WHEN old Jabez Felton the rich leather merchant, a widower with three grown up children, returned from the three months' trip to Europe which constituted the first relaxation from business cares he had allowed himself during his long and busy life, his sons and daughter were indignant, and his friends wagged their heads sorrowfully and talked among themselves of "softening of the brain" and "general paresis." And yet all that Jabez had done was to bring back with him a wife whose curly blonde hair and plump baby face, with its large blue eyes perhaps gave her a more youthful air than really belonged to her. Jabez had met her at a little German watering-place, and had fallen so deeply in love with her that he could scarcely believe she was serious when she consented to marry him. She was a widow and all alone in the world, so there seemed to be no sufficient reasoning for delaying the marriage, and they were united at Marienbad the place where they first met.

      Contrary to general expectation, Mrs. Felton betrayed none of the usual characteristics of the adventurer. She was rather luxurious in her notions of dress to be sure, but she did not tempt her husband into rash extravagance in any other direction, and when hard times came in "The Swamp," and Jabez found himself somewhat embarrassed financially, she was the first to counsel retrenchment in household expenses and to insist on moving to a small but well-situated flat until the hard times should become good times. And so five years after their marriage the Feltons were living in a modest apartment, just off Fifth Avenue it is true, but so far removed from the regal splendor of the modern apartment-house that it was destitute even of the familiarly supercilious hall-boy. Callers gained admittance by pressing one of a series of electric buttons, over each of which was placed a superscription giving the tenant's name, and in answer to the ring the front door would automatically swing open allowing the visitor to enter and find his own way up-stairs.

      The flat was so modest that Mrs. Felton had reduced her domestic establishment to the smallest of proportions. It consisted merely of her maid and a cook, the latter of whom indeed performed most of the household duties, for the Feltons were accustomed to dine every day at a neighboring restaurant so that the only meal that was prepared for them at home was their breakfast. Her brougham and her saddle horses, for she was passionately devoted to riding, Mr. Felton kept at a livery stable. She was generally attended on her morning rides by her unmarried step-sons, for by this time she had quite overcome the opposition of her husband's relatives and was one of the most popular women in the circle in which she and her husband moved.

      On the afternoon of February 11, 1886, a fine, bright winter's day, she drove up to the door of the flat and stepped out of her brougham with all the springiness and buoyancy of a girl of twenty. She scarcely looked older indeed than twenty, as all bundled up in furs, she turned to give some final directions to the coachman concerning the hour at which he was to call and take her out that evening. Her husband was likely to be detained in town rather late and had promised to meet her at Delmonico's in time to dine, and afterwards to take her to the theatre. She entered the house and ran gaily up the stairs to the second floor, on which their flat was situated, and found her maid Charlotte already standing there, with the door open.

      "It's such a lovely, bright day, Charlotte," said Mrs. Felton "that you had better take a walk for an hour or two, and you can, get that edging for me while you are out. I suppose Jane" (this was the cook's name) "is in?"

      "No ma'am. She went out to do her marketing an hour ago, and please 'm she won't be in till eight o'clock, she said."

      "Yes, I remember now she asked me to let her go for a few hours, to call on her mother, who she says is dangerously ill. Well, never mind. I am not afraid of being left alone, Charlotte. You run out as I tell you."

      "Yes ma'am, and thank you, ma'am," said the girl, glad of the opportunity of paying a little call on her own account, and ten minutes later she had closed the door of the flat behind her, leaving her mistress lazily rocking herself to and fro in the tiny drawing-room, and skimming through the pages of a novel.

      It was growing dusk when Charlotte returned, frightened in advance at the reproof she knew she deserved at her mistress's hands. She let herself in at the front door with her latch-key, and a few seconds afterwards had softly entered the flat. A peep into the drawing-room somewhat re-assured her. Her absence had as yet not been detected, for she could see the outlines of Mrs. Felton's form as she peacefully dozed on the sofa, in front of the fire, which threw a flickering red glow on her face. So red indeed was the glow that the girl was struck by it's intensity, and glanced carelessly at the fire. To her surprise it was nearly out. Strange how the dull embers could cast so strong a glare! She stepped forward gently and peered into her mistress's face, and then with a succession of piercing shrieks, which aroused the tenants on all the floors, she rushed into the passage and down the stairs. Mrs. Felton lay on the lounge cold in death, with a wound in her forehead from which there trickled, drop by drop, till it formed a dark pool on the bright Eastern rug beneath, a stream of slowly darkening blood.

*       *       *       *       *       *       *      *

      The city editor of the New York Daily Chronicle was a person of some consequence in the office of that periodical. He was a slight man of about thirty-five with a pronounced stoop in his shoulders, and a mild expression on his face which was belied by the rather startling gruffness of a voice which Will Driscoll, the "funny man" of the paper used to say, was three sizes too big for him. By nature, education and inclination Walter Proudfoot was destined for the very post he filled, that of city editor of a great metropolitan daily. He had a marvellous memory, to begin with, a fondness for detail which did not descend to finicalness, a cool head, but an enthusiasm which was always fresh, and a capacity for direction and organization which would have made him a successful general. His temper was quick, but he could control it in a measure, and as a rule it found vent only in the employment of picturesque expletives and exaggerated diction. On the evening of that particular February day, before referred to, Walter was evidently annoyed. He sat at his desk nervously tapping it with his pencil and rumbling and grumbling to himself in his deep bass voice like a blonde bull of Basan.

      "That man Nugent's the most particularly idiotic and comprehensively asinine form of a lunatic it has been my misfortune to have on the staff for years!" he growled, as he turned to one of the night editors who sat near him bare-armed and blue-pencil begrimed wading through his pile of late "copy."

      "What's the matter now?" he asked as he ran his pencil through one of the choicest phrases of the unfortunate reporter whose story he chanced to be "editing."

      "Matter! Matter!!" roared the city editor, and he wheeled his chair round so as to face his querist. "Why every man, woman and child in the city of New York knows that James Brown the banker's middle initial is K., and this infernal ass has not only made it a P., but what's more you or one of you has let it get into to-day's paper," and the rumbling began again. It may be mentioned that one of Proudfoot's pet fads was the proper spelling of names, and that the apparently venial slip was to him the blackest of crimes. Soon, however, he had turned his attention to something else and there was silence in the room. It was a small square room with two doors, one of which led into a corridor, the other into a long narrow apartment down both sides of which were placed close together plain varnished wooden desks, an incandescent electric light hanging over each. This was the city-room and at this time it was getting on towards midnight, and was tenanted by only two of the many reporters who generally almost filled it. One of them was scribbling away vigorously throwing sheet after sheet aside as he finished it, the other was sitting at his desk with his head buried in his hands.

      Suddenly there came a roar from the city editor's room, "Nugent!"

      The man who was writing went on without pausing; the other lifted up his head with a sort of dazed expression, as though he had been sleeping. "Nuge-e-ent!" came the roar again, and the awakened sleeper, if sleeper he were, rose and rapidly passed into the inner room. He found the city editor with his gray eyes snapping with excitement, and holding a slip of paper in his hand. Nugent," he said, addressing the reporter, "here's a slip from Police Headquarters which says that Mrs. Felton, the wife of Jabez Felton, of Felton, Stebbins & Co., has been found shot through the head in her room. It looks like suicide, they say, but it may be murder — Why, what's the matter, man? You look as if you were going to faint," and certainly the reporter was acting strangely. He was a consumptive looking fellow at the best of times, as every one remarked, but now, he looked perfectly ghastly.

      "It's nothing, sir," he stammered, "only the heat of the room and — and — I have n't felt like eating much to-day."

      "Ah," said the city editor, dryly, "that 's wrong. A newspaper man should always keep the furnace well supplied, or the engine will break down. Well, Nugent," he went on as though nothing had interrupted him, "I want you to go right up to the house — here's the address and find out all you can about the affair. Get a good description of the room, of the position and look of the body, and try to form a theory of your own, supported, of course, by facts, as to the manner of the woman's death. Never mind about the discovery and the action of the police; all that will be covered at Police Headquarters. The fact is, Nugent, I want to see what you are made of. I have been very much dissatisfied with you lately, and have about made up my mind to ask for your resignation. Now don't be foolish, man; don't begin fainting again. I am going to give you a chance. Work up this case well — it is likely to be the talk of the town for days, for old Felton is well-known — and your position is assured. Now be off. By-the-way, try and find out who Mrs. Felton was before her marriage. I only remember that she married the old boy in Europe, and there was some talk about it at the time. Strange I can't remember exactly, but I can't. Now be off and get your copy in within an hour and a half. And here, Nugent, here's an order on the cashier for some money for your expenses"; and the city editor scribbled a line on a sheet of paper and handed it to the reporter, who, without a word left the room.

      "I fancy I know why he did not care to eat to-day, poor devil," muttered Proudfoot, as he turned to his work again.

      When Nugent had left the office and found himself in the street, his actions were peculiar for a man who had but an hour or so in which to get up-town, gather a world of information and return with it ready written-up to the office.

      He had handed the slip of paper without looking at it, to the cashier, and had stuffed the money he received with equal carelessness into his pocket. This he now drew out, and standing under an electric light, carefully counted it over. In all there were $10. When he had replaced the money, he walked down Park Row where naturally the Chronicle office was situated, and crossed Broadway to the Astor House. He entered the hotel and going up-stairs to the office, asked the clerk, whom he seemed to know by sight at least, for a railway guide. Having procured this, he studied it intently for a while, and then laid it down with a disconsolate glance at the clock. "I'll have to go through with it," he muttered, and hastily leaving the hotel he made his way to the Elevated Railroad Station, and soon was whirling up-town, towards the address given him by his city editor, but at which curiously enough, he had not even glanced. A staid old gentleman who got into the car at Twenty-third street, and sat in the cross seat opposite him, was rendered uneasy by hearing his hollow-cheeked vis-à-vis mutter to himself more than once: "He wants a good story, does he? Well he shall have it for once anyway."

*       *       *       *       *       *       *      *

      On the morning of February 12, 1886, every paper in the Union contained the story of the shocking death of Mrs. Felton, the wife of one of New York's prominent merchants. The New York papers made it the leading news article of the day, and devoted columns apiece to it. Nowhere, however, was there to be found such a picturesque and graphic an account as in the Daily Chronicle. It differed from the others, too, in one important particular: instead of following the lead of the police, who, anxious to save themselves trouble, insisted that it was a clear case of suicide, the Chronicle suggested that it was much more probably a case of murder. The circumstances, as condensed from all the lurid accounts, were as follows: The dead woman was found by the police lying on her left side with her face toward the fire-place. There were no signs of a struggle and her hands were folded on her breast, as though the body had been arranged for burial. No weapon was found in or near the room, but a Japanese cabinet had one of its drawers pulled open, and in this, according to the dead woman's husband, she was accustomed to keep a dainty toy revolver, which now was missing. The police easily explained this apparent contradiction of their theory by claiming that the revolver had been kicked into a corner of the room in the confusion attendant on the discovery of the body, and had later been abstracted by one of the many sight-seers and neighbors who had crowded in during the first few hours. The skin of the forehead of the unfortunate woman around the wound was scorched and blackened with powder, showing that the pistol must have been pressed close to the face when discharged. It was not only the bold championship of an apparently unpopular theory, however, which drew general attention to the Chronicle's article, it was the interesting account of the dead woman's career before her marriage with Mr. Felton that caused the paper to be eagerly bought.

      When Mr. Felton first met the murdered woman, according to this story, her name was Mrs. Stanfield, and she was the widow of a clergyman of the Church of England who had been deprived of his living in consequence of a grave breach of his duties toward an orphan of whose property he was trustee, and whose fortune he had embezzled. He was drowned soon afterwards, and on his death it was discovered that his life was insured for a comparatively large sum of money which his widow only obtained after a prolonged legal contest with the Insurance company. Various other interesting details were given, and the Chronicle gloried in having obtained what in newspaper circles is known as a "clean beat" on its contemporaries. For this Nugent was to be thanked and when he turned up at noon on the following day he was warmly greeted by the now jubilant city editor.

      "I'll give you charge of the whole case Nugent," said he. "I don't believe in your murder theory, but if you can work it out and discover the murderer, your reputation as a newspaper man is made and you can command a big salary from any paper in town."

      "Thank you sir," was the startling reply "but I should like to be relieved from the case. I am sure you can find a better man to take it up."

      "Nonsense man! Give it up? Why I tell you you have a chance to make your name forever," and with his cheery manner he talked with the lachrymose reporter until he had persuaded him to do as was suggested. From that time on the Chronicle easily led its contemporaries in the news of what had now become one of the most interesting of mysteries. Its reporter, Nugent, developed into one of the cleverest of detectives, and with the excitement seemed to have become a new man. His apathetic air of humility vanished, and he became alert, and rather dogmatic in his manner. Every day he discovered some new clue which helped to advance his theory of murder, and the news of which appeared exclusively in his own paper. First he insisted on a post-mortem examination which proved conclusively a point of which he alone had the sagacity to see the bearing. There was no bullet to be found in the body and no trace of one in or on the lounge where the body lay when discovered. Then he found a bullet deeply imbedded in the architrave of the door on the opposite side of the room to the fire-place and concealed from a superficial glance by the elaborate moulding of the wood work. Next he set on foot a search for the revolver, and it was finally discovered thrown on the top of a high book-case in the adjoining room, used as a library. Its handle bore bloody marks of a hand evidently larger than that of the dead woman, and the ball extracted from the doorway exactly fitted the unusual calibre of the pistol. So to the satisfaction of all but the police, it was proved that Mrs. Felton did not herself fire the fatal shot.

      But Nugent did not stop here. He seemed to have given himself up utterly to the case, and hardly slept or ate while his investigations were in progress. He prevailed on the editor of the Chronicle to cable to England to a trustworthy agent, who was ordered to look up the record of the dead woman and her former husband, the Rev. Lewis Stanfield. This produced a remarkable reply over the cable, which was duly given to the world through the Chronicle. Although the Insurance company had paid the policy held by Mrs. Stanfield, they had not laid aside the suspicions which had prompted them to resist payment at first. They had prosecuted their inquiries since, and had proved definitely that the Reverend swindler had never died, but had with his wife concocted the ingenious plot which had enriched her, and they supposed him also, by several thousand pounds. They also had discovered that under another name, Mr. Stanfield was even then living somewhere in America. The relevancy of all this appeared when Nugent published a letter which had been picked up on the floor by the maid Charlotte on the morning of the murder, and put aside as of no consequence, which was clearly written by Stanfield and which stated that he would call on his "dear wife," Mrs. Felton, at four o'clock on the afternoon of February 11th, or within an hour of the time at which the woman must have breathed her last. This settled the matter. The police for once had no explanation to offer, and the other papers even followed the lead of the Chronicle, and helped to voice the general query, "Where is the Rev. Lewis Stanfield the murderer?"

      By this time Nugent was almost a public character. Seldom has a reporter found himself in a position so notorious. He was the subject of countless editorials, all having for the text the utility of the press as the guardian of society and the terror of evil doers. His fellows of the Press Club gave him an informal banquet, and he proved himself quite equal to the occasion. He who had been nicknamed "the taciturn," blossomed into a charming extemporaneous orator. The speech he made at the dinner was by turns sarcastic, pathetic and humorous. His face lost the consumptive look, and he began to be almost foppish in his dress, he who once was noticeable for the seediness of his attire. And all this was the result of brains and hard work!

      "And yet, my boy," said Walter Proudfoot to him one day, "your work is only half done. We have got to run that scoundrel of a Stanfield down, and I think it's going to be a hard task. As you know, I cabled to our man in England for a full description of him, and what he sent me would n't help us to arrest a poodle dog. Why, the description is as vague as a London fog, and the only thing we have to go on is that the man wears a full brown beard, which naturally by this time he has carefully shaved off. As to the details about his figure, they would fit you as well as any one else, and that is all we have to go on."

      "It is n't much is it?" said Nugent, dryly, "but do you know, I think I'm going to find that man. Only give me time and a few hundred dollars for extra expenses, and we'll have him."

      "Draw on us for whatever you want, take all the time from now till Christmas, but remember that the Chronicle wants the arrest of that man as a piece of exclusive news. We can't afford to be beaten at this stage of the game," and the city editor turned away. "Oh, by the way though," he added, as Nugent was leaving the room, "I forgot to say that I cabled to England this morning, and told them to send a man over with photographs of Stanfield and, if possible, some one who can personally identify him."

      "That is a clever move on your part," said Nugent, and he left the room.

*       *       *       *       *       *       *      *

      A week had passed, and the great Felton murder mystery was, as regards the personality of the murderer, a mystery still. The indefatigable Nugent was taking, apparently, a vacation from his detective duties, and was enjoying his well-earned leisure in what manner pleased him best. The coroner's inquest on the dead woman still stood adjourned, for the police having veered round to the popular view of things, kept interest alive by every day declaring that they had obtained fresh clues to the whereabouts of Stanfield. Walter Proudfoot was somewhat nervous, for every hour he expected the arrival of the fast ocean steamer which was to bring the means of identifying the murderer, and he had a sort of presentiment that by these the mystery would eventually be solved. At all events there was excellent newspaper material in it, for his journalistic instinct told him that he would be able to publish a likeness in his columns which would increase the paper's sale ten fold. He had not seen Nugent for a couple of days, but he knew that he too was looking for the steamer's arrival, and had made arrangements to have a telegram sent him when it should be sighted at Sandy Hook.

      At last, as he sat nervously drumming on the desk in front of him he heard the bell of the telephone, connected with the Ship News Office, ring, and answered it himself to learn with untold gratification that the Umbria was coming up the Bay. He glanced at the clock. Yes, there would just be time to have the drawing from the photograph made, have it photo-engraved and printed in the next morning's paper. To make sure of Nugent, he dispatched a special messenger to his room, and then sat down to patiently wait.

      A few hours afterwards the office-boy brought him a card. It was that of the English detective who was to bring the photographs, and closely following it came the man himself, a pert, dapper little fellow, with clean-shaven face and a bland smile.

      "'Ow are you, sir. Glad to make your acquaintance, sir. Think I met you before once, when I was over 'ere on the Bank of England forgery case," and he drew a chair up to the city editor, and unbuttoning his coat, put his hand in his breast-pocket.

      "I've got the photos, sir, quite 'andy, for I thought as 'ow you wanted 'em right away," and he pulled out a bulky package of papers secured with a piece of worn red tape.

      As he was unwinding it one of the office-boys came in out of breath and hat in hand.

      "Mr. Nugent says, sir," he blurted out, "that de cold he's got 's orful bad, and after you got troo' wid de fortygraphs, will you read de note, sir," and he handed a letter to the city editor, who held it without opening it as he eyed the detective curiously. That worthy had begun to sort out his bundle on his knee with exasperating slowness. "'Warrant for arrest,'" he murmured. "'Description of person;' 'Records in Insurance case'" — "Ah, here we have it — 'Photograph of Lewis Stanfield, taken in 1884.'" And he handed a cabinet portrait to Proudfoot. The editor took it, eagerly gave one glance at it, and with a deep "My God!" which made the little detective jump, he let it drop upon his desk. His eye fell on Nugent's letter, and he hastily tore it open. This is what he read:

      As he finished reading this extraordinary letter, the editor looked up to find the detective's face over his shoulder. He had evidently followed every word of it.

      "That's Parson Lew all over," he said, calmly. "Now, sir, take my advice. Say nothin' of this to nobody. I'll go back to England and report to the Insurance company whose servant I am, and let the clever police 'ere keep a lookin' out for Stanfield." And the editor took his advice. Nugent's death was noticed in a short obituary, he was buried and by degrees the Felton-Stanfield case died out of men's memories.

HORACE TOWNSEND.      

(THE END)