An Artist In Crime

AN ARTIST IN CRIME

BY RODRIGUES OTTOLENGUI

[Copyright, 1895, by G. P. Putnam's Sons.]

CHAPTER XIV.

AN INTERUPTED WEDDING.

During the time spent by Mr. Barnes in the south his spies in New York discovered little or nothing against the persons whom they had been charged to watch. Indeed from the standpoint of a detective the actions of all had been most uninteresting. The usual round of social affairs, the customary number of theater or opera parties, the regular afternoon teas--in fact, the ordinary routine life of the man or woman of fashion was all that could be observed. Yet of course these weeks did not pass without any occurrence of note. The chief one perhaps was the naming of the day upon which the wedding of Mr. Mitchel and Miss Remsen was to occur. This was May 5, the very day upon which Mr. Barnes would reach New York with Mr. Neuilly.

Thus fate seemed hurrying on a climax which was to occur on the wedding day. In New Orleans a detective was seeking evidence upon which he hoped to convict a man of the heinous crime of murder, while in New York a beautiful woman was bestowing her faith upon this same man, and, with the assistance of many fingers, preparing to bedeck herself in bridal finery for his delectation. Meanwhile the man himself acted most unconcernedly. He seemed to consider himself beyond the risk of danger, and he accepted his happiness as does one who had honorably earned it.

Of much interest to us, in the light of fast approaching events, was the curious conduct of Dora Remsen during this period. It will be remembered that Mr. Randolph had lost an opportunity of declaring himself, and that he warned the young lady against Mr. Thauret as one not to be trusted. This kind of advice, it is to be presumed, is offered by the one giving it, with some idea, however distant, that it may be accepted. Yet the histories of many lives would show that only a small percentage of similar advice has ever been received with acquiescence. Indeed, it might also be said that many persons have been hurried into each other's arms by the interference of wiseacres, when perhaps, if left to themselves, they would have drifted apart. At least so it seemed in this case.

Mr. Thauret had become not only a constant visitor at the house of the Remsens, but he seemed a welcome one. He certainly was a most entertaining man, and his manners utterly unapproachable. He had travelled, and not only had seen the world, but had observed it, which is another thing. The result of this was that he had a fund of narrative always at his disposal, and his conversation was so attractive that he easily monopolized the attention of a coterie at any social gathering. Mr. Randolph noted with growing uneasiness that Dora was always one of the group who listened to these tales. What disturbed him most was that after the greatest amount of time spent and wasted in seeking some flagrant defect in the man's character ho was at last compelled to acknowledge to himself that he had nothing against Mr. Thauret except a prejudice. But that prejudice was as great if not greater than ever. He determined at length to speak to Mr. Mitchel about it, and did so one afternoon when the rooms were crowded, his rival being as usual the center of an attentive group.

"Mitchel," he began, "how the deuce did that fellow Thauret get into this family?"

"Dora met him somewhere, I believe. Why?"

"Why? Can you ask that?"

"Can I? Why, certainly I can. I did ask you-- Why?"

"I declare, Mitchel, you are either as blind as a bat or else you have eyes only for Miss Emily. Don't you see the danger that the younger sister is in, associating with that man?"

"Well, now, Randolph, to be candid, I must admit I do not see the danger. What is it?"

"Why, suppose--suppose she fell in love with him? Suppose she married him!"

"Well, what then?"

"What then? You would provoke a saint. You talk as coolly about that child's throwing herself away on a--a nobody--as though we were discussing a shot at billiards."

"Randolph, my friend, let me give you a bit of advice. When a man wishes to marry a girl, there are two important rules which he must observe, and both of them I believe you have neglected."

"What do you mean?"

"Before I explain let me ask you a question. Am I right in supposing that you wish to marry Dora yourself?"

"Well, that is rather pointed. However, I will admit the truth. I would be happy to have her love."

"Very well. I will tell you those two rules. The first is, 'Never speak ill of your rival.' The second is, 'Don't be too late asking for the young lady.' "

Randolph looked at Mr. Mitchel a moment intently, then offered his hand, which was grasped warmly. He said simply, "I thank you," and walked over to the group where Dora was. After awhile, taking advantage of an opportune lull, he leaned over her and said in an undertone:

"May I have a few words of conversation with you?"

She looked up at him, evidently surprised at his tone, and asked:

"Is it important?"

"Very," he replied succinctly, and excusing herself to the company she permitted him to lead her into the next room, where she sat beside him on the sofa to which he invited her with a motion. After a brief silence, during which each thought intently, he began:

"Miss Dora, I wish you to listen to me, if you please, to the end. I think you know that I love you." He paused just a moment, while she trembled slightly, blushed, and drooped her head. He continued: "I have never told you this before in words, I know, but you are a woman and must have read my heart long ago. You are all so clever at that sort of thing. I am only a man, and I have not been able to read yours at all. I really do not know whether you care for me or not. Once I thought that you did, but of late--but no matter. I will not go into that. In brief, then, I have only to say that it would make me supremely happy to know that you would some day be my wife. In exchange I offer you a lifelong devotion. And now--I think--that is all I have to say. Dora--little sweetheart--do you, could you trust yourself to me?"

He had gently taken her hand while he spoke, and the fact that she had neither resisted nor withdrawn it had encouraged him to the more affectionate terms which he used at the end of his love speech. She hesitated awhile, then gently disengaging her hand and looking at him with just a suspicion of a tear in her eye she said almost in a whisper:

"Do you care very much?"

"Very much ! I cannot tell you how much." He tried to recapture her hand, but she eluded him. Again she asked a question:

"Money is not an object to you in this?"

"Miss Remsen, you insult me."

"No, no!" she said quickly. "You misunderstand. I did not mean my money. I can't explain, yet you must answer my question. Would you mind if--oh, how shall I say it? Suppose I did something that cost you a lot of money"--

"Oh, I see," exclaimed Mr. Randolph, brightening up. "You mean you are extravagant. Don't let that bother you a minute. You may cost me as much money as you can possibly spend. I will never complain."

She seemed much relieved, but she did not speak at once. Her eyes wandered away from him, and following her gaze he saw them reach and rest upon Mr. Thauret. A jealous pang darted through his heart. He was about to speak when she turned to him and said with suppressed emotion:

"I hope you will not be angry with me and that you will not think evil of me. There is something I cannot explain, yet which, if I could, you would not object to. But until I can tell you about it--I cannot--I cannot--give you an answer. Would you--would you be willing to wait?" There was a tone of entreaty in her voice.

"How long?" asked Mr. Randolph, still irritated, and wondering if the something which she could not tell was in any way connected with Mr. Thauret.

"Would you mind--if I asked you to wait till--well, say the new year?"

"That is a long time, but if it is your will, I must."

"Oh, thank you !" That was all she said, but there was a hint of rapture in her speech, there were tears in her eyes, and for one brief ecstatic moment he thought that there was love in her heart, and that that love was for him. With an impulse that he could not control, and which she did not check, he drew her to him and softly touched her lips with his own. He felt satisfied, though she left him immediately and went at once to Mr. Thauret, who greeted her with evident warmth. There is something, magnetism, if you please, but a something that binds two true lovers' hearts so that an impulse in the one excites an answering sensation in the other. The oddest fact in this connection is that, though one may fancy himself deeply in love, he is not till he has received one of these instantaneous messages which Cupid ticks over love's telegraph. After that he is enslaved. His better judgment is gone. He will argue in the lonely hours of the night that he has made a mistake, that the woman is not destined to make him happy, that she has this, that or the other fault, but it counts for nothing save that he suffers. That one stab has slain his manhood, and he cannot control his actions. As soon as he meets the woman again, act as she may, his love is aflame once more. She may ill treat him, she may ignore him, it matters not; she attracts him.

Thus it was with poor Mr. Randolph. Throughout the many weeks that followed he suffered much. He called his love all the unpleasant things that jealousy could suggest. But invariably the recollection of that one moment, when she had seemed in that indistinct, indescribable way to have yielded her whole self, her whole soul to him, would flash across his mind, and at once his reason was silenced, and he would say:

"She could not have done that if she were false. She loves me, but there is something that I do not understand which makes her treat me so. She told me so, and said that when she could tell it to me I should not mind. Well, I must be patient and wait. I must trust her; she must be, she is, true!" And then gradually all the old doubts would creep over him again, and the suffering would be as poignant as before.

It was about a month after the conversation related when a somewhat similar one occurred between the same young lady and Mr. Thauret. He had called one afternoon, when Dora was alone, and so had the field to himself. He spoke to her of all those things which he had found most interesting to her, and she was enjoying his society very much, when suddenly, as twilight approached and the room grew slightly darkened, he began to touch upon a more tender theme. He spoke of himself, of the wandering life that he had led, of the fact that he was alone in the world without a living relative. He mentioned, as though it were of no importance, that he was of noble blood. Then he drew a touching picture of a man who, while really of a most affectionate nature, was compelled to live a loveless life because there was none to whom he could turn for that sort of comfort. Then he asked her gently, very gently, whether she had ever thought upon the subject herself, and whether she had felt a yearning for the companionship of one who would be all in all to her. His pleading was very pretty to listen to, and she heard him as though much impressed, but her reply was not exactly what he evidently hoped it would have been.

"Oh, yes," said she, "I have thought of all that in a vague sort of way. But, you see, I have been in love with my beautiful Queen for so long that I cannot imagine a life without her. And yet"--there was a tremor in her voice--"I am going to lose her soon. She will go away for awhile, and then I fancy I shall feel that loneliness of which you speak. So if you want to hear my real ideas upon that subject, you must wait till after the wedding." She said this last with a tone of deep meaning, and Mr. Thauret seemed to accept her remark as a hint, for he changed the subject. Shortly afterward he went away. As he walked down the avenue there was almost a triumphant smile upon his face. This, however, was not reported to Mr. Barnes, for the spy was behind and could not see his face.

It was only a few nights after this that Mr. Mitchel was walking home from the club, accompanied by Mr. Thauret, when the latter turned the conversation upon the Miss Remsens.

"They certainly are charming girls," said he, "but one would need to be rich to afford the luxury of marrying one of them. I suppose they have nothing until the death of the mother."

Mr. Mitchel thought that he understood the object of the question, and for reasons of his own was glad to reply to it.

"Oh, not at all," said he. "The father left each of them a handsome sum--$50,000, in fact--which they are to receive as soon as married. The bulk of the money, of course, went to the widow, but her interest is only for life, and then it is to be equally divided between the girls. I think it is somewhere near $500,000."

"You are a fortunate fellow. I wish I had your luck."

"My dear Thauret, can a man of your intelligence believe in such a stupid thing as luck? It no more exists than its antithesis, ill luck. Every man succeeds or not, according to his own skill in guiding his life. Now you envy me my marriage to Emily, when certainly her sister Dora is just as charming and richer too."

"Miss Dora is charming, true, but that does not make me a successful suitor. But what do you mean by saying that she is richer?"

"Why, you see, her sister is devoted to her and has promised her a gift of $10,000 the day she marries, upon one condition."

"And that condition is?"

"That the husband shall be satisfactory to her."

There was a silence for several minutes, finally broken by Mr. Thauret:

"Well, in the light of your approaching marriage, which will make you the only man in the family, I presume your influence would count. If I should wish to marry Miss Dora, I suppose you would favor my suit?"

"That is not a new idea to me, I assure you. All I need say is that when you gain Dora's consent you shall have mine."

"Thank you." Mr. Thauret said this with suppressed emotion, and after that neither man spoke until they said good night at Mr. Mitchel's hotel. Mr. Thauret, upon reaching his own room, smoked a cigar and blew little ringlets over his head, thus occupying himself till long after midnight. He seemed to be building castles, and from the satisfied expression on his face they must have been grand ones.

Thus matters stood when the day dawned upon which the marriage was to occur. Everything was bustle and confusion at the home of the Remsens. The bridesmaids arrived early, helped to deck the bride, and then stood around in delighted admiration. Dora was in ecstasies. Two magnificent bouquets had been sent to her, one entirely of carnation pinks, from Mr. Randolph and the other a fine assortment of cut flowers, among which were three beautiful calla lilies, tied with long white satin ribbons. These were the gift of Mr. Thauret. She stood admiring the flowers for a, few moments, then tenderly untied the pinks, and, taking a few of each color, made a small bouquet, which she pinned just at the opening of her dress near the throat. Thus they near enough to exhale a fragrance of which she would be continually conscious. Just before leaving the house, however, she took the callas and carried them with her in her gloved hand.

Before the day was over a little tragedy occurred, of which she was not only innocent, but unconscious. In the throng entering the church her pinks were swept from her breast, and in her excitement she did not observe her loss. Mr. Randolph, however, the groom's best man, noted carefully that she carried flowers and that they were not his. Subsequently she, in reply to a question from him, admitted who had sent them, and though he made do remark he slept little that night. Thus easily men suffer.

Emily was dressed--but there, why should I attempt to describe what only a Worth could have furnished and only wealth could afford? If you can imagine the most beautiful shade and quality of pearl colored silk, and add to that the finest of lace, and to that the most marvelous profusion of tiny ribbon bows, then, as I hinted, recall that the genius of Worth designed the garment, perhaps you will imagine all that I could tell you. At least I may say that as the bride entered the church on the arm of that magnificent man, Mr. Van Rawlston, who, as her father's dearest friend, had been invited to take his place, every woman present took one lingering look at the woman and her gown and then turned to her neighbor to express her admiration. Moreover, I will say that the sum of all that praise was not enough fully to describe Emily Remsen, who looked every inch "a royal queen," as Dora delightedly told every one for years afterward.

But after the bridal party had passed people naturally looked for the groom, and they wondered not to see him. Whispering occurred, and inquiries were made without satisfactory response. Some thought that there had been a mistake, and that the signal had been given to the bride and her friends too soon. It was an awkward situation, because, of course, once having reached the altar, they could not turn and leave the church again. Consequently they simply stood and waited. Every one at length grew so nervous that save for the organ there gradually stole over the whole edifice a solemn silence. People were awed, and fearing at last, as the minutes passed and still the groom did not appear, that something dreadful either had or was about to occur they almost held their breaths. A few intimate friends went out on tiptoe, but the door to the vestry room was guarded by a man in livery, who would say nothing but that no one could be admitted.

Meanwhile an exciting scene, though a brief one, was being enacted behind that door. Just as the two parties were about to start on their way to the altar a carriage had driven up furiously, and from it had alighted Mr. Barnes. He quickly entered the building and went straightway into the vestryroom, brushing aside the man at the door. Once in the presence of the groom and his gentlemen attendants, he astonished them by saying:

"Thank God, I am not too late."

"Are you quite sure?" said Mr. Mitchel, with provoking calmness.

"I have come here to stop this wedding," said the detective, a little excited.

"You mean to delay it. That you are doing now, as I should be on my way to the altar to join my bride."

"I tell you, I come to stop this wedding altogether, and"--

"One moment, Mr. Barnes. There is no time to lose, and I do not wish you to speak too openly. Let me talk for you. You have reasons, which I can guess, for wishing me not to be married. Am I right?"

"I have said as much."

"If I can prove to you that you gain nothing by hindering this ceremony, will you allow it to proceed, and then act as you may please afterward, instead of now?"

"Of course, but that is impossible."

"Nothing is impossible, Mr. Barnes. Read that if you please."

Taking from his pocket a folded paper, he handed it to Mr. Barnes, who took it nervously, read it and looked up amazed.

"This is an outrage, Mr. Mitchel, and"--

"And you have given me your word not to further interfere at this time. If you will meet me at my hotel at 2 o'clock, I will answer whatever other demands you have upon me. I think you know that you may trust me to keep the engagement. Now, gentlemen, we will proceed." Saying which, he and his friends filed out of the room and down the aisle of the church, much to the relief of the immense throng awaiting them, leaving Mr. Barnes utterly discomfited. The ceremony then proceeded without further delay, and in half an hour Mr. and Mrs. Leroy Mitchel were taken in their carriage to the Fifth Avenue hotel. Mr. Barnes did not wait to see them leave the cathedral, but hurried away almost immediately after having read the document which Mr. Mitchel had banded to him. This was a certificate of marriage dated the day before, and performed at the mayor's office. Thus, whatever reason the detective had for stopping the marriage the telegram from Sefton had enabled Mr. Mitchel to once more outwit Mr. Barnes by simply allowing a civil contract to antedate the religious ceremony.

CHAPTER XV.

MR. MITCHEL EXPLAINS A FEW THINGS.

Immediately upon his arrival in New York Mr. Barnes went to his office. Here he was slightly surprised to find Lucette.

"Well," said he tersely.

"I came here," said the girl, "so that I could report to you the minute you got here. There is no time to lose."

"Why, what is up?"

"Your plan about my getting information from the East Orange postoffice did not work. The man said that, though he would like to serve you, he was afraid it might be construed into tampering with the mails; that you would need an order from the postmaster general. I went to work then on the other line and began a systematic examination of every house in the place. It was hard work, but at last I found the child. You don't want details now, because she has been taken away again. Mitchel went down yesterday and brought her to New York."

"Why did you not follow him and see where he took her?"

"I did, and this time I am sure he did not suspect that I was after him. He took the child to the Remsens."

"To the Remsens? What can that mean?"

"I don't know. But Mitchel and Miss Remsen are to be married at St. Patrick's cathedral at 10 o'clock this morning."

"Not if I can stop it," replied the detective, and he hastened up to the church with the result told in the last chapter.

Promptly at 2 o'clock Mr. Barnes presented himself at the Fifth Avenue hotel accompanied by Mr. Neuilly. They were asked to go up to Mr. Mitchel's apartments, and there they were greeted by that gentleman as affably as though they had been of his wedding party. Indeed he began the conversation in rather a jocular way, saying:

"Ah! Mr. Barnes, delighted that now I can entertain you more at my leisure. This morning, you see, I was in a great hurry. You called at a very inopportune time, and I am afraid that I was rather abrupt."

"Mr. Mitchel, I am not in the humor for nonsense. This is a very serious visit, I assure you. This gentleman is Mr. Neuilly of New Orleans, and he has come all this distance to aid the cause of justice."

(To be continued)

"Thank God, I am not too late."