend their last evening in their peculiar search for Maggie's sister.

   To-morrow Penelope would be home, and he had learned something. If ever so little, still it was something, and now that he had made such a successful start he began to feel hopeful of a final success. He knew now where the dress had been made and he knew a man had called for it. He had engaged the two messenger boys, and with them he intended to search the town over for the man who got the dress which the dead girl had worn. Once he found the man, then the rest would be easy.

   Richard took Dido to the Eden Musee, and after she had seen all the interesting figures Dick took her up to the cosy retreat above the orchestra, where the tall green palms cut off the glare of the electric light. He ordered some ice cream for Dido and some Culmbacher for himself, and lighting a cigarette he gave himself up to the influence of the beautiful Hungarian music and dreams of Penelope.

   The music sobbed and sighed, and Dick drifted on dream-clouds and was lazily happy. He would solve the mystery, he felt sure, and then what years of happiness with Penelope stretched before him. What a great thing it was to be happy; life is so short, why should people allow themselves to be unhappy for a second if they can possibly avoid it? An unusual tenderness filled his heart, a peaceful happiness.

   And poor little Dido, how dreary life loomed up before her! Dicks heart swelled with pity, and he sympathetically took the girl's hand in his and looked tenderly into the soft, brown eyes that looked at him so trustingly.

   There was so much happiness and love in waiting for him and Penelope, but what did life offer to poor, lonely Dido?

   And as the sobbing music ended in one long thrill, Richard, raising his eyes from the richly tinted face of this sweet girl companion, saw standing before him, with white face and stern eyes —

   Penelope.

Raising his eyes Dick saw standing before him, with white face and stern eyes — Penelope.

(Continued To-Morrow.)

from The New York Evening World, (1889-jul-27), p03

   At the sight of Penelope Richard was dumfounded.

   He stifled a first impulse to spring to his feet and greet her when he saw her stern, white and reproachful face, and sitting still tried slyly to drop Dido's hand.

   Without one word of recognition Penelope went on after her aunt and a gentleman who, unnoticed, had in advance passed Dick and his companion.

   "D—– it!" said Dick, warmly, in an undertone, and then he thought: "I'm in for it now. Penelope will never believe that thinking of my love for her made me feel a great pity for this lonely girl. She will say I was making love to her, because I held her hand, and she will never forgive it. What an ass I am to risk a life-time of happiness with Penelope, just to sympathize with a girl whose life is lonely, and yet, poor little devil — It's all up with Penelope, I know. I can tell by the look on her face that she will not forgive or believe me. I'll give up. It's no use now trying to solve the Park mystery — no use trying to do anything."

   Dido looked uneasy. She had seen all and she partly understood. She said, in a little strained voice: "I am very sorry."

   "I wish some man would tramp on my toes or punch me in the ribs. I'd just like a chance to knock the life out of somebody," Dick said savagely.

   Dido laughed softly at Dick's outburst, but she delicately avoided the subject of the "lady who looked so angry."

   "I forgot to tell you," she said, at length in an effort to change the subject, "that it's all arranged at last."

   "What?" asked Dick, curiously, the current of his thoughts leading him to think it was something about Penelope.

   "Why, the affair between Maggie and Martin Shanks. Why, didn't you know?" in great surprise. "Why, I saw it all the first night you brought me back."

   "I didn't notice anything in particular, but I recall plainly feeling Mr. Shanks in the dark," Richard replied grimly. He always felt a little disgust at the remembrance of his fears that night, and he cherished a grudge against lanky Martin Shanks for waiting to be run over in the hallway.

   "Well, Maggie and Martin are in love," exultingly.

   "Possible!"

   "Yes, and last night he proposed and was accepted, and Sunday they are going to be married, and they are going down to Coney Island to spend the first day of their honeymoon," and Dido sighed in ecstasy.

   "Lucky Martin, I'm sure; I wish I were in a like position," Dick said, half enviously, as the sad thought came that it was all over between him and Penelope. "I must get a nice present for Maggie."

   "It was all so amusing," said Dido, with a rippling laugh. "I'm half sorry the courtship ended so soon. Martin was so faithful, so bashful, and so desperately in love. The only time he ever showed the least spirit was the night you took me home."

   "I remember it quite well," Dick said, dryly.

   "I thought he was very insulting that night, but it's just his way, you know. He has liked you ever since then. You know he always stood guard in the hall; every night I was out, I would stumble over him, yet he couldn't be coaxed to come in. When Maggie took Blind Gilbert out to his stand Martin always followed, so as to protect her coming home. Still, if she looked at him or spoke to him, he was so embarrassed that he couldn't answer."

   "He gave her some flowers once, and when she thanked him he was so broke up that he stammered that he had found them on Broadway and thought she might as well have them, and the great simpleton had bought them expressly for her. Next he bought some cloth for a dress, and when Maggie said she couldn't take it he said he didn't want it, that he couldn't make any use of it. Just fancy Martin Shanks wearing a dress!"

   Richard smiled at the picture presented to his mind of lanky Mr. Shanks in a gown.

   "His proposal was the funniest thing," Dido continued with a chuckle. "There came a loud knock on the door. Maggie opened it, and there before her was a workbasket. She picked it up and lifted the lid and there lay a plain gold ring."

   "Martin," she said, going out to where he was standing in the hall, "you are too good to me. I can't take these things."

   "I had an idee you'd let the parson, who brings us tracts, put that there ring on yer finger, and then you'd have the right to do me mendin'. It was an idee, maybe I'm wrong?"

   "'Then Maggie said gently, 'Come in, Martin,' and he replied, 'If yu air wid me, Maggie?' and she blushed, and said, 'Yes, Martin,' and he stepped into the room, saying, 'I'll come in to settle accounts?'

   "When he went out again all arrangements had been made for a speedy marriage. Martin said it was no use to waste time in being engaged, so they are to be married Sunday. They are the happiest couple you ever saw," and Dido sighed enviously.

   "And what is to become of you and blind Gilbert? Are you to have no share in their Eden?" Richard asked.

   "Oh, yes. Maggie says they are going to rent a flat further uptown, and one room is to be for me and Lucille when she comes back, and Gilbert is to stay with them also. It's a pretty big family to begin with, but we'll all give what we can to pay expenses. I don't think Gilbert will go, though. He likes Maggie as though she was his daughter, but he's been so many years in that house on Mulberry street that I don't think he will leave it."

   "Well, this is our last evening to search for Maggie's sister," Richard said, "and we have had no success whatever. I'm sorry, for Maggie's sake, though personally I feel it is just as well for her if her sister never returns to be a burden on her."

   "I intend to see Tolman Bike before his marriage and learn from him where the sister is, and if we think it advisable, we can still persuade her to go home, but I have another important matter that will take all my time, so I cannot do much for awhile, at least about Maggie's sister unless Bike tells me when I see him, as I intend to do to-morrow. I expect to be too busy working on an important case to see you for awhile, but I hope your good luck will still continue, and you can congratulate Mr. Shanks and Maggie for me."

   "It is useless for me to try to thank you for your kindness and help to me," Dido said brokenly.

   Dick's blue eyes beamed kindly on Dido as he replied, quickly: "There's a good girl, don't let us talk about that. I'm a useless fellow, and if I have been of the least service to any one, the gratitude is all on my side. I am grateful to you for allowing me to imagine I have been of service to you."

   And these two young people, whose barks had floated side by side on the stream of life for a brief time, were drifting apart. Mentally they were taking farewell, for they knew that, if even for a few days, they remained yet in sight or call, still their course lay so widely apart that they might never hope to float near each other again.

   So they silently left the place where they had spent their last evening together and went out on the street into the cool, quiet night.

   A few gas jets dimly lighted up Twenty-third street, and the stores that lined the opposite side frowned dark and gloomy upon the few people who occasionally made their appearance as they walked from the darkness into the light of the street lamps and then disappeared again into the shadows beyond.

   Coming towards the young couple from Sixth avenue was a man thoughtfully walking along as if, unable to sleep, he had sought the quiet streets to think.

   Richard noticed him, and pressing Dido's arm, he whispered:

   "Look at this man."

   "Yes, yes," she said, excitedly.

   The men exchange glances, and the stranger raised his hat stiffly in response to Richard's cordial greeting. After they had passed, Richard said:

   "Why do you tremble so? I merely wanted to call your attention to him. That is Mr. Clarke, the gentleman I had the experience with in the Hoffman House bar."

   "Mr. Clarke!" cried Dido, in amazement. "Why that is Tolman Bike!"

"Mr. Clarke!" cried Dido in amazement. "Why that is Tolman Bike!"

(To be Continued Monday.)

from The New York Evening World, (1889-jul-29), p03

   "Why!" as if unpleasantly surprised at his visit, "how do you do?"

   Such was Penelope Howard's greeting to Richard Treadwell the morning following the meeting in the Eden Musee. He could not stay away from her, so he decided to try to explain all about Dido. He wished now he had not been so anxious to keep the affair a secret until Penelope's return. It made things look all the blacker for him.

   Penelope was a clever girl. She was bitterly hurt, but she had no intention of quarrelling with Dick. If she experienced any jealous pangs he should not have the satisfaction of knowing it. She would merely maintain a cold indifference and make him feel that do as he pleased it was nothing to her. She would smile, but indifferently, and not with the smile of affection she had always greeted him with. She would treat him in a manner that would show her displeasure and utter lack of affection for him, but she would not quarrel and so give him a chance to offer an apology or explanation.

   "You don't seem very glad to see me?" Dick ventured with a forced smile.

   Penelope looked with well assumed amazement and surprise at his audacity, and, raising her eyebrows, said with a slightly rising inflection, "No."

   Richard felt very ill at ease.

   "You don't understand," he continued, helplessly. "I hope at least you will allow me to explain the scene which you witnessed last night."

   She said, with a cold smile: "Really, you must excuse me. I have no right or desire to know anything about your personal affairs."

   "Confound it, Penelope. Don't be so infernally indifferent," exclaimed the young man with exasperation.

   She just looked at him. Scorn and disdain was pictured on her expressive countenance now.

   "Very well," Dick said, dejectedly and out of patience. "I have loved you devotedly and I have meekly endured all your caprices, and if you want my devotion to end in this way I can only obey. If you ever regret it, Penelope, remember it was your own doings. You sent me away and I shall not return."

   And Richard, a very wretched young man indeed, walked hastily from the room.

   Penelope never moved until she heard the hall door close. She thought that he would come back; he always had, but when she realized that he had really gone she was surprised and a little frightened.

   Richard was very good-natured, but she felt she had gone just a little too far, and that if she wanted him back it would be necessary to humble herself.

   Now that she had lost him she reviewed her own conduct, and felt that, although Richard had done wrong, she had been unnecessarily harsh. He deserved some punishment to teach him not to err again, but she had been too unforgiving.

   Wasn't Dick always gentle and kind to her, and did he not always manfully and tenderly overlook her little mistakes and pettishness? Besides, was she not sure he loved her better than any girl in the world? Then why should she be jealous if he amused himself with those other women who are always so ready to "draw men on."

   A woman in love always reproaches herself with being the cause of every lover's jar.

   A woman in love invariably blames other women for all the slips made by the man she loves.

   And they will do it to the end of the world.

   While Penelope was spending the day racked with unhappy thoughts, Richard was busy trying to see Tolman Bike and managing the messenger boys in their search for the man who paid for the dead girl's gown.

   Richard called at Mr. Bike's office, only to be informed that Mr. Bike was still absent from town. But he knew to the contrary this time, so, obtaining the address he called at Tolman Bike's bachelor apartments in Washington Square.

   Mr. Bike was in town, this servant said, but he did not expect him in until time to dress for a 7 o'clock dinner. He did not know where Mr. Bike was to be found, so Richard was forced to rest content with this meagre information until a later hour.

   Richard first consulted a directory. He found quite a list of Smiths, but no Miss L. W. Smith, and he concluded if nothing more feasible offered he would select the Smiths who lived in the best neighborhoods, and personally visit every family until he found the right one, or knew positively no such Smith lived in New York. He had inserted a personal advertisement in all the morning and evening newspapers asking for information concerning the relatives of Miss L. W. Smith, and he expected by evening to have some definite clue to work on.

   His disagreement with Penelope, instead of killing all desire to try further to solve the mystery of Central Park, infused him with new life and energy, and he was resolved to solve the mystery, and by doing so make Penelope regret her unreasonableness.

   Accompanied by the messenger boy, Richard tried his original plan of walking about to meet people in the busy parts of the city.

   "When you see a man that you think resembles the man who got the dress, I want you to tell me," he instructed the boy, and so in hopes of knowing at least what the man looked like, Richard spent the day wearily travelling around.

   "There goes a fellow that looks just like the other duffer," the boy announced, as he and Dick stood aimlessly on Broadway.

   Richard started to follow the man who, in company with a red-headed, florid-faced man that carried about with him 250 pounds of superfluous flesh, was going down Broadway.

   The man pointed out by the boy had a light beard, a high nose and sharp eyes. Richard recognized him as an Albany assemblyman.

   "That looks totally unlike the man I pictured from your description," Richard said, crossly, as they followed the two men into the Hoffman House.

   "Well, his face looks like the other fellow, only the other one had black whiskers, and this here one's is red."

   "Bleached, doubtless," Dick said ironically.

   "Well, he looks the same, anyway," the boy protested, as Dick seated himself in the bar-room and made a pretense of reading a letter.

   The two men went to the bar and ordered drinks, and as the thinner one (they were neither on the lean order) raised a glass to his mouth, Richard started and looked more closely at him.

   Surely his face looked familiar then!

   "I am tired; you can go to your office now and come to me in the morning," Dick said to the messenger, who gladly started off.

   Richard sat there with serious face watching the man at the bar until the two men went out; then Dick fell into deep thought.

   A wild, improbable suspicion had come to his mind, so improbable, so wild, that he felt ashamed to dwell on it. The likeness was familiar; so unlike, and yet so strangely like, that Dick hardly knew what to believe.

   "Poor devil! Why should I allow a chance resemblance to make me accuse him of a thing so bad as that. He has enough to bear and answer for now, yet — yet — But it's too wild, too improbable. I'll forget it, I'll dismiss the thought from my mind, the messenger was surely mistaken, and I'll devote my evening to seeing about Maggie's sister. Here's to an evening free from all thoughts of that dead girl. And yet — it's very strange — I half believe" — Then, shrugging his shoulders, Dick impatiently drained his glass and started for Washington square.

   Richard went up one flight of stairs to Tolman Bike's apartments, and knocked on the door on which was tacked Mr. Bike's visiting card.

   In a moment the door was opened, and the man he knew as Mr. Clarke stood before him.

   "Mr. Bike," said Richard, with emphasis on the name, "I must speak with you alone."

   Richard spoke imperatively and at the same moment stepped inside.

   Mr. Bike looked as ill as the day he fell against the Hoffman House bar. He silently motioned Dick to enter the first room leading off the private hall in which they stood. Closing and locking the door he followed.

   Richard seated himself in an easy chair, unasked. Mr. Bike sat down before a richly carved desk which was littered with packages of letters and photographs which apparently he had been engaged in assorting and destroying, for bundles of them were slowly smouldering in the open grate.

   The room was very handsome, and Richard viewed it with appreciation. There was a large open grate and above the low, wide mantle was a cabinet containing, in the centre, a French plate mirror, and in the brackets fine bits of bric-a-brac. The floor was richly carpeted, the walls were hung with fine paintings, while near the portieres, draped just far enough back to give a picturesque perspective view of a suite of rooms as cosy in the rear, was an alabaster statue of the diver and another of Paul and Virginia.

   A Mexican serape, quaintly colored, was thrown over a low lounge, before which lay a white fur rug. At one side was a little, square breakfast table, with curiously turned legs, and near it a half side-board, half cabinet, attractively filled with exquisite dishes, a few solid silver pieces and crystal glasses with long-necked bottles of liquids to fill them.

   Mr. Bike had removed his coat and waistcoat and had on a little embroidered jacket. He did indeed have an unhealthy pallor, and Dick noticed that the hand with which he toyed with a carved paper-cutter shook unsteadily.

   "How this man loves life and its good things," Dick thought, sympathetically, as his gaze wandered from one article of luxury to another and on to another room where, just through the portiere he could see a brass cage, in which a yellow canary was jumping restlessly about, and a small aquarium, up through which came a spraying fountain. He could even see goldfish swimming about and a little dark turtle run its head out of the water and then dive down again to the bottom of the basin.

   "I suppose you know why I came to see you?" Dick said at last, when he saw Mr. Bike would not introduce any subject.

   "No, I can't say that I do," Mr. Bike responded, with affected indifference.

   "Well, I want to know all about Lucille Williams is," he said abruptly

   "What right have you to come to me for such information?" Mr. Bike asked coldly.

   "Because you induced the girl to leave her home," Dick replied positively, "and I want to know all you have to tell about it."

   "I have nothing to tell," Mr. Bike said, with a slight, sarcastic smile.

   "Well, sir, if you won't tell, I'll find a way to make you," Richard said, angrily.

   "Ah! Indeed!" Mr. Bike ejaculated, still cool and unconcerned.

   "Yes, sir; if you don't tell me what I want to know before I leave here, I will go to Miss Chamberlain, your fiancee" — Mr. Bike started uneasily — "I'll tell her a story you would not like her to know."

   "And you flatter yourself that she would believe you?" sarcastically.

   "I know it. I can prove what I have to tell," Dick replied in a manner that was unmistakable.

   "All right, go to her. See what you can do."

   "By Jove, I will, and if the newspapers don't have a greater story than the postponement of your marriage it won't be because I have not told them some shady chapters in your life. Be as unconcerned as you please, you'll be sorry to-morrow that you didn't take the easier course."

   "And would you — do you mean" — hesitated Tolman Bike, losing confidence at sight of Dick's determination.

"And would you" — hesitated Tolman Bike.

   "Yes, sir; I mean every word of it." Dick had risen and he looked very angry. "I have given you a chance, and you refuse to accept it, so the consequence be on your own head."

   "And would you, if I tell you all, be man enough to show some mercy?" he asked, visibly weakening.

   "I hold out no promises. I am determined to have a confession from you before your marriage, and if you don't give it you don't marry," Dick said doggedly.

   "And if I tell you," in sudden hope, "will you let my marriage go on without telling Clara? Promise to let us get away on our wedding tour and then you can do as you wish. Only give me that much," almost pleaded the now trembling man.

   "And let you wreck the life of the innocent, unsuspecting woman who becomes your bride? What sort of a man do you think I am?" Richard asked in scorn.

   "My God, man! Have some feeling. Haven't I suffered enough already? You are a man, you can understand how a man will sell his soul to hell for the sake of a woman," he said bitterly. "Have some feeling!"

   "Can't you understand it?" he continued, desperately, in vain effort to wake compassion in Richard's breast. "She was pretty, she had no friends to make any trouble about it and I lost my head. I have suffered for it. I have regretted it." And Tolman Bike put his hands over his face, and Richard heard a broken, husky sob.

   This was more than he could endure. His sternness fled at that sound, and he could hardly refrain from attempting to console the wretched man. Only thoughts of the poverty-stricken little sister helped him maintain an air of unrelenting sternness.

   "Tell me what you you have to ask"

   "Only give me until to-morrow and I'll swear to you that you shall know what you want to before 10 o'clock. Give me until then. If I fail you have yet time to stop my marriage in the evening. You are a man, but if you won't spare me for a man's follies spare me for the sake of the woman I am to marry. I'm sick. I can't talk, only give me until to-morrow."

   "—– it, Bike," Richard said feelingly, "if it wasn't for the girl's sister I'd fling the whole thing over." He little knew what it meant to him. "I believe your promise. I'm a man, reckless, indolent, careless as the worst of them, and, confound it, I'm sorry for you. There's my hand."

   "Thank you, thank you," Bike said, his deep emotions showing in the painful twitching of his pale face. He clasped Dick's firm hand in his own dry, feverish one, and gave it a grateful pressure.

   "Until to-morrow, then?"

   "Until to-morrow," echoed the unhappy man, looking into Dick's face with an appealing look of agony that Richard never forgot.

   So these two, so strangely met, so strangely interested, parted for all eternity.

(Continued To-Morrow.)

from The New York Evening World, (1889-jul-30), p03

   It was 10 o'clock when Richard Treadwell in gown and slippers, sat down in a high-backed chair to partake of a light breakfast.

   The dainty table was spread with its burden of light rolls and yellow butter, with a bit of ice on it, and crisp, red berries. The odor of the coffee was very appetizing, but Richard ate and read the morning WORLD at the same time.

   The awnings lowered over the windows shut out the glare of the morning sun. A light breeze moved the curtains lazily, and a green palm on the window-sill waved its long arms energetically, as if to hurry the indolent young man who was missing the beauty of Summer's early morning.

   Richard Treadwell's rooms were as unlike the elegant apartments of Tolman Bike as a violet is unlike a rose. One, like a laughing, romping child, denoted health and cheerfulness; the other, unhealthy in tone and coloring, spoke of dreams and selfish gratification.

   Here were copies of Rosa Bonheur's masterpieces of animal life, pictures of racing horses, photographs of serious-faced dogs in comical positions, a stuffed fish's head, with wide open mouth, mounted on a plaque; boxing gloves, clubs and dumb-bells, lying where they had fallen after this young man had taken a turn at each of them. There was an unsorted jumble of walking-sticks, whips, fishing tackle and firearms. The furniture was light, the curtains were thin and airy, the carpet was bright and soft.

   Richard ate and read unmindful of the wrestling match between a bow-legged pug and a saucy black-and-tan, whose little sharp ears stood stiffly erect, expressive of cool amusement at the fat pug's futile attempts to throw him.

   As Richard pushed his chair back and lighted a cigarette, a man servant entered quietly and put a large envelope and a smaller one on the table before him. Richard took the larger envelope and read the superscription. "To Richard Treadwell, Personal," and across the lower corner "From Tolman Bike," hastily tore it open with his thumb.

The letter began without any preliminaries.

   The letter began without any preliminaries;

   In writing this I place my life at your disposal.

   I neither expect mercy nor ask it.

   I have been so wretched for days that life is a burden I little care to bear.

   Do what you please with this, but if you possess an unheard-of generosity I would ask you, after clearing yourself to spare me as much as possible.

   "My wild, improbable suspicions were correct!" Dick exclaimed, in surprise. The black-and-tan, hearing his voice, came and jumped inquiringly against his knee, but receiving no attention returned to finish the English Kilrain on the rug.

   I first met Lucille Williams when she came to my office in answer to my advertisement for a typewriter and stenographer. Of the many who applied I selected her. Not because she was the most proficient worker, but for a man's reason.

   She had a pretty face.

   Wonderfully pretty, I have had men tell me. She had large, clear blue eyes and an abundance of wavy black hair, and a faultless pink and white complexion that often accompanies the combination. Her hands were small and slender and she was particular in the care of them, and her remarkably small feet were always well shod.

   Life is dull at best during business hours, so I amused myself with my pretty typewriter. It started first by my playfully putting my arm around her chair when dictating. Harmless enough. Yes, but it brought me so close to her that I began to wonder what she would do if I kissed her. When I stopped in my dictation she raised her great, blue, alluring eyes to me in such a way, that I wouldn't have been a man had I not felt a little thrill of pressure.

   I did kiss her at last.

   She was not much offended. She cried a little and wanted to know what she had done that encouraged me to insult her. Her chief fault was Vanity, so I pleased myself and comforted her by taking her in my arms and vowing that the sight of her red lips so close, and her great eyes, so alluring and entrancing, was more than I could resist. It comforted her and pleased me.

   Yes, I said something of love.

   It somehow seemed the only thing to say under the circumstances. I think I called her "My Love," and similar names. I am positive I did not say I loved her, although I recall coaxing her to say she loved me.

   She said she loved me, and I believed her.

   It was all very pretty and interesting while it had the charm of newness. We soon spent our evenings together. I took her to restaurants patronized by Bohemia, where, if one happens across an acquaintance, he, on a similar errand, is just as anxious to keep it a secret as you are. In the summer, when there was less chance of embarrassing meetings, I took her to better places and occasionally to the theatre.

   I found it interesting.

   Meanwhile, I learned that Lucille's sister was employed in the factory, and I threatened Lucille with an eternal parting if, by any chance, her family learned of our intimacy. When seeing friends and persons about business would no longer serve as a blind, I instructed Lucille to say she was engaged on extra work. She very sensibly said she could not do this without money to show for it, so I promptly made it possible. Thereafter that was her blind.

   Thus she deceived her family.

   Meanwhile I thought I would feel more comfortable if Lucille were better dressed. You know how men feel on this subject. He would rather be seen in company with the lowest woman in New York if she wore a Paris gown, than with a woman in rags, even if she were as pure as a saint. A man is always afraid of being chaffed for being with a badly dressed woman.

   For the world, looking on, judges by the dress.

   I spoke to Lucille. I found she was as sensitive of her cheap garments as I was, so I told her if she would buy an entire outfit suitable for our wanderings I would pay for it. I made suggestions, and the garments she bought were as lady-like and appropriate as if it had been an every-day affair with her.

   Then came the question, Where to send the clothes?

   She could not send them home, for her mother and sister, though poor, had Puritan ideas concerning morals and propriety.

   There is a way out of every difficulty.

   I had her send all her new articles to my bachelor apartment. Then I gave her a key, so she could enter my rooms at any time to change her cheap clothing for her new and vice versa.

   So I got her to my rooms.

   I don't deny that it was my intention at first to finally take her there, but I wanted to preserve the sentiment of the affair as long as possible. She was very perfect to the sight, very lovable, and I was eager for our evenings — anxious to drip out as slowly as possible the intoxication of the affair, still breathlessly eager to drain the cup.

   There is no need of going into detail.

   You know what bachelor apartments are; you know what opportunities they afford. Lucille was timid at first; afraid to come in or go out, but she soon grew bolder. She even grew to like the danger of it.

   I was very fond of her then.

   There is no use to be hypocritical and cry it was love of her that led me on. Why men adopt such weak pleas, I never could understand.

   It was not love of her.

   A man never injures a woman through love of her, but through love of self. I realized this all the time, but I was passionately happy, and happiness is not so plentiful that I should slight it, result as it might.

   I promised to marry her.

   It happened in a moment when I loved her best. I knew at the time, I was doing a reckless thing. The next day I warned her to keep our love secret, because there were reasons why if it were known it would be injurious to me. She, appreciating the difference between us, was as silent as I could be.

   By and by things began to pall.

   I was too well acquainted with her. I grew tired of her pretty face. Her little vulgarities exasperated me. She was a woman of such little variety and she so weakly bowed to every demand I made that it became unbearable.

   I have known homely women whose charms were more lasting.

   Her weakness maddened me. I grew to hate her. If she had only had enough spirit to quarrel with me, but that was the secret of it; she had no spirit until it was too late.

   Just before this I met Miss Chamberlain. I found that I had pleased her fancy and I concluded to marry.

   It mattered little that I was not in love; I had long since learned that love was merely the effect of some pleasing sensation, which some persons, like some music, produce on us that shortly wears itself out. I thought it better to marry where there was no feeling than where there was. For the sensation of love is sure to die, leaving an unsupportable weariness caused by its own emotion. Where there is no such feeling, there is no such result to fear.

   I never expected any trouble from Lucille.

   But I reckoned without my host. Although I endeavored to keep my engagement secret, yet a line to the effect that I was to marry Miss Chamberlain, reached print. Lucille, though hardly in society, always read society notes. She read that one.

   She became a tigress — a devil. Isn't it queer that a weak woman always has an ungovernable temper? Expecting nothing more than a few tears from her, I answered carelessly, and she grew infuriated. Of course, I was astonished. She accused me of falseness and demanded that I deny the report over my own name and marry her immediately, or she would seek Miss Chamberlain and lay before her what she pleased to call my baseness.

   I was determined to marry.

   It meant wealth, a better social position, power, and a wife that at least I would be proud of. I had cherished such an idea of marriage since I was a boy, and I was resolved that nothing should balk me now that it was in my grasp.

   I was determined to take fate into my own hands.

   Finding I could not quiet Lucille I concluded to rid myself of all responsibility in her case.

   Call me base if you will!

   Was I doing more than hundreds of men are doing in New York to-day?

   Had I done more than hundreds — aye, thousands — of men have done in New York?

   You are a man of education and means; denounce me if you have never sinned likewise.

   Let any New York man of learning, leisure and money denounce me, if any there are who have not likewise blundered.

   It was only a matter of a few days' amusement, harmless if it ended quietly.

   But I slipped up on it — therein lies the sin. Not in what I did, but in blundering over it.

   People may say what they will. I was not wrong. It is the system that is wrong, the system that prevents people who care for each other from being happy in that affection while it lasts. Had the system been different Lucille would have been home to-day, happier and in more comfortable circumstances than previous to our meeting, and I — I would not now be writing to you.

   But there was nothing to save us.

   Tired and disgusted with Lucille, she further exasperated me with her jealousy and unreasonable demands for a speedy marriage. Fearful of losing the marriage which meant so much to me, I carefully planned what seemed the only course to pursue.

   Yes, it was deliberate.

   Calming her anger for the day, I persuaded her to come to my apartment — these very rooms where I sit and quietly write this confession of my crime.

   Unsuspecting, aye, even gladly she came — came to meet her fate which waited for her like a spider in his entangling web for a fly.

   "If you please, sir, Miss Howard's compliments, and would you come up as soon as possible," said a voice at the door.

   The little black-and-tan paused for a moment, with the pug's ear still between his little sharp teeth, to see where the noise came from, and Richard responded, impatiently: "Very well, say I'll be there," and returned to Tolman Bike's letter.

(Concluded to-morrow.)

from The New York Evening World, (1889-jul-31), p03

   The mockery of the thing amused me.

   I knew so well how it was to end, and when Lucille came cheerfully to me, never thinking but that she would return to her home that night, I laughed aloud.

   She wanted to talk about my promise of marriage, and I readily consented. In very few words I gave her to understand that it was impossible for me to marry her in her present condition, but if she would be guided by my judgment, and bought suitable clothing, we could then go away and be quietly married. To do this it was necessary that she remain with me.

   She was more than satisfied.

   She was elated over her brilliant prospects. Still she was stubbornly determined to notify her family, and only by threatening to abandon the whole affair if it became known did I keep her from doing so. I did, however, consent to her writing a note saying she had gone out of town for a few weeks, and on her return would have a joyful surprise for them. It satisfied her and did not hurt me.

   The letter was never mailed.

   Lucille's presence was not unknown to some few. My servant, who slept at home, knew I had somebody with me, but as he had served many years in taking care of bachelor apartments, he was neither surprised nor inquisitive. The waiters who served our meals knew I was not alone, but to them, also, it was a story too old to merit comment. Still, I took precautions that they should not see Lucille.

   In the garments I had bought her I sent Lucille to a dressmakers to get her measurements. I also sent her to a dentist to have some decaying teeth filled, and so I started to work out my release from a woman of whom I had tired.

   You might say that I could have taken a more simple way. I don't see how. I was afraid of losing my wealthy fiancee and so I would not risk the least chance of Lucille's telling. Of course I could have claimed blackmail and been declared innocent, yet, knowing the nature of the woman I was hoping to marry, I would not risk the effect it would have on her.

   There seemed only one thing to do, and I did it.

   I had Lucille write an order for a dress, from my dictation, inclosing the measurements and stating that it would be called for on a certain date. Personally I went to different stores and bought the garments necessary to make a perfect outfit. I did not spare expense. I brought everything home with me in the coupe. This relieved me of necessity of giving any address or name, which made me feel sure the articles could not be traced to their destination.

   During this time Lucille was very happy, notwithstanding her imprisonment. She was constantly planning what she would do when we were married. She dwelled in delight on the sensation her marriage would create among those who knew her. She discussed the localities most suitable for us to live in, and talked of things she intended to buy for her house and the dresses she meant to get.

   It is useless to try to describe the emotions I labored under during those days. I was conscious of a tiredness, underlaid with a stolid determination not to be balked in my purpose. I felt no sympathy for Lucille. I think I was absolutely without feeling one way or the other. I only felt a desire to laugh at her air castles as she told them to me. Not amused — no. I can't say what the feeling was. Even when she lay awake some nights and I knew she was painting her future, I laughed aloud at the strangeness of it all.

   I counted the nights. Every one found my preparations nearer completion.

   Carefully I removed all trade marks and names from every garment I had bought her. The gloves and suede shoes only bore their size. I took the crown lining out of the hat, and before I brought her dress home I removed the inside belt, which was stamped with the name of the man who made it.

   The dress was the last article but one I brought to my apartment. I did not even show myself at the establishment where the gown was made. I drove near the place and hiring a messenger boy sent him in for the garment. In this way I preserved the secret of my identity.

   The last thing I bought was a bottle of hair bleaching fluid. I told Lucille that if her hair was golden to match her eyes I thought her appearance would be much improved. She was quite anxious to make the test, always being ready to do anything she thought would increase her beauty. For two days, at different intervals, I brushed her hair with the fluid, and it turned the most perfect golden shade I had ever seen.

   It really transformed her. I have since then marvelled at the change and have felt an admiration for her perfect beauty. Then I felt nothing.

   I only had a desire to watch her. I watched her eat and wondered at her appetite. I listened to her light talk and marvelled at her happiness. I gazed at her while she slept, amazed, almost, at her evident sense of security.

   Why did nothing warn her? I waited and watched for some sign that would show that instinct felt the approaching end. There was no sign.

   The last night, I leaned on my elbow and watched her sleep. She looked so perfect! Her soft, dimpled arms thrown above her head, her pretty face in a nest of golden hair, her straight black brows, her long, black lashes resting lightly on her pink cheeks, and all to become nothing — nothing. To-morrow night it would be over; this was her last night. Impulsively I leaned over her and whispered "Lucille! Lucille!" but she merely opened her great blue eyes, and giving me a little smile, as innocent and sweet as a babe's, moved with a sigh of perfect content close to her pillow, and so went to sleep again.

   I lay down and tried to still the heavy, painful beating of my heart. I was very weary, but I could not sleep.

   At breakfast something kept saying, "Her last! her last!" and it gratified me to see her eat. At luncheon she complained of no appetite, yet I almost compelled her to eat, while I ate nothing. During the day I told my servant to take a holiday, that I would be out of town and he could have several days to spend as he wished. Rid of him, I ordered a dinner fit for a wedding feast; still I could not eat. Lucille ate and I helped her joyfully. I had a desire to see her happy. I have thought the jailer who feasts the condemned prisoner an hour before the execution must feel as I felt this day.

   Late in the evening I laid her new garments, the finery that so delighted her, out on the bed. I laughed when I did it, and then I sat down and watched her dress. She was as happy as a child. She put on one thing after the other, surveying each addition in the mirror with little cries of delight. I laced her suede shoes and helped fasten her dress and buttoned her gloves. When all was done I wrapped her in a gray travelling cloak and hid her pretty face under a thick veil.

   I had told her we would take the midnight train for Buffalo, where we would be married, and remain at Niagara for a few days before our return to New York. She trusted me in everything, and asked me if she could increase her wardrobe before the time for our return. We were to start early enough to permit us to take a drive before going to the station. Lucille had been confined so long in the house that she welcomed this arrangement, and she was very eager and nervous to start.

   I had ordered my horse and dog-cart to be ready at a certain hour. I had a liking for late drives, so my orders were not considered unusual. I walked out of the house, first telling Lucille to lock the door and walk around the corner on Fifth avenue, where I would get her.

   Before starting, however, I asked Lucille to drink a glass of wine with me. I put in hers a sleeping potion, and she raised it to her lips, saying:

   "Here's to your success."

   I put my wine down untasted.

   Then she came to me in an affectionate way I had once admired, and raising her veil, said:

   "Tolman, kiss your little one."

   I folded her in my arms. My heart beat quickly, my breath came painfully. I held her close to my breast, I kissed her soft, warm lips regretfully.

   "Lucille," I said, pleadingly, "will you go back to your home and forget you wanted to be my wife?"

   "I would rather die," she answered me, angrily.

   I knew then it was too late. There was no way to retreat. Either I must accomplish my purpose or renounce all claim to Miss Chamberlain and take Lucille as my wife.

   "We have been very happy these two weeks, haven't we, Tolman?" she said, with her arms about my neck. "Kiss your little one good-by, for when she comes back here she will be your wife."

   "Yes, when you come back," I said, and I kissed her. With that there flitted through my mind a picture of a little quiet home with her as my wife. I thought of her beauty, but then came the thought that it would cost me what I most longed for — wealth — position. No, it was too late.

   I drove to the curb almost the instant she had reached there, and only stopped long enough to get her in. I had a valise, which Lucille thought contained a change of clothing, in the buggy. I drove off quickly to the Park.

   We had not more than entered the Park when Lucille yawned and complained of feeling drowsy. I drove on, listening intently for any sounds that would indicate the presence of any one. Reaching a bend in the road and finding everything still, I asked Lucille to hold the reins until I could get out to see if something was not amiss with the harness.

   Drowsily she took the reins.

   "Do you see anything coming, Lucille?" I asked, as I reached under the seat and, drawing out a sandbag which I had concealed there, I rose to my feet as though to jump out of the buggy.

   "No, Tolman; the way looks clear," she replied, slowly, as she leaned forward to look.

   With a swift motion I raised the sandbag and brought it down on her head.

   She never uttered a sound, but fell across the side. I caught her with one hand and, taking the reins from her limp fingers, steadied the horse.

   I took her in my arms to the nearest bench. I listened for her heart-beats. They were still. I removed the Connemara cloak and veil. I had some difficulty, but at last managed to place her in an upright position on the bench. Then I folded her hands in her lap, and as I could not make her parasol stay on her knee I left it where it fell on the ground before her.

   I kissed her lips, still warm and soft, and closing her eyes, pulled her hat down so the brim would prevent their opening. Taking the wrap and veil and putting them and the sandbag in the valise I drove back to the stable.

   I returned to my rooms and spent the remainder of the night in destroying all the clothing which belonged to her. Early in the morning, just about daybreak, I went quietly out and to the Gilsey House, where I got a room and went to bed. I slept. It was afternoon when I awoke, and while eating my breakfast I read in the first edition of THE EVENING WORLD an account of your finding Lucille's body in Central Park.

   In the smaller envelope I enclose a photograph of Lucille taken before her hair was bleached. You will doubtless recognize it. I also inclose the letter she wrote to her mother.

   You can understand now why I was frightened at the sight of Maggie Williams's tears; why I was horrified when I met in the Hoffman House the man who was suspected of being guilty of my crime. My guilty fears prevented my giving you my name, and when you came to my apartment seeking Lucille I knew that my hour had come.

   I had some wild hope when I began this confession. It has gone now. This is all. If you have any charity in your soul, spare me all you can.

TOLMAN BIKE.   

   Richard could hardly dress quickly enough after he finished Tolman Bike's letter. The indolent young man had never been seen in such frantic haste. The elevator seemed to him to creep. Rushing out to the street he jumped into the first cab, telling the driver to make the best possible speed to Fifth avenue.

   With a sad, penitent face, Penelope Howard was impatiently awaiting her handsome lover in her own little room, her abject apologies all cut and dried for use. But he gave her no time.

   "Penelope, the mystery is solved!" he yelled, and catching her in his strong arms he held her so close to his heart that she gasped for breath.

"Penelope, the mystery is solved!"

   "I've the story right here, sweetheart," and in the fewest possible words, punctuated with Penelope's exclamations of surprise and sorrow, Richard related all that had happened since the night before she went to Washington.

   "My dear —– Oh, Richard. Good morning," said Penelope's aunt, as she entered the room with bonnet on and a carriage wrap thrown hastily over a house dress. "Mrs. Chamberlain has sent for me. They have just received news that Clara's fiance, Mr. Bike, was found dead in his bathroom, shot through the head. They think it was accidental, and poor Clara, who was to have been a bride this evening, is prostrated. I'll be back presently, dear. Richard stay with the child."

   They let her go without a word of the information they possessed, and, oblivious to all else, they read Tolman Bike's confession. Woman-like, Penelope was in tears, and had as much pity for the unhappy man as for the luckless girl.

   "I knew he was the man," Richard said. "When the messenger boy pointed out the man in the Hoffman House as looking like the man who got the gown, the resemblance struck me, though this man was fair and Tolman Bike was dark. The moment the resemblance struck me, the whole thing flashed before my mind. My ridiculous remark that probably the man was bleached suggested to me the possibility of Maggie's sister having bleached after she left home. Still, it was all so wild and improbable that I tried not to think of it."

   They decided only to tell the secret of the crime to those most concerned. That done, they effectually saved the name of Tolman Bike from deeper disgrace, little as he deserved it.

   That evening they visited Maggie Williams, now Mrs. Martin Shanks, and Penelope gently told them the story of the Mystery of Central Park, omitting as much as possible that would pain the sister. Rough, but kindly Martin Shanks comforted his bride. Dido Morgan mingled her tears with Maggie's, but she was shy and awkward, having little to say in the presence of Penelope Howard, though Penelope did her utmost to be cordial and considerate.

Penelope gently told them the story of the Mystery of Central Park.

   "Ah, Penelope, it's true, as Tolman Bike said, happiness is not so plentiful in life that we can afford to let it slip by when near our grasp," Richard said, sadly, as he and Penelope drove homeward. Penelope merely sighed in response.

   "I did not solve the mystery as you expected and wished," he continued, taking her hand in his, "still I object to being cheated of my happiness. When are you going to marry me?"

   "Oh!" Penelope tried to say in playful surprise, but her hand trembled.

   "This is the 7th. I will give you until the 21st to make what little preparations you need," Richard said, masterfully.

   "Oh! If you talk that way I suppose I must meekly obey," Penelope said, as, with a sigh of content, she allowed Dick to take her in his arms.

[THE END.]