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A WOMAN’S REVENGE 
 
 OR 
 
 THE CREOLE’S CRIME 
 
 BY 
 
 MYRON PINKERTON 
 
 Copyright 1887 
 By GEORGE W OGILV1E 
 
 IdHaed Monthly. By Bnhncription $3.u0 
 per annum. No. 8, October. IW7. 
 
 CHICAGO : 
 
 I-AIRI) & LEE, PUBLISHERS, 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 4 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 HYLAND BiLK 
 
 OL D B O OK ST O L V, 
 
 Books Boiriht, Sold A Fd 
 229 - 23! Yi»nihi 1 St. 
 PORTLAND, OREL Of J 
 
 THE CREOLE’S CRIME. 
 
 CHAPTER J. 
 
 il SO HITCH FOR BtTCKrffOnAH.” 
 
 We will introduce ourselves, by way of a commence¬ 
 ment, as unseen spectators of an interview between two per¬ 
 sons—a woman, and a young man whom she had reared as 
 her son, and who was, by the limited few who knew them, 
 regarded as such in reality, although there was not the 
 slightest resemblance between the pair. 
 
 The reader will also, as wo proceed, find that they were 
 extremely unlike in character as well. 
 
 The meeting was one somewhat important to both, 
 although they had parted that morning, as usual, without 
 any manifestation on either side of t!Te regard and affection 
 that would naturally be supposed to exist between two bear¬ 
 ing the relationship they held to each other. 
 
 Their home was an unpretentious dwelling on the eastern 
 outskirts of New Orleans. Although there was no display 
 of wealth in the dwelling, yet everything indicated comfort 
 and moderate means. It was pleasantly situated, being 
 surrounded by gardens, with shrubbery and some clumps 
 of trees, while arbors covered with vines wero to be seen 
 here and there. To one coming from a higher latitude, it 
 would have seemed, with its tropical environment, a verita¬ 
 ble paradise; but it was the abode of one who, we shall find 
 as wo proceed, was a female fiend. 
 
 Within the parlor there now r sits a woman who has seen, 
 probably, some forty years. She is known by the name of 
 Bertha Broguand, and the young man, who was supposed 
 to bo her son, is about two and twenty years of age, and 
 goes by the name—the only one he has over known — of 
 Buckingham Broguand. 
 
 Mrs. Broguand was of a passionate temper, and had the 
 black and Hashing eyes and sallow complexion so often met 
 with in the creoles of Louisiana. She was thin in flesh* of 
 
 5 
 
6 
 
 SO MUCH FOR BUCKINGHAM. 
 
 medium stature, and her dark hair had in it streaks of gray; 
 but she showed marks of having been in early youth a 
 beauty, notwithstanding the premature wrinkles caused by 
 the passions she had nurtured. 
 
 Her movements were willowy and graceful; in fact, 
 almost serpent-like. 
 
 As she now paced the apartment, she at times looked 
 anxiously through a front window, peering down the walk 
 to the gate which opened into the street. 
 
 This thoroughfare was little traveled. 
 
 Soon, however, a young man jerked the little iron gate 
 open, sprang through and closed it with a sounding clang. 
 He then quickly strode up the paved walk, glancing ahead 
 and around him somewhat suspiciously. 
 
 The features of Mrs. Broguand relaxed at the lirst sound 
 made by the advancing footsteps, expressing relief, yet 
 mingled with an emotion that was akin to anxiety. She 
 ventured not upon the veranda to meet the young man who 
 approached , just the opposite, for she turned and walked 
 to the rear of the room, as if to compose herself. 
 
 The new-comer was the young man of whom we have 
 spoken as the adopted son of Bertha Broguand. 
 
 He was full six feet in height, with handsome, almost 
 feminine, features of Grecian cast, his complexion being 
 pale and fair. There was not the slightest resemblance, as 
 has been said, between the supposed mother and son. 
 
 Entering the parlor, the latter removed his hat as Mrs. 
 Broguand turned about and faced him. 
 
 He gazed inquiringly for a moment, and then spoke, in a 
 strangely modulated voice: 
 
 11 You sent for me, mother, and I am here. Can it be that 
 the time has at last arrived when I am to know the great 
 secret that has been kept unrevealed so long? ” 
 
 The woman stood trembling, as if stricken with an ague 
 fit, evidently striving with all her strength of will to control 
 herself, and to speak words which she apparently felt it a 
 task to articulate. The expression upon her sallow face 
 was one of conflicting emotions. She made no immediate 
 response to the rapidly spoken words of her son, but her 
 black eyes w^ere fixed, in a strange stare upon his face, and 
 she seemed panting for breath. 
 
 u Your manner and appearance answer me, mother, 
 without words. It was not strange that you sent for me at 
 this particular time. Every step that J took toward home 
 this evening strengthened the belief that you had at last 
 decided to confide in me. I noticed how strangely you 
 looked this morning at breakfast, and how silent you 
 were. 
 
SO MUCH IOK BUCKINGHAM. 
 
 7 
 
 u I cannot help feeling that I must prepare to avenge 
 some great wrong done to you and to myself, and 1 am impa¬ 
 tient to learn what it is.” 
 
 Buckingham spoke rapidly, and with considerable emo¬ 
 tion. 
 
 He stepped toward his mother as he ended, but she drew 
 back, and there was an omnious flash from her black 
 eyes. 
 
 He paused, and turned pale. 
 
 There could he no doubt that each was then entertaining 
 thoughts r.ot flattering to the other — that both were act¬ 
 ing parts — that they thoroughly distrusted each other, and 
 that the woman had a torturing task before her. 
 
 That Buckingham would doubt the revelations she was 
 about to make, one would readily decide; although it was 
 evident that he would strive to act as though he did believe 
 her, and that for a most important reason. One thing was 
 certain, there was something coming that both dreaded. 
 
 At length the young man became desperate, and burst 
 forth with vehemence: 
 
 11 Speak, mother! Unburden your mind, which has for 
 long years, as I know, borne a load that has nearly driven 
 you to insanity. You have never told me of my father, 
 except that he died before I was born. You may have had 
 good reasons for such secrecy, but the silence you have 
 maintained has made me more reckhsss and dissipated than 
 I would have been under any other circumstances. 
 
 “ I have contracted vices to which my suspicions as to my 
 origin have forced me. Why, I do not even know that 1 am 
 entitled to the name 1 bear. 
 
 “ Was Broguand the name of my father, or is it your 
 maiden name if 
 
 “Mother!” he exclaimed, more tenderly, “1 pitv and 
 sympathize with you! Will you not end all this, and confide 
 in me?” 
 
 “ Oh, my eon, T cannot! You are all 1 have to love, and 
 you will hate, you will curse mo when you know the truth 
 — the whole truth.” 
 
 This, though but a superb piece of acting, seemed so real 
 that Buckingham was forced to believe in it. Had lie been 
 less excited he w r ould have noticed, w T hon he attempted to 
 embrace his mother, that there was a look of loathing and 
 hatred in her eyes. 
 
 The next moment a sudden transformation took place in 
 her. Dashing the tears disdainfully from her eyes, which 
 flashed fury and a thirst for revenge alternately, she con¬ 
 tinued pacing the apartment back and forth, her fingers 
 clinched 
 
8 
 
 SO MUCH FOR BUCKINGHAM. 
 
 “ Oh, my God! why did I send for him, and thus betray 
 myself r But it must be— ; t had to be — and now as well as 
 later. I must bear and sacrifice all. 
 
 “ Long years have I suffered, to keep an oath to him who, 
 although he was my evil genius, was then on his death¬ 
 bed ; but the time has been now a year past when I should 
 have launched Buckingham on the river of revenge! 
 
 “It must be told, although it tears my heart-strings to 
 think, much more to speak, of the dread past.” 
 
 Thus soliloquized Mrs. Broguand, in a gasping voice, as 
 she walked the room, Buckingham meanwhile standing as 
 has been described. 
 
 It was a strange scene. 
 
 None, glancing into that apartment, could have compre¬ 
 hended the situation of affairs, as the pair remained for some 
 moments silent. 
 
 At length the young man again spoke. 
 
 “ Mother,” he repeated, “ had I a father in anything more 
 than name . ; Am 1, as 1 have feared — it is an awful word — 
 base-born ? ” 
 
 The woman, still acting admirably, shrank, as if struck 
 a powerful blow, at the words, but she halted, facing him. 
 
 “You have called me mother,” she said, “and I am, 
 indeed, your mother, Buckingham — an innocent and a 
 wronged, a terribly wronged, woman! If you do not believe 
 this implicitly, if you cast me from your heart, I shall die! 
 Can you imagine the agony, the torturing humiliation that I 
 suffer at allowing you, without denial, to speak as you have 
 done i Think you I have not been on the rack since I de¬ 
 cided to reveal my past life to you f 
 
 “ Can you realize what a life of anguish it has been? If 
 so, even in a slight measure can you blame me for thirsting 
 for revenge, the gratification of which has been beyond my 
 power until of late ? ” 
 
 Again had a change come over Bertha Broguand, she 
 having seemingly found it beyond her power to bear the 
 cold, condemning looks of her son. She became agonized 
 to the very soul at the possibility of losing the love of the 
 only being that she cared for. Her voice was now pleading 
 in the extreme— more so than a nature like hers would have 
 practiced, even were her life at stake. 
 
 The young man’s expression changed also, and he went 
 up to his mother and caught her cold hand in his, saying, 
 in something like a tone of fondness: 
 
 “ Forgive me! But, although this is a terrible shock to 
 me, it ought not to he so, for I have long expected it. I 
 have even been almost positive, and with good grounds, 
 that you had been wrons-ed by the man to whom I owe my 
 
SO MUCH FOR BUCKINGHAM. 
 
 U 
 
 being, though T never have quite believed he was the villian 
 your words now imply him to have been. 
 
 44 I cannot now believe he is dead, for then you would not, 
 have it in your gower to gain revenge. But, mother, the 
 time is past for further secrecy. I must know all, without 
 reserve. 
 
 44 If he, my father, now lives, he shall be made to repent 
 all that he Las made you suffer; for I swear to you, my 
 mother, that ho shall right the great wrong done us both, 
 if such be possible — or, failing that, shall die!” 
 
 Exultation was stamped upon the sallow face of the 
 woman whose hands he still held in his own, and strange 
 were the expressions that llitted from her eyes, but her head 
 had fallen upon her son’s breast, and her lashes hid the 
 tell-tale orbs from view. 
 
 Could Buckingham iiave seen the light in those eyes, so 
 filled with loathing and hatred, and rightly interpreted the 
 trembling of the woman lie clasped so tenderly and confid¬ 
 ingly ; could ho at that moment have read her thoughts, lie 
 would have known that she never gave him birth, or she 
 could not have entertained the fiendish hate that, for the 
 time, and, indeed, at all times when ho was near, ruled 
 her. 
 
 Recovering herself quickly, and starting back, Mrs. 
 Broguaud said: 
 
 44 Buckingham, I know you will carry out my long- 
 cherished scheme of vengeance, i nave permitted you to 
 give full scope to your suspicions, and allowed you to run 
 astray to some extent, for 1 have been too much over¬ 
 whelmed by this long-dreaded interview to bo abie to speak 
 as I ought. It is close and stilling here. Come into the 
 garden, and you shall hear everything. Your father is 
 dead! 
 
 n He was as innocent of wrong as myself, and lie died a 
 violent death at the hands of the one to whom we owe our 
 misery and disgrace. He who so fearfully wronged us both 
 lives in peace, in happiness, and in wealth.” 
 
 44 And ho shall die the death of a dog, and by my right 
 iaa.nd! ” 
 
 Thus cried out Buckingham Broguand, his fists clinched, 
 his pallid face contorted murderously, and Ills black iiyes 
 dashing with a thirst for revenge. 
 
10 
 
 I COULD A TALE UNFOLD. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 u I COULD A TALE UNFOLD. ” 
 
 A disinterested but close observer would have decided 
 that Mrs. Broguand had proposed going into the garden to 
 gain time, and to ponder on the words she intended to 
 speak. 
 
 Her last assertions, although they had removed the stain 
 upon the young man’s birth, had not caused him to feel less 
 shame and humiliation; but, at the same time, had 
 increased his desire for revenge. He w r as greatly surprised 
 and bewildered, and was intensely eager fbr the promised 
 explanation. 
 
 In a few moments Mrs. Broguand had entered an arbor, 
 where it was quite shady and gloomy in comparison with 
 the more open portion of the garden. Buckingham fol • 
 lowed, and both seated themselves. 
 
 As the reader will have inferred, the woman had truths 
 to hide or omit relating, and false words to utter. Hence, 
 the least slip might mar her plans. 
 
 “ Mother,”said the young man, impatiently, “ lam listen¬ 
 ing, and my brain is tortured with suspense.” 
 
 “ Patience my son, it is no pleasant task! 
 
 4 * Yet it is so important that further delay must he inex¬ 
 cusable. Why have you not told me all this before? ” 
 
 It was only by an almost superhuman effort of will that 
 the young creole controlled his intense emotion. His brain 
 seemed bursting. 
 
 Airs. Broguand w'as little less agitated, but from far differ¬ 
 ent feelings than those which governed him whom she called 
 her son. 
 
 “ Listen/’ she said, at length, “ and pay close attention, 
 for I have a strange story to relate. I will make it as brief 
 as possible: 
 
 u Aly father was the captain of a small schooner plying 
 between Cuba and this coast, he pretending to be a trader, 
 but in reality being a smuggler. We were tolerably well off 
 in this world’s goods. Ho owned a small plantation in Cuba, 
 and, from the time I was about twelve years old, he was in 
 the habit of taking my mother and myself to that island, 
 w T here we often remained months at a time. 
 
 u As 1 grew older my parents determined that they would 
 marry me to the son of some wealthy man, and then 
 father intended to abandon his dangerous calling. At thx, 
 age of sixteen I was considered a beauty, and, being toler¬ 
 ably well educated, I frequently had invitations to social 
 
I COULD A TALE UNFOLD. 
 
 ll 
 
 gatherings and balls in high circles. My parents, I may 
 here say, kept up a display far above their means. 
 
 “ I was just seventeen when, for the first time, 1 fell in 
 love. The object of my idolatry was a young gentleman of 
 wealth and good birth, and, although I was aware that he 
 did not regard me with the affection I entertained for him, 
 I was satisfied, and clung to him. 
 
 “ Ho was one of a number of young men who associated 
 in their sports and amusements, and all of whom drank at 
 times to excess. Ary parents soon became aware of my 
 iufatuation for this person, whoso name I for the present 
 withhold, and they were delighted, for everything they 
 knew of him was in his favor. My father, however, was a 
 little suspicious of his intentions, and made up his mind to 
 make the young man declare himself. Far better would it 
 have been had lie let us alone. 
 
 u The party of young men with whom my lover associated 
 arranged, at my suggestion, an excursion in sail-boats down 
 the river for some miles to a beautiful moss-draped grove of 
 trees, among which we were to have a picnic and a dance, 
 returning to the city at night. 
 
 “ My lather by some means gained information of tha 
 whole affair; and, as ho had his schooner at anchor in a 
 bayou near the grove selected, he resolved to spy upon us, 
 and inform himself as to the true state of affairs. 
 
 “ He also found out in somo way that the young gentle¬ 
 men proposed to get up mock marriages — each to choose 
 the maiden he loved best — and be conceived the plan of 
 smuggling in a bona-fide priest whom he had on board as a 
 passenger to Cuba. In this way he felt that he could have 
 the regular ceremony performed, thus making sure of a rich 
 husband for his daughter. 
 
 “ All this, you understand, was unknown to mo. But, to 
 be as brief as possible, the day passed most joyously, and as 
 night approached, wine flowed freely, and all were more or 
 less under its influence, myself included. But, with me, it 
 was only to the exteut of being insanely happy. 
 
 “ At length the time came for each to select the one dear¬ 
 est to him —the marriage ceremony to be performed in the 
 shade of the low hanging branches of the trees. Some half 
 a dozen couples, all laughing boisterously, had gone through 
 the mock perfo mance, and there was much wrangling by 
 this time amon r those who were most intoxicated, and who 
 took little interest in love affairs. 
 
 “ T was seated beside my admirer, and was delighted when 
 ho proposed a glass of wine. After drinking it I felt strange 
 
 and giddy, everything being in a whirl; but I succeeded in 
 
12 
 
 I COULD A TALE UNFOLD. 
 
 getting through the marriage ceremony, supported, as I 
 believed, by my lover. 
 
 “ I recollected afterward that there was much more din 
 than usual, and louder sounds among the disputing ones. 
 Then I was carried away in the confusion, and soon lost all 
 consciousness. When I became myself again I was on board 
 my father’s vessel, and with — not my lover, but one of his 
 comrades! 
 
 “ With a shriek I ran to my father’s cabin, and was clasped 
 in his arms. For a time I was too frantic to listen to his 
 rapidly spoken words, or to articulate sufficiently plain for 
 him to understand me. Finally 1 pointed to the door, 
 through which I had just rushed. 
 
 “At that moment I hated and detested my father, for I 
 could not help believing that he had known all, and had 
 been a party to it. I rushed past him, but only to meet 
 the young man of whom 1 have spoken. He was standing 
 in the doorway, the very picture of amazement. 
 
 “ My father was the first to speak, ltegaining his natural 
 state of mind, he cried out: 
 
 “ ‘ All’s well that end’s well! ” 
 
 “ Then he asked my companion, 1 What is your name, 
 sir ?’ 
 
 “ 4 Benton Broguand,’ was the reply. 
 
 “ ‘ Then,’ said my father, ‘ allow me to present you to 
 your wife, Mrs. Broguand. I congratulate you both, as I 
 do myself, upon a son-in-law. I know your family well. 
 Come, be seated, Mr. Ercguand, and join me in a glass of 
 champagne! ’ 
 
 “ There was probably never on earth a more dumb¬ 
 founded pair. I was unable to comprehend what it meant. 
 However, there was no tnr'> for explanations; and, as Bro¬ 
 guand, in a dazed way, accepted my father’s invitation, I 
 could only possess my soul in patience. 
 
 “ ‘Now, my precious pair of revellers,’ spoke up my 
 father, ‘ you need not at all be put out or embarrassed, for 
 you are legally man and wife, and are now on your wedding 
 tour to the Ever Faithful Isle 2 ’ 
 
 “ He then explained that he had gained a knowledge of 
 the programme of our excursion, and knowing that my 
 lover and myself had now gone to such a length that mar¬ 
 riage might reasonably be expected, he had sent a priest 
 into the grove—some of the sailors accompanying him, 
 with instructions to see that the genuine padre was the one 
 who officiated when myself and lover stood up for the, as 
 
 we thought, mock ceremony. 
 
 “There had been a mistake made, indeed, more than 
 one; for the priest turned up missing, having evidently been 
 
I COULD A TALE UNTOLD. 
 
 13 
 
 
 detained against his will when the young men discovered 
 his real character. The other was the substitution of a 
 strange bridegroom. 
 
 “ This was now explained by Mr. Broguand. He had 
 been sent to me by my lover with some wine, the latter 
 asking him to stand up with me for tho bogus ceremony, as 
 he had been taken suddenly ill. To favor his friend he had 
 done so, tirst taking some of the liquor himself; after which 
 he remembered nothing, except being carried away amid 
 much yelling and confusion. 
 
 “ This last move, my father now said, was caused by his 
 men, who had orders to make a rush and bring us on board 
 when the marriage was over. As to tho whereabouts of the 
 clergyman he knew nothing; bnt ho swore that the latter 
 performed a valid ceremony, that he witnessed it from a 
 thicket, and that Benton Broguand ana myself were man 
 and wife ! The husband I had secured, ho wound up by 
 declaring, pleased him quite as well as would the man of 
 my choice. 
 
 “You can but faintly imagine what our feelings must 
 have been. The situation was so painfully ludicrous that 
 we could not avoid laughing. At once I decided that my 
 lover had, in some way, found out my father’s plot, and see¬ 
 ing in it a good way to get rid of me, had drugged tho wino 
 and induced Broguand to take his place. My suspicions and 
 jealous nature favored this conclusion, and my jovo was 
 turned to hatred. 
 
 “ On the other hand, I could not but admire tho spirit of 
 the victimized one, who accepted the situation more than 
 gracefully, asserting that ho considered himself fortunate, 
 although he would have been better pleased had the affair 
 been conducted more a la mode. 
 
 “ But, although Benton Broguand thus congratulated 
 himself, he was none the less indignant at the perfidy of his 
 friend. Together, therefore, wo swore vengeance upon my 
 old lover. 
 
 '[ My husband expected that his relatives would be 
 furious with him, so ho delayed our return to New Orleans. 
 For this reason we remained in Cuba for some six months 
 — months which were the happiest of my life, and in which 
 I grew to love and almost worship my husband. 
 
 “ Little did 1 dream of tho misery, the agony of mind, 
 that was so soon to follow. My mother, satisfied that the 
 plot had been si 
 coaster to join us 
 with all on board, 
 our return to the Crescent City. 
 
 ‘ My husband sent me '& a carriage to my old home, at 
 n 
 
 iccessfully carried out, sailed on a small 
 ; but the vessel was lost in a terrific gale. 
 Of this, however, we knew nothing until 
 
14 
 
 THE QUALITY OF MERCY. 
 
 he did not wish to present me abruptly to bis own peopla 
 I was the happiest young wife when I was borne rapidly 
 through the well-known streets, anticipating the most joy¬ 
 ous of meetings with the mother whom I had not seen in 
 so long a time. 
 
 “ But my home was desolate. I was motherless ! 
 
 u However, I was soon to learn that this w as but the first 
 link of a chain of dread and terrible events that were des¬ 
 tined to be made known to me. 
 
 “ The next soon followed. 
 
 “ This was the arrival of a priest, who, after inquiring for 
 my father, and finding that he was not yet at home, made 
 known the fact that he had been captured in the picnic grove 
 before reaching the scene of the ceremony, and his habit 
 appropriated by one of the young men. From the descrip¬ 
 tion given I knew this to have been my false and treacherous 
 lover. 
 
 “ This revelation proved that I was not a wife, that Benton 
 Broguand was not my husband, that I was deceived, disgraced 
 and dishonored. 
 
 “ With a piercing cry * fainted away! ” 
 
 CHAPTER ITT. 
 
 u THE QUALITY OF MERCY. 97 
 
 Buckingham Broguand had sat immovable throughout 
 this strange recital. 
 
 As the woman ceased speaking he heaved a sigh, and ex¬ 
 claimed: 
 
 “ My poor wronged mother! 99 
 
 Soon she resumed her story. 
 
 “ For hours I lay in an unconscious state, and far bette 
 for both you and me would it have been had I never again 
 returned to sense and life. When I recall those darkest of 
 all dark days, it seems wonderful that I lived through 
 them. But I had something to live for. 
 
 u My one thought was of vengeance. 
 
 “ After I regained my consciousness and had time to 
 reflect, I was less agonized at the position in which I found 
 myself, for I had every confidence in Benton. The clergyman 
 soon came up w ith the latter, and having told him every¬ 
 thing, his rage may be imagined. That the bogus priest was 
 my old lover he had not the shadow ol a doubt. 
 
 “ This, together with what he bad previously known* 
 infuriated him almost to madness. He had grow n to icve 
 me devotedly, and that we should thus, through no fault of 
 
THE QUALITY OF YIERCY. 
 
 15 
 
 our own, "be so situated, turned Benton Broguand nearly 
 wild. He, however, bade ;Le yadi ^ go to my father and 
 hasten with him to me, ho promising presently to join 
 them. 
 
 u Thus they parted. 
 
 “ Would to God each had been permitted to carry out 
 his intentions, but the cruel, merciless fates ordained other¬ 
 wise! 
 
 u As it happened, my father, just previous to the arrival 
 of the priest on board the schooner, was examining the con¬ 
 tents of a secret pocket to which he gained access from the 
 hold, and which adjoined the forecastle. Some of the sail 
 ors were there, drinking and carousing, and the mention 
 of my name by one of them drew my parent’s attention to 
 them. 
 
 “ What he heard made him perfectly frantic. It was the 
 assertion of one of the men that 1 was not married to Ben¬ 
 ton Broguand — that he had see > the clergyman knocked 
 down and robbed of his cassock, wi ich had been assumed by 
 one of the young men of the party, and that ihe latter Had 
 officiated in his stead. 
 
 “ After the words of the sailor had been fully digested bv 
 my father, and he began to realize that he had himself acted 
 a part in accomplishing the dishonor of his own daughter, 
 together with the fact that this man had been ail tin* time 
 aware of the true state of affairs, but had not disclosed them 
 as he should have done—by thus failing to reveal all having 
 been the chief cause of the present misery — when he thought 
 of all this, my father rushed like a madman from the hold, 
 and on deck, thence down into the forecastle, and bounding 
 like an enraged panther upon the sailor who had thus be¬ 
 trayed himself, he plunged his knife, again and again, into 
 the breast of his victim ! 
 
 “ The sounds that followed drew the police, and my father 
 was at once arrested. The schooner was then searched, and 
 its true character discovered. 
 
 “ Covered with blood, and with the charge of mur der 
 against him — with plain proofs of it, indeed, caught in the 
 very act — thus was my unhappy parent when the priest 
 reached the vessel. Then, wi th all this avalanche of wretch - 
 edness overwhelming him, ruined, and with a prison and the 
 ignominious doom of a murderer before him, the tale of the 
 seaman was confirmed! 
 
 “ Buckingham, you must acknowledge that none but ** 
 man of iron could have borne up under all this. Yet he did. 
 although his sufferings on my account, as I was told, drowned 
 all his consideration for self, even to the time when he stood 
 upon the scaffold and suffered a shameful death. 1 never 
 A Woman's Rev**** ° 
 
THE QUALITY OF MEKCY. 
 
 16 
 
 again saw him after leaving him when we landed to go to 
 our desolated home, and until he was immured in prison he 
 knew not that my mother had been swallowed up in the 
 waters of the treacherous Mexique Gulf. 
 
 “ Think of the misery he must have endured! 
 
 “ Thus was I, in my dire extremity, deprived of both my 
 parents; both lost to me forever, through the perfidious 
 villain who had won my affections. But my cup of woe was 
 not even then filled up. The fates had more misery in store 
 for me. It seemed as if the furies were trying to see how 
 much agony of mind my poor brain could undergo; how 
 much my poor heart could be tortured without breaking. 
 
 “ But to explain. 
 
 “ After parting with the padre Benton Broguand hastened 
 to join me, abandoning at once his purpose to visit his own 
 peopie. But he had not gone a hundred yards up St. 
 Charles street when, as he strode madly along gazing upon 
 ihe pavement at his feet, he brushed roughly against some 
 one passing. Quickly lifting his hat, with a word of apology, 
 he found himself face to face with his former friend, my 
 ex-lover! 
 
 “ The villain smiled and was extending his hand when, 
 lightning-like, Benton drew back his right arm and struck 
 him a blow in the face. He was beside himself, and with 
 good cause. He knew that all who had been on the excur¬ 
 sion must have been aware of everything that had transpired, 
 and they had doubtless spread the report of the same 
 through the city, thus making him the laughing-stock of all 
 who knew him. 
 
 “ This infuriated him beyond bounds, and as the author 
 of the disgrace reeled from the blow he had struck him, 
 Benton jerked his knife and sprung upon him like a mad¬ 
 man. In an instant they were engaged in deadly conflict. 
 The knife fell from Benton's grasp after he had plunged it 
 through the right arm of his foe, but he still fought on 
 madly. Soon he received a fearful wound in his breast, and 
 fell, his antagonist escaping. 
 
 11 Thus it happened that after recovering my senses upon 
 being interviewed by the clergyman, and having become 
 more reconciled by the conviction that all would yet be well, 
 Benton Broguand was brought into my wretched home, 
 borne upon a stretcher, and covered with blood! 
 
 u I know not how I came to retain my reason during that 
 terrible ordeal after ail that I had suffered. But I did. And 
 I listened to the feebly spoken words of the man whom I 
 loved as my life. In all my fearful anguish I banished every 
 thought of myself and my future, for I soon sa w that there 
 was no hone. 
 
THE QUALITY OF MERCY. 
 
 17 
 
 • 4 All was soon over—Benton Broguand died, was mur¬ 
 dered , my son,” continued the woman, her voice becoming 
 strange and harsh ; “ but to the last he was governed by 
 the one wild, all-absorbing wish for revenge upon his per¬ 
 fidious friend. We knew nothing, however, at that time of 
 the crime and arrest of my father. 
 
 “ With Benton’s hands clasped in mine — the same grow¬ 
 ing cold in death — I swore by all my hopes of meeting him 
 hereafter that 1 would devote my life to the work of venge¬ 
 ance; that, when my child was born, should it be a son, 1 
 would train him to the same end. But Benton begged mo 
 to promise, and T did, that our boy should not be told this 
 tale of woe and disgrace until ho had reached the age of 
 twenty-one; or allowed to seek that revenge which, in strict 
 justice, ought to be meted out to him who had brought upon 
 us such ruin, disgrace, and death. 
 
 “ He had no idea that 1 would be able to accomplish any¬ 
 thing, and at that time I had but little hope myself, for 1 
 was completely broken down with grief and anguish, and 
 had little knowledge of the world. 
 
 u I was for a long time ill, and when T recovered 1 learned 
 the full extent of the calamity that had befallen mo. One 
 old family servant remained faithful to me. She and I went 
 to Cuba after having disposed of my home; and at the isolated 
 plantation of which I have spoken, you, Buckingham, were 
 born. Afterward I returned to New Orleans and to this 
 dwelling, and here, upon the rents which i receive from my 
 Cuban property, we have lived ever since. 
 
 “ 1 could not bring myself to tell this humiliating tnlo at 
 the time when 1 had intended doing so, for I hoped to 
 accomplish something myself—to gain some clew of the 
 dastard who caused all this misery and disgrace. 1 
 have not been able to learn much, as I have kept aloof from 
 every one, and no one has ever known that the daughter ot 
 the murderer and smuggler who was hanged, the maiden 
 who w'asonce the talk of the town, had ever returned toiler 
 old home. 
 
 “ The relatives of Benton Broguand, who took possession 
 of and buried his body, never paid me the slightest attention 
 at that time, and they know nothing of my existence now. 
 
 “ 1 ascertained, however, that the villainous w retch who 
 had been my first love added to his perfidy by giving evi¬ 
 dence against my father at the timo of his trial and con¬ 
 
 viction. 
 
 “ Now, my son, T believe 1 have told you everything, and. 
 you cannot wonder that I am old beyond my years, that I 
 take no interest in the world ;it lurge, and think only of the 
 awful past and what it has entailed upon mo. But I should 
 
18 
 
 THE QUALITY OE MERCY. 
 
 not ha,v e (May ed toUing you all this until now had I not 
 Succeeded m getting some information in regard to our "vil 
 genius It was not, however, until to- day that I learned 
 
 Sff?y a oS Sled ag6nt ’ WS 6XaCt ^eabouts--Ten d I 
 
 Buckingham Broguand sprang to his feet, 
 vyno is tne fiend to whom we owe all this*# » 1 , 
 exdaimed. “ Speak, mother, or I shall go mad!” ' 
 
 Buckingham, I cannot give you his mmp nnfii ^ 
 
 -■syyss: - 
 
 renege, hX Su Ms & ,£ But , h T c »" '™ 
 
 portion, at least, of tile disgrace hfhShefSi 0 ”* “ bim “ 
 and yours ? ” ^ ne ncis leaped upon my life 
 
 can revenge 1 ourse?ves. S ^lhni rfow° knmv'^ah , M f rkme > ™ 
 
 effect^^vengeance^hat^wip 1 ! 0 • stra tegy and deep cunni™ 
 of Which I toid you dat 11 m}? ° ° ut the crimes and villainy 
 
 Therearf fo?of Vour^sex 5,7 1 flT' 6 Jonr f °rtitude •' 
 
 what you have experienced -ml ho u f iave 8° ne through 
 ot vengeance against the author r f'* e now t0 P^n schemes 
 
 earned out they shall be! f much misery. And 
 
 brain wiThursU ^ ln hnman sh ape? Tell me, or my 
 
 attempt no rash^ctfbut to^mr 7 “° in ever ythiug, to 
 ■eyenge as I direct, acceptino m?coun« , and ,T ork out our 
 «, 1 do > mother, by mvCSL ™ sel m all things? ” 
 
 . W] P trust you, Buckino-iv gaining that revenge! ” 
 mme, heaping untold an..nfsh n.d i H ° who ruined me and 
 m this very city .» ' k an d disgrace upon us, is now 
 
 ■; m ” ,,CTer be “ W! 
 
 ‘‘“BiiSS!"" , ’■ bi “ s a “» named Benedict, 
 
 5J5 b “»SS™d fflESS,™* Mow groan, thresv up his 
 
 ti«d r «• a hi&s ta„h cod , , - 
 
 “"•■‘"ml it 1«, a. „ Bt „ ® b istood overhnn,and 
 
 ’ tae s Pawn of the viper is 
 
WELL LOST FOR LOVE. 
 
 19 
 
 beneath my heel. Revenge is sweet, after waiting for it so 
 long! ” 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 4{ WELL LOST FOR LOVE.” 
 
 Mrs. Bertha Broguand, as she called herself, remained 
 beside the insensible form of the young man who had been 
 taught to believe her his mother but a moment, for she 
 almost immediately hurried into the dwelling for restora¬ 
 tives, with which she returned at once, and, applying the 
 same, soon succeeded in bringing Buckingham back to 
 consciousness. 
 
 With a deep groan he arose to a sitting posture, gazed 
 around him in a dazed manner for some seconds, and then 
 at his mother, who was gtving him every attention, with 
 evident sympathy and concern. 
 
 “ In the name of wonder, what has come over you, Buck¬ 
 ingham?” she cried out, in a tone of great anxiety. “ I 
 never knew you to faint before. It is strange and unaccount¬ 
 able that you should be so deeply affected at tho mention 
 of those names. Can it be that you are acquainted with 
 them—with those whom we have every occasion to hate 
 and abhorf ” 
 
 Slowly, and as if greatly weakened, tho young man arose 
 to his feet and staggered toward the house, without paying 
 the slightest attention to his mother — she following him 
 with strangely blended emotions upon her hard face and in 
 her flashing black eyes. 
 
 Neither of them spoKe a word as they again entered tho 
 parlor and seated themselves, the woman lighting a solitary 
 wax candle, which cast but a dim light through the large 
 apartment. 
 
 Buckingham seemed greatly bewildered, and as if striving 
 to collect liis thoughts. 
 
 Mrs. Broguand was expectant and questioning in expres¬ 
 sion and manner, but, as her son remained silent, she 
 demanded: •* / 
 
 “ Buckingham, explain yourself! Why were you so 
 strangely affected when I mentioned those names?” 
 
 “ Is it strange,” he answered. “ that 1 should be over¬ 
 powered and dumbfounded by what you have fold me? ” 
 
 il Yes, to the extent of fainting. Do not think to deceive 
 me, my son. You know those people, and I am rejoiced that 
 you do.” 
 
 “ Mother, you say that you had an agent employed tu 
 
20 
 
 WELL LOST FOR LOVE. 
 
 search for them. If so, he must have known that I was an 
 acquaintance, in fact a friend, of the son of the man who, 
 you just now have told me, is responsible for all the disgrace 
 and misery that has been, and is, yours and mine. ” 
 
 “ 1 have no reason to conceal the fact. I did know that 
 you associated with Ben Barnard. ” 
 
 As the woman mentioned that name there was a tender¬ 
 ness in her voice and a tremor in her frame, but they were 
 not noticed by her son. 
 
 “ Do you know anything of the life that Benedict is now 
 leading, mother? ” 
 
 “ I cannot say I am well informed as to that, having just 
 gained information of him.” 
 
 “ Well, I confess that he and I have been connected in 
 some very wild scrapes; that lie is a confirmed gambler, 
 very easily led away, and greatly under my influence.” 
 
 Buckingham’s voice was unnatural and constrained. He 
 was evidently exerting his whole power of will to control 
 the emotions that nearly drove him wild. 
 
 ne w~as naturally of a reckless disposition, and having 
 been allowed every indulgence and freedom of action with- 
 out having been counseled or controlled in any w\ay, he had 
 naturally come to consider his mother as having peculiar 
 ideas of that relation. 
 
 Her manner, so devoid of the affection wdiich he had seen 
 other mothers manifest tow ard their sons, even in public, 
 had always impressed him as bordering upon the unnatural, 
 and, besides, he had for years been conscious that some 
 mystery was connected with her and himself. 
 
 This had created a feeling akin to awe in the young man, 
 and the little affection that was shown had been of a con 
 strained or assumed nature, and wanting in warmth and sin¬ 
 
 cerity. 
 
 But, as lie heard the story of her great wrongs and suf¬ 
 ferings, Buckingham felt that there had been much to make 
 her what she was. There was a sympathy and a pity for 
 her in his heart that he never had felt before. ^ He had 
 sw’orn to avenge her wrongs, and he meant to keep his 
 oath; and not until the mention of the names of those they 
 had such good cause to hate had he realized that the work 
 before him was one that w ould rack his own heart. 
 
 He was not as yet able to break down the barrier of 
 reserve that she had built up between them, and he had 
 been startled and shocked w hen she spoke the names of the 
 Barn arc family. In fact, the young man’s mind was in a 
 very demoralized condition, which was something quite 
 unusual with him. Never before had he been so tortured, 
 
WELL LOST FOK LOVE. 
 
 21 
 
 P 
 
 the revelations made by his mother completely upsetting 
 him. 
 
 Added to this was the disagreeable discovery, to put it 
 mildly, that those who must he the victims of his vow of 
 vengeance were friends — in one instance far more than 
 friends. 
 
 His assertions in connection with young Barnard caused 
 Mrs. Broguand to exhibit more emotion than at any time 
 previous. She arose, and paced the room nervously, but 
 her hard face betrayed not the thoughts that ruled her 
 mind, and her son had no reason to wonder at it or attri¬ 
 bute it to the words he had spoken. 
 
 Suddenly she stopped in her walk, and said, in a deep 
 and meaning voice: 
 
 “ Buckingham, you have not told me all. It was not the 
 mention of the son’s name, but that of the daughter, that 
 so affected you. I am convinced that you are smitten with 
 Bianca Barnard—tnat.you two have met — but you have 
 taken a solemn oath, and you must keep it. I know yotf 
 have little regard for the rules and laws of society and the 
 land, should your self-gratification call for the breaking oi 
 either. 
 
 u Your associations have been of a character, as have 
 your habits, to lead you in that direction, ard 1 have not 
 striven to put you on any other path, for the reason that ta 
 consummate our revenge you should ho at home in all kind* 
 of questionable resorts, and equal lo any emergency and 
 any breaking of the law to accomplish our object. We are 
 to take the law into our own bands, and avenge all that I 
 have suffered, all the disgrace and wretchedness put upon 
 us! 
 
 “ Robert Barnard, my perfidious lover, fled after he had 
 taken the life of the man who, hut for him, would have 
 been my lawful husband. Buckingham Broguand, you 
 have no legal right to the name you bear, and Robert Barn¬ 
 ard made you what you are! ” 
 
 The young man sprang to his feet, his teeth set and his 
 eyes glaring, while bestrode back and fortn in a frantic 
 manner. 
 
 “Confess,” continued Mrs. Broguand, “that you love 
 Bianca Barnard? ” 
 
 “ Your suspicions are hut too true, mother. God help 
 me! Misery and disgrace are our portion. We are both 
 doomed to suffer through life, it would seem. But, thank 
 heaven, I have not confessed my love to any other human 
 being — not even to the object of it! ” 
 
 “ And are you now ready to keep your oath, and to bring 
 swift and terrible retribution upon Robert Barnard and nu 
 
99 
 
 WELL LOST FOR LOVE. 
 
 who are dear to him ? Will you sacrifice to revenge the 
 love which you have no grounds to think will ever be 
 returned? ” 
 
 “ Mother, I am not wholly depraved — far from it, I hope 
 — but your story has driven all mercy from my heart, as 
 far as that can be connected with Robert Barnard. But, is 
 it just to make the children suffer for the crimes of the 
 father ? ” 
 
 “Was it just for that dastard to murder the man who 
 would, but for him, have been your loving, lawful father, 
 while as yet you had not seen the light of earth ? ” 
 
 “ But, after all, Barnard acted in self-defense. Besides, 
 you have no proofs that he purposely deserted you, and 
 induced Broguand to take his place; and there is only a 
 conjecture that he assumed the role and character of a 
 priest. Had we not better, in strict justice, to satisfy our¬ 
 selves as to his guilt before we launch the arrows of venge¬ 
 ance against him ? ” 
 
 “ Buckingham,” she exclaimed, passionately, “do you 
 wish me to hate and despise you? Must I avenge my own 
 and your wrongs as well ? 
 
 “ i have told you a tale; a black, unreasonable and 
 strange tale; but every word of it is true, as I hope for 
 mercy — as I hope to meet your murdered father when I 
 die! 
 
 “ Trove yourself a coward, as well as base-born, if you 
 will; but you will live to curse the day you deserted her who 
 gave you birth, to her life-long sorrow^! ” 
 
 Most furious was Bertha Broguand in her anger, and her 
 son was deeply affected. 
 
 “ Not so fast, mother!he cried out; “ you are misun¬ 
 derstanding me. I have never thought for a moment of 
 breaking or repenting of my oath. I merely asked you for 
 advice, and that I might know more fully in regard to this 
 most terrible affair. Only convince me that it is just and 
 right to visit vengeance upon the children for their father’s 
 guilt, and I am ready at once to act. ” 
 
 “ You acknowledge that merely to slay Robert Barnard 
 would 1)0 no revenge, and yet you know very well that no 
 other way is open, except to torture him to the soul through 
 his children ? v 
 
 “ You are right. He would indeed be tortured, should 
 wrong come to either of them; for he loves his children, and 
 his one great anxiety in life is occasioned by his son’s reck¬ 
 less habits.” • 
 
 The woman laughed in a-strange and unnatural manner, 
 and Buckingham looked at her in astonishment. Her next 
 
SO WITHERED AND SO WILD. 
 
 23 
 
 words, howe^ er, banished all thoughts as to the laughter 
 being uncalled for and out of place. 
 
 “ Don’t you see, then,” she said, “ that it is in your power 
 to gain revenge, and that you have been working uncon¬ 
 sciously to effect our purpose, by leading this Ben Barnard 
 on the downward road f 1 say that the father must suffer 
 through the children, and that he must be made to know 
 something of the misery which I have undergone. 
 
 • “ And now, Buckingham, 1 will show that I am not 
 without consideration for you. Follow my dircctioitftsqnd 
 we will accomplish our revenge, fulfill our oaths, and yet 
 not break your heart; for, if you can gain the love of Bianca 
 Barnard, you may wed her for aught I care. Indeed, by so 
 doing, you will bo only carrying out the plan 1 have already 
 formed. ” 
 
 Buckingham sprang forward and caught his mother’s 
 hand, crying out in great relief: 
 
 “ Mother, your words put new life into my frame l 1 was 
 in this work of vengeance heart and soul; but, if I could 
 gain Bianca for my wife, I would almost turn tbe world 
 upside down to accomplish it. But, do you mean itf 
 
 u You cannot surely mean that you have no objections to 
 my winning the daughter of the man who has so wronged 
 you. I oelieve I would almost commit any crime to gain 
 her.” 
 
 “ Don’t imagine I have for a moment lost sight of my 
 revenge, Buckingham Broguanu. Could 1 cut deeper, 
 could I strike a harder blow at Robert Barnard than by 
 bringing about a marriage between bis daughter and the 
 natural son of a woman whose father was hanged for murder i 
 You can understand that much, 1 fancy.” 
 
 “ For heaven’s sake, mother, say no more or I shall go 
 mad ! You’ll make a merciless fiend of me. But go on as 
 you think best- Mark out ray future — bo tho arbiter of my 
 destiny, even though it end in my becoming a demon!” 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 U so WITHERED AND SO WTLD. ” 
 
 “ There can be no more excruciating torture among the 
 lost than that which Robert Barnard has caused me to 
 suffer — no worse disgrace than he has cursed us both with, 
 Buckingham! ” 
 
 1 hus spoke Bertha Broguand, savagely. 
 
 u You say truly, mother, my life is wrecked, as has been 
 yours, by the confirmation you have given to my worst sus- 
 
24 
 
 SO 'WITHERED ART) SO WILD. 
 
 
 picions. What are your first wishes ? I am ready to launch 
 myself at once upon the stormy sea of crime . r 
 Desperate was his manner as he said this. 
 li 1 must ask you a few questions, Buckingham. But, 
 first, I must thank you for joining with me so heartily and 
 unreservedly. Havo you ever met Bianca Barnard face to 
 face, and spoken with her ? ” 
 
 “We have been introduced, and I have danced with her 
 once. The family have not been long here. ” 
 u It seems you were deeply impressed at first sight? ” 
 
 “ I was, indeed. In fact, she fascinated me strongly — 
 seemed to influence rne in a remarkable manner, even by 
 the touch of her garments when we stood side by side. 
 When, in the dance, our hands came in contact, I was 
 thrilled to the heart by a strange faintness which I never 
 before experienced. 
 
 “ She, too, trembled at my touch, and seemed to be in¬ 
 fluenced by conflicting emotions; being at times apparently 
 drawn toward me, and then acting in a cold and distant 
 manner, even appearing anxious to hasten from my side, 
 and with a strange expression on her pale face,” 
 
 Mrs. Broguand started at the last words. 
 
 “ I know that the Barnards have not been in this uty for 
 a great length of time, and it is a mystery to me where they 
 have lived in the meantime. 
 
 “ The miscreant married soon after that fatal excursion, 
 thus proving that he had never cared for me; and he was, 
 by the aid of gold, acquitted when brought to trial for the 
 slaying of your father. When he heard that I had sworn 
 to be avenged, lie fled. 
 
 “ There have been long years of fruitless search on my 
 part, ami I have been ill ami weak-minded through thirst¬ 
 ing for the revenge I had vowed should he mine, but which, 
 until recently, I saw no chance of accomplishing. Now I 
 am nerved to action, and Robert Barnard shall not again 
 
 escape ine. 
 
 “ lie little dreams that I still live, and am so near to him 
 and his dear ones, or he would again flee from New Orleans. 
 I bate that woman he calls wife as intensely as it is in human 
 power to do. You say that Bianca is pale ?” 
 
 This last question evidently cost Mrs. Broguand an 
 
 effort. 
 
 Her gaze at her son was one of suspicion. 
 
 Buckingham answered in an absent manner. 
 
 “ Pale, yes; fair as an angel. ” 
 
 Bertha Broguand had it on her mind to say, “ Then there 
 is a resemblance between yourself and her, ” but she dared 
 not venture so far on dangerous ground. 
 
i 
 
 SO WITHERED AND SO WILD. 25 
 
 u What are you thinking about,” she asked. 
 
 »“ I was thinking,” he replied, hesitatingly, “ that should 
 I be so happy as to gain the hand of Bianca Barnard in 
 marriage, how she would hate and abhor me when you 
 sprung the trap, and she learned that 1 was a party to tin* 
 proposed destruction of her peace and that of her family 
 I should bo in a terrible position, indeed, if my thirst for 
 revenge should be overcome by my love. ” 
 
 “ To be forewarned is to be forearmed. You must not, 
 ^nmot love her, after having heard the story of my wrongs. 
 I risk all, and trust you to ever bear in mind that your 
 wooing is but to consummate our revenge. 
 
 “ Have you ever been at their Lome, or met the girl's 
 father ? ” 
 
 “ No, neither ” 
 
 Then, the first move you are to make is to do so. Watch 
 Robert Barnard well, and notice his impressions in regard 
 to you, but ever keep in mind that you arc not to allow 
 your hatred to overcome you to the extent of harming him 
 or his son. 
 
 “ Our first plan is, that you gain the love of Bianca. 
 From your having confessed to a liking for her, 1 have 
 changed my mind in regard to the future. It was onlj 
 to-day that I learned you had been smitten by her charms. 
 
 “ As for me, I should become insane did f not gain a sight 
 of Robert Barnard and bis wife. I shall haunt the vicinity 
 of their home, and gloat over my anti ipated revenge. 
 
 “ Learn all you can from young Barnard in regard to the 
 business and intentions of his father. Stick to him like a 
 leech, and in some way get an imitation to his home.” 
 
 “ But, will not my name give the old man ground for sus¬ 
 picion? Do 1 resemble Benton — my father?” 
 
 “Some, not much,” said the woman, turning away her 
 face. “ As to the name, it is common enough in the State, 
 and you can pretend to have been reared in the northern 
 part of it. 
 
 “ Now go, Buckingham, for I am nearly prostrated Iw 
 this protracted interview and the suffering it has cost me.” 
 
 u 1 know it has been a fearful task for you, mother: and 
 to look back and even but faintly realize the long, long 
 torture you have endured, will nerve mo on the path of 
 revenge. I want to think, but every thought is terrible! 
 
 11 i will see you again, perhaps to-night, perhaps not 
 until to-morrow! ” 
 
 Mrs. Broguand had sunk into a chair at the farther 
 extremity of the apartment, and covered her face with her 
 hands, bending forward in seeming prostrated grief. But 
 
2t> 
 
 SO WITHERED AND SO WILD. 
 
 she waved her hand in adieu, and Buckingham strode out 
 into the darkness. 
 
 Had he been less excited, and his mind not in a whirl, he 
 Jniglit have detected a human figure crouched amid the 
 vines and shrubbery — an aged and wrinkled hag, with an 
 eagle beak, and eyes that glittered like those of a snake. 
 
 She was clad in rags, with a tattered straw hat on her 
 head, and carried a staff. 
 
 k< Ha! ha! ha!” she laughed softly and hissingly; 
 u Dolores smells gold, and she will have it. The boy has 
 grown to be a man, but the eyes of the old woman are 
 sharp. Senora Broguand is found. She cannot hide from 
 Dolores. She has played a deep game, which even I did 
 not see through until now. She is a fiend! 
 
 “ She would marry that bov to his own sister; and after 
 making him believe all those lies, would bring murder the 
 most unnatural out of it all. Senor Barnard, a black cloud 
 hangs over you, but gold will keep off the shower of dis¬ 
 grace and blood. ” 
 
 After this whispered soliloquy, the hag crawled up to an 
 open window, and ensconced herself obscure from view; 
 but in a position from which she could easily peer into the 
 room in which Bertha Broguand sat, and hear any words 
 the latter might utter. 
 
 Crouching thus. Dolores awaited in silence for the woman 
 within to regain her composure. 
 
 The latter appeared, for some moments, to be engaged in 
 deep thought. Then she sprang to her feet, and stole 
 across the room and out upon the veranda; where she 
 stood gazing upon the street, where all was silent, the dwell¬ 
 ing being in a retired portion of the suburbs. 
 
 Evidently satisfied that Buckingham was by that time 
 some distance off, she again entered the parlor, and ouce 
 more began pacing back and forth, giving vent meanwhile 
 to her thoughts. 
 
 “ The shallow fool lias fallen into my trap. He has not 
 the least suspicion, although 1 am positive, had he been less 
 excited and humiliated, lie would have noticed that I 
 avoided his touch, and shrank from his embrace. Of course, 
 he noticed my emotions, but he attributed them to the suffer¬ 
 ing it cost me to reveal the truth. 
 
 “ Ha! ha! ha! Tbe fool — to renounce love for revenge! 
 He knows not what the word means. The fates have greatly 
 favored me. 
 
 “ Who would have thought that while I have been search¬ 
 ing high and low for Robert Barnard and his family, Buck¬ 
 ingham was in close association with the son V Son, indeed i 
 
SO WITHERED AND SO WILD. 
 
 27 
 
 My son , who has been reared by the man ot all men whom 
 he should hate to the death! 
 
 u Well, this happy turn of affairs seems an earnest of 
 success. Little does Buckingham dream that he has sworn 
 to bring to disgrace and death his own father, mother and 
 sister. I could scarce control myself when he spoke of the 
 strange, undefinable attraction which Bianca had for him, 
 and when he mentioned that she was pale. 
 
 “ Perhaps they resemble each other in many ways. Will 
 the father notice this when they meet? 1 must contrive to 
 see the girl before that, and if they are too much alike, 
 must manage to prevent the old reprobate's seeing them 
 together. But 1 fear the girl will not reciprocate the affec¬ 
 tion of my sen. My son — good Heaven! how I detest the 
 very sight of him, since I gave up my own babe for him! 
 
 “ It tore my heart, but revenge is sweet. 1 swore that 
 nothing should stand between me and it—not even the 
 love 1 bore my unhappy child. And such a revenge ! The 
 fiends w T ould not have thought of one more fitting. None 
 but a woman who had been wronged as I have been would 
 dream of such. 
 
 u The fool! To believe that the recital of my wrongs 
 pains me. The real torture will come when 1 am forced to 
 tell my own boy, whom I banished from me in furtherance 
 of my plans, that he is mine, and not the sou of the man 
 who has reared him. Yes, Benedict Barnard, you too must 
 sutler, as I have suffered, and it must bo before you have 
 become broken in spirit through drink. 
 
 “ i little thought that the brat of the villain 1 go hate 
 would bo the means of leading my boy into dissipation. But 
 I cannot put a stop to his indulgences, cannot even counsel 
 him, until the proper time. Perhaps 1 may then be able to 
 rule him through his thirst for liquor. At all events, he will 
 be more easily bent to my will when he is, to a certain 
 extent, demoralized by drink and gambling. 
 
 “ .My course is plain. The brother shall marry the sister. 
 Then she shall know her dread disgrace. Then my son, 
 Ben Barnard, as they call him, shall be Buckingham Bro- 
 guand, and ho who now bears that name shall takehisplace, 
 then to die with his father at the hands of myself and my 
 boy! 
 
 “ When that is done, 1 shall taunt and torture Bianca 
 Barnard, until she is compelled to take her own life. That 
 will be revenge indeed! 
 
 “ Would that Benton Broguand could witness the grande 
 finals. Then he wouM acknowledge that 1 kept mv oath to 
 
 the letter. Hal ha!” 
 
28 
 
 IN SUCH A QUESTIONABLE SHAPE. 
 
 il Ha! ha! ” came, as an echo, from the veranda, in a 
 strange, unearthly way. 
 
 Bertha Broguand halted. 
 
 She stood with her eyes distended and staring, filled with 
 superstitious horror and dread; her sallow face contorted 
 with the same emotion, and she as silent and still as if sud¬ 
 denly transformed into stone. 
 
 Then arose to an upright posture, standing in the window 
 upon the broad sill, thus framed as in a picture, the hag 
 Dolores. 
 
 A single moment Bertha Broguand gazed at this mysteri¬ 
 ous, unearthly and repulsive vision, so unexpected and 
 dumbfounding; then, with a wild shriek of horror and deathly 
 terror, she fell senseless to the floor. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 “ IN SUCn A QUESTIONABLE SHAPE.” 
 
 When Bertha Broguand recovered and recalled the cause 
 of her swoon, she sprang to her feet and hastened to inspect 
 every pciu- that would afford a hiding-place. She was far 
 from believing that what she had seen was a spirit or an 
 apparition. 
 
 She va-quite confident that the repulsive object in the 
 open window was a living human being, and her terror was 
 evident. 
 
 “ 1 fe »r, ” she muttered , 11 my worst suspicions have proved 
 true. Antonio took my money, but played me false. He 
 did not hill her — she still lives. Dolores, that female fiend, 
 who is ;js merciless as myself! The evil one has protected 
 his own. 
 
 “ Well, she must be bought over. She knows that while 
 pretending to be her friend, I bribed Antonio to slay her, in 
 order t Imt my secret should be safe. He must have believed 
 she was mad, or he would never have taken the oath that 
 he did. She must have searched this city and Cuba for 
 years, a fruitlessly as I did for Robert Barnard. And she 
 has found me. 
 
 u She stole the Barnard baby, when an infant, and I 
 placed my babe in the cradle, e flee ting the change of cloth¬ 
 ing so quickly and skillfully that the deed was never dis¬ 
 covered. So my child was reared by the man l so hate.” 
 
 Tims the woman muttered, as she diligently searched 
 every nook and corner of the apartment. 
 
 Satisfied at length that the old hag had not entered the 
 room, Mrs. Broguand returned to the window’-sill where sue 
 
IN SUCH A QUESTIONABLE SHAPE. 
 
 29 
 
 had stood. This she closely examined. Fresh mold from 
 the garden was upon it. 
 
 This she saw, and more. 
 
 A half sheet of note paper lay outspread before her. On 
 It was a rude sketch, and above it, in printed letters, the 
 
 words: 
 
 “ Gold or a-” 
 
 The sketch was a coffin ! 
 
 The meaning was apparent. 
 
 Snatching up the paper, Bertha Broguand instantly thrust 
 the end of it into the dame of the candle, but it was scarcely 
 
 ablaze when a low chuckle of fiendish exaltation issued from 
 
 the shrubbery, and the same instant a dark object fiew through 
 the air, striking the caudle and extinguishingit at once. 
 
 With a cry of horror she sprang back from the window, 
 and rushed across the parlor, expecting each instant to be 
 clutched by the one she most feared upon earth. 
 
 Not far aid she advance, however; for, with great force 
 she rushed against a heavy chair, and both she and it fell 
 upon the floor. The head of the terrified woman struck 
 heavily, and again she lay senseless, the blood flowing from 
 a bruise on her temple. 
 
 The next moment, a match was struck, and for a short 
 time the figure of Dolores — most hideous to contemplate — 
 bent over the prostrate woman, while sho dipped the tip of 
 her finger in the blood upon the carpet, and drew upon the 
 ghastly brow before her the same outline of a coffin which 
 had been upon the paper. 
 
 This done, she caught up a dagger from the mantel, and 
 with another hissing laugh hobbled from the room, across 
 the veranda, and disappeared in the darkness. 
 
 Bertha Broguand had but one servant, and sho had been 
 sent away that very day, in order that there might bo no 
 prying eyes or listening ears, which might gain a knowledge 
 of what she intended imnarting to Buckingham. 
 
 There, in the darkness, with the heavy chair partly upon 
 her, lay the woman who so recently was planning the most 
 diabolical scheme of vengeance. There, silent as death, 
 and with the insignia of death upon her brow, lay Bertha 
 Broguand; all thoughts of the revenge she had dreamed of 
 for long years vanished for the time from her mad brain. 
 
 Thus sho remained, until the night was far advanced. 
 When, finally, her consciousness slowly returned, sho was 
 in a most bewildered state, know ing not where she was, or 
 what had occurred. But as she struggled to a sitting 
 posture, she began to recall what had occurred, and a heavy 
 groan ourst from her lips; while, at the same time, she 
 
IN SUCH A QUESTIONABLE SHAPE. 
 
 51/ 
 
 pressed her hand to her head, and felt the bruise and the 
 dampness caused by the bleeding. 
 
 She became greatly agitated, and staggered to her feet. 
 
 The room was wrapped in Egyptian darkness, and so dark 
 was it without that she could barely distinguish th« 
 windows. 
 
 Conflicting emotions tortured her. 
 
 Her great fear was that Buckingham would return. 
 
 She also feared that Dolores might still be lurking some¬ 
 where near. 
 
 Her life-long plans were in jeopardy. 
 
 Should Dolores inform Buckingham that he was the son 
 of Robert Barnard, it would of course frustrate all her 
 schemes. Should she warn Barnard of what threatened him, 
 or betray the fact that the child he had reared as his son was 
 the offspring of a man he had slain in a personal encounter, 
 then all that had been hitherto accomplished would be as 
 naught. 
 
 To be thus balked of her revenge was, to Bertha Bro- 
 guand, ten times more bitter than death. 
 
 She could now see why Robert Barnard had fled, with his 
 wife and child, from New Orleans so many y T ears ago. 
 Dolores had undoubtedly warned him that he was in 
 danger. 
 
 And she might now, at any moment, if in want, betray 
 the secret which was hers. 
 
 Quite undreamed of had been the possibilities of the near 
 future, thus brought to t he mind of the guilty woman by the 
 appearance of Dolores. 
 
 She missed the dagger, and knew at once where it had 
 gone. The hag, then, had made no attempt upon her life. 
 
 But, might not Dolores Lave decided, upon viewing the 
 surroundings of the abode, and the furnishing of the dwell¬ 
 ing, that it would be useless to expect any considerable 
 reward, in consideration of her remaining silent. She 
 might, then, make advances to Robert Barnard. 
 
 Nothing was more likely than that she might at any 
 moment change her mind, and choose revenge in place of 
 gold; which revenge would at once be started by informing 
 Buckingham of his true parentage. 
 
 These thoughts and reasonings flashed through the brain 
 of Bertha Broguand, electric-like. Then she thought of 
 the trying position in which she would be placed should 
 Buckingham return. 
 
 The room was still in darkness, and she felt that it would 
 be imprudent to light a candle; as, if the young man should 
 arrive before she could remove the blood stains, she would 
 find it difficult to give a satisfactory explanation. 
 
m ^TTCH A QU &STJOHABLE SHAPE. 
 
 31 
 
 Just as this thought occurred to her, the clang of the 
 iron gate shot through her brain, and so shocked her that 
 she again sank to the floor; but, filled with terror at being 
 discovered in such a demoralized condition, she crawled 
 into the passage, and then up the stairway, groping in the 
 darkness, and trembling in every limb, for she realized the 
 great importance of even a moment’s time in this crisis of 
 affairs. 
 
 Before she reached the top of the stair-case, she heard 
 the well-known step of Buckingham on the veranda, and it 
 sounded strangely hollow and ominous to her. 
 
 Entering her chamber, she struck a match and lighted a 
 candle which stood upon her dressing-case. 
 
 As the flame lit up the darkness, she Could hardly sup¬ 
 press a shriek; for, instinctively,she gazed into her mirror, 
 and saw the outlines of a coffin, in blood, upon her fore¬ 
 head ! 
 
 At the same moment, the voice of Buckingham sounded 
 through the house: 
 
 u Mother, where are you ? What means this darkness 
 and silence ? ” 
 
 With a great effort, she answered : 
 
 “ 1 will he down in a moment, my son.” 
 
 Her voice was startling in her own ears, so unnatural did 
 it sound. 
 
 Then the very desperatenoss of the situation forced her 
 to become more calm. Hastily she washed off'the blood, 
 brushed her hair, and descended to the parlor. 
 
 A candle was burning. 
 
 Buckingham must have seen the confused state of things 
 which it revealed. 
 
 She began at once concocting a tale that would explain 
 it. Pressing her hand to her bruised forehead as she 
 entered, she gazed suspiciously around, exclaiming: 
 
 “ Thank heaven, Buckingham, you have returned! Have 
 you seen anyone in the grounds? 1 have been terribly 
 frightened, and have hurt myself.” 
 
 She walked up to the overturned chair. 
 
 The young man was staring at this and at her, alter¬ 
 nately, in some surprise. 
 
 But he 3oon spoke: 
 
 “ What is it, mother? What has occurred? No, T saw 
 nothing; indeed, it is too dark in the shrubbery to see a 
 white elephant.” 
 
 His gaze turned toward the open window. 
 
 There his eyes met the partly-burned paper. 
 
 He stepped toward it, while Mrs. Broguand. intent upon 
 her storv, did not observe it. 
 
32 
 
 IN SUCH A QUESTIONABLE SHAPE. 
 
 44 A vagabond tramp, ” she said, 44 frightened me nearly 
 out of my wits. He appeared at the open window, and as I 
 ran 1 fell over the chair and hurt my head. What is 
 that ? ” 
 
 This she said as the young man stooped and picked up 
 the paper. 
 
 Not until then did Mrs. Broguand think of the dread 
 warning m connection with what she had been fabrica¬ 
 ting. 
 
 Buckingham held the paper up in the light. 
 
 44 Gold or a coffin! What in the fiend’s name does that 
 mean ? ” 
 
 His mother rushed to his side. 
 
 44 How can I tell, Buckingham ? This tramp must have 
 Hung it here; but I was so frightened when I saw him that 
 I ran up-stairs and locked myself in my room.” 
 
 44 The whole house was dark when I came up.” 
 
 44 So it was. I was afraid to light a candle until I heard 
 your step.” 
 
 44 But, mother, this paper is partly burned, and I found 
 the candle upon the floor. What does it mean ? ” 
 
 44 I’m sure I can’t tell. The candle was on that shelf 
 when I left the parlor.” 
 
 44 Mother, are you sure, the intruder was a man ? ” 
 
 Bertha Broguand found it difficult to control herself. 
 
 44 Certainly,” she replied. 44 Why do you ask? ” 
 
 Her feelings were anything but enviable. Could Dolores 
 have seen Buckingham and betrayed all ? 
 
 44 The reason I ask, ” said the young man, 44 is that I saw, 
 a little while ago, a wretched-looking old woman, who was 
 muttering these same words as she passed me: 4 Gold or a 
 
 coffin ! ’ Are you sure it was a man you saw ? ” 
 
 44 Yes, certainly; yet it may have been that woman in 
 disguise. Oh, Buckingham, I believe some one must have 
 become possessed of our secret — some one must have over¬ 
 heard us! ” 
 
 44 But, even so, why should such a one wish harm to us? 
 There is something behind all this. You have an enemy, 
 mother. ” 
 
 44 Bnt that may not be meant for me.” 
 
 44 It is, beyond doubt, for one of us. ” 
 
 << The one who left it may have been mistaken in the house 
 and persons. ” 
 
 44 Possibly so,” was the reply. 
 
 Mrs. Broguand felt greatly relieved at this. 
 
 Again her son spoke: 
 
 44 Would you know that tramp again? ” 
 
 14 1 cannot say — I was so terrified.” 
 
LOOK ON THIS PICTURE AND ON THAT. 
 
 33 
 
 11 1 never before knew you to be so easily frightened, 
 mother.” 
 
 “ I am not so, usually, but T felt weak and ill after our 
 interview. But I am much better now, and I do not think 
 that paper, or the tramp either, worthy of consideration, 
 except in the way of hastening our plans. I cannot help 
 thinking that we may have been overheard by some prowler, 
 who now tries to extort money. ” 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 11 LOOK ON THIS PICTURE AND ON THAT.” 
 
 In one of the streets of the Crescent City, in which there 
 were no mercantile houses of trade, it being owned by 
 wealthy residents who had erected lordly mansions, reserv¬ 
 ing considerable space for gardens and lovely walks, dwelt 
 Robert Barnard—a man evidently as well-to-do as any of 
 his neighbors. 
 
 At the time our narrative opens he had been but a few 
 months in ?sew Orleans, having resided for a good many 
 years in a neighboring State, although born and reared in 
 the city in which we now find him. 
 
 His family consisted of a wife, son and daughter. 
 
 Mrs. Barnard was of creole parentage, and was still a 
 beautiful woman, although delicate in health. 
 
 The son, Benedict, was thin and dark, with black and 
 treacherous eyes and an irritable disposition, the exact oppo¬ 
 site of his sister, and in no way resembling either father or 
 mother in person or character. 
 
 The daughter, Bianca by name, was a lovely maiden of 
 some eighteen summers when we introduce her to the atten¬ 
 tion of tlie reader. 
 
 She was of medium height, with abundant tresses of 
 sunny hair, and a complexion that was rather strikingly 
 pale, yet with no indications of ill-health. Her eyes were 
 blue, exj rossive and poetical in their frankness, and with 
 long, curving lashes. Her brow indicated an intellect of a. 
 high order, and her movements were the very perfection of 
 grace. 
 
 In addition to all this, Bianca Barnard was accomplished 
 in every vvay, and as attractive in disposition as she was in 
 form and face. 
 
 Mrs. Barnard and her daughter were almost constantly 
 ill each other’s company, but of the son and brother they 
 saw but little. 
 
 Benedict Barnard was a dissipated young man, having 
 
34 
 
 LOOK ON THIS PICTURE ANL ON THAT 
 
 nothing in common with the other members of the family. 
 He was quite unsociable, and only at home among his disso¬ 
 lute companions. 
 
 Robert Barnard had more than once expended large 
 sums to pay the reckless gambling debts of the hopeful 
 Ben, who was conceded by all to be a tolerably “ hard sub¬ 
 ject. 99 
 
 It is, however, to the head of the family that we propose 
 to pay most attention, and of whom we would learn some¬ 
 thing bearing upon our story. 
 
 Oil the same evening on which Buckingham Broguand 
 was summoned from his city haunt by his mother, who had 
 that day received the first intelligence of the man she had 
 so long hated, and upon whom she had sworn to ring all 
 her powers of revenge, Robert Barnard sat in his horary, at 
 his home, examining papers and making calculations in 
 eonnection with stock investments. 
 
 He was a man of but forty-five years of age, yet he had 
 the appearance of being at least fifteen years older, his hair 
 being white, and his face wrinkled and haggard. His eyes, 
 also, were filled with a worried look, from which suspicion 
 and dread were not wanting. 
 
 Much of this hunted appearance, however, had become 
 imprinted upon his face that very day — indeed, within a 
 very short time — and had been occasioned by a slip of paper 
 which he now held in his hand, and which he had found 
 upon his desk. 
 
 Upon it was the outline of a coffin, and within this were 
 the words: 
 
 “ Revenge ! Blow Number Two will soon be struck. New 
 Orleans is no home for Robert Barnard until the grave holds 
 her he so fearfully wronged.” 
 
 There was no signature to this warning, but there was no 
 need of one. 
 
 Too well the man who held the paper in his trembling 
 hand knew, or thought he knew, who had traced it. As he 
 read the words he trembled violently, and became pale as 
 death. In a few minutes he seemed to have suffered the 
 agony of years. And no wonder. 
 
 He believed that the female fiend who had, long years 
 ago, sworn to be terribly avenged upon him, was capable of 
 the most awful crimes to satisfy that revenge. Of that, 
 indeed, he could have no doubt. 
 
 Once before he had been warned of this woman’s vengeful 
 intentions, and had lied from his native city to a distant 
 spot, there to live in hiding, for the sake of Ins loved wife 
 and child, whom he had never dared leave alone. He had 
 believed the woman who had imputed to him her terrible 
 
LOOK ON THIS PICTCRE AND ON THAT. 
 
 36 
 
 wrongs was dead, or he would not have returned ; but before 
 him, having been brought there in seme mysterious manner 
 — itself proof of the power and cunning of the avenger — 
 was the plain evidence that she still lived, and not only 
 that, but was so confident of having him in her power that 
 she had thus given him warning. 
 
 For some time Robert Barnard sat as if half-paralyzed. 
 
 For a while thus. Then he sprang to his feet, displaying 
 a wiry form nearly six feet in height, and, crumpling the 
 paper in his hand, ho strode up and down the apartment, 
 beating at times the air with his clinched lists, as if warding 
 off a blow. 
 
 Then he broke out in soliloquy, low but deep, yet with 
 words full of meaning, impressive, and expressive of the 
 emotions that ruled his brain and heart. 
 
 “By heavens! this is fearful—it is horrible! Shall I 
 never know peace and safety in connection with those I 
 love! Am I to be cursed forever for that one wrong act, 
 and that done in defense of my own life t I had no inten¬ 
 tion of killing Benton Broguand, but he would have slain 
 me had I not defended mvself. 
 
 V 
 
 “ He had no right to believe me the prime mover jin the 
 plot that disgraced him and Bertha. I was innocent of all 
 wrong. I was really ill that wretched evening, and on that 
 account asked Benton to take my place. 
 
 “ They believed themselves to be legally married until 
 the priest turned up and betrayed the fact that he had been 
 prevented from officiating at the ceremony — which was no 
 nuptial ceremony whatever—and, consequently, Benton 
 and Bertha were not man and wife. Then followed the 
 tragedies. 
 
 u Her father kill the sailor, whom he overheard betraying 
 his knowledge of the mock marriage to his companions. 
 He was arrested, and on his trial 1 had, of course, to dis¬ 
 close all that I knew. Previous to this, however, 1 had that 
 fatal encounter with Benton Broguand. 
 
 “ I regarded the poor fellow as my friend, and had offered 
 my hand, when lie struck me in the face. 1 did not then 
 know how matters really were. 1 had never loved Bertha, 
 and after her departure with Benton 1 became the husband 
 of the only woman I over cared for. 
 
 “ Wlien 1 was acquitted of the charge of murder — a num¬ 
 ber of witnesses coming forward voluntarily in my defense 
 —» learned that Bertha was very ill. On her recovery, 
 my marriage having taken place some time previously,' I 
 learned that she had sworn vengeance on me and mine. * As 
 soon, therefore, as a son had been bom to me, 1 secretly 
 
36 
 
 LOOK OX THIS PICTHE AND OX THAT. 
 
 left New Orleans with my wife and child. I feared not for 
 myself, but for them. 
 
 u Now that I have returned, believing that miserable 
 woman to be dead, I lind that she still lives, and is cogni¬ 
 zant of my movements. It is terrible! Rather than live 
 in constant fear and concern, in the long ago, we removed 
 far distant, where another babe was born to us; and now, 
 after a lapse of time, I return, hoping to live the remainder 
 of my days in my native city in peace, dreaming not that 
 my enemy still lives, and here I am confronted by another 
 fearful warning! 
 
 “ What can it mean ? 1 Blow Number Two will soon be 
 
 struck ! ’ In heaven’s name, when and bow was Blow Num¬ 
 ber One struck ? It was to avoid that I left the city. Thus 
 far, except from being forced to exile myself, I am not con¬ 
 scious that Bertha has in any way injured me. Yet she 
 seems to think she has. 
 
 “ My God ! It cannot he, surely it cannot be, although 
 the suspicion has more than once been forced upon me. I 
 cannot, will not believe it! ” 
 
 il I must banish such a thought or I will go mad. I must 
 'not dwell upon it for a moment, if I would retain my senses; 
 yet what other dreadful thing can 1 think of as probable 
 or possible? Alas, none-. Even when I have, without this 
 diabolical hint before me, allowed such a suspicion to creep 
 into my mind, it has almost driven me wild, and now, since 
 reading this, it comes upon me with the force of reality. 
 
 “ Could 1 bear such a blow, strong man though I am, and 
 retain my senses? Not if 1 knew that the other, my own 
 flesh and blood, lived —not if I believed that she-devil had 
 reared him that she might ruin him body and soul And 
 this I know she would do were it in her power. 
 
 u It is too terrible to think of. I’ll not hear it! I’ll 
 hunt her to earth, and know the truth! 
 
 11 It would be a relief to know that Ben is not my own 
 son; but to know that a stolen child of mine had been 
 reared in crime and dishonor — that would he too much 
 
 misery. I must fathom the whole matter, and at the same 
 time take care that no living soul, least of all, Benedict 
 himself, knows what I suspect. Ben ! When I look at him 
 sometimes, I can see the very expression I so well remember 
 iu Bertha’s eyes, and it has made me grow cold with positive 
 aversion. 
 
 The mere thought of such a thing has made me deathly 
 sick. How can I make sure of this ? I would give much 
 to know if old Dolores lives. She gave me much informa¬ 
 
 tion at one time, though, as 1 paid so well, she may have 
 manufactured some of it. But for her I should not have 
 
SUSPICIONS HAUNT THE GUILTY MIND. 
 
 37 
 
 known that Bertha had, by the strange chain of tragic and 
 disgraceful circumstances, become a veritable female fiend 
 — one who lived only to avenge her wrongs, and rear her 
 son to follow the same trail. Yes, and that revenge to be 
 hurled on me and mine ! 
 
 “ What shall I, what can I do to relieve this awful sus¬ 
 pense, to drive suspicion so dreadful from my poor tortured 
 brain ? I must think. 
 
 “ Oh, that I knew, beyond all doubt, that Ben is not my 
 own son ! But why do I long to have such terrible knowl¬ 
 edge? Poor, wayward fellow! Were I assured that he is 
 really mine, I would love him far more than I ever have 
 done ; I would notice less his wild ways and dishonorable 
 acts, hoping he would in time reform. 
 
 “ If he is not my son, where, oh, where is he ? Is there 
 no way out of this fearful agony of suspense no way in 
 which I can turn for light, through which 1 may protect 
 myself? ” 
 
 At this moment the door-bell was rung violently, and 
 then followed great confusion, in comparison with the quiet 
 that had previously reigned. 
 
 Robert Barnard rushed through the hall, and beheld his 
 wife being borne, in the arms of strangers, up the stairway, 
 she senseless, and apparently dead. 
 
 Bianca threw herself into her father’s arms, as he stood 
 pallid and paralyzed, and the tears coursed down her 
 checks as she cried out: 
 
 u Oh, papa! Do not look at me in that manner! Mamma 
 is not dead. We were thrown from the carriage. She is 
 injured, hurt seriously, but not killed.” 
 
 Little did Bianca Bernard know what a great load she 
 had lifted from her father’s heart, for at the first sight of 
 his senseless wife he had believed the threatened blow had 
 been struck by the avenging fiend — the blow which, he 
 had been warned, would soon fall — for the words upon that 
 terrible sheet of paper seemed formed in the air before him, 
 in letters of blood ! 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 “ SUSPICIONS HAUNT THE GUILTY MIND. ” 
 
 “ That is the most reasonable way to dispose of the mat¬ 
 ter for the present, mother; but I shall keep a look-out for 
 that old hag, and find out what her mutterings mean. But 
 I forget what caused me to return at this hour. Mrs. Bar 
 uard was thrown from her carriage this afternoon, and will 
 
38 
 
 SUSPICIONS HAUNT THE GUILTY MIND. 
 
 probably die of her injuries. As far as she is concerned; 
 ' you seem likely to be cheated of your revenge.” 
 
 At these words Mrs. Broguand became herself again. 
 Her whole being was excited to the extent of fury. 
 
 All concern in connection with the visit of Dolores was 
 banished for the time being. 
 
 Her sallow face became positively hideous, and her black 
 eyes flashed as she cried out, in her fury: 
 
 * u 1 tell you, I will not be cheated, even by death ! Return 
 quickly, Buckingham, and ascertain all you can in regard 
 to the accident. I shall not retire. I could not sleep if I 
 did. 
 
 “ This will drive me mad ! But I will not be cheated out 
 of one iota of the revenge 1 have for years gloated over. 
 It shall be mine yet! 
 
 “ If Robert Barnard’s wife dies, she dies with my taunt¬ 
 ing laugh in her ears — my dagger in her heart! ” 
 
 Bertha Broguand spoke the last words, striving at the 
 same time to clutch the weapon which she generally car¬ 
 ried, Its absence recalled Dolores. 
 
 Buckingham without hesitation stepped to the window, 
 saying: 
 
 “ I’ll return to town at once, as you suggest; but if I did 
 not hope to see again that old hag, and demand an explan¬ 
 ation of her words, I would not think there was sufficient 
 cause for another night trip. Mrs. Barnard is not likely to 
 die immediately, f fancy, and 1 do not see why you should 
 wish her to die by your hand. ” 
 
 “ Because it would torture him who has so tortured me,” 
 hissed the woman, who now began to regret her request,for 
 she feared the young man might meet Dolores. 
 
 Buckingham appeared strangely preoccupied. 
 
 It was evident that the revelations so recently made to 
 him had greatly changed him. But he had early been 
 taught the lesson of self-control, and the puzzling state of 
 things that met him on his return to his home had not 
 expressed itself to any extent upon his face. -.'v 
 
 Mrs. Broguand weli knew his peculiarity in this respect, 
 and was confident that he thought much more than he 
 expressed ; she was, therefore, anything but satisfied at his 
 having so quickly agreed that the warning note and the 
 interloper on the grounds were worthy of no further con¬ 
 sideration. In fact, his last assertion, as to the main object 
 of his return, gave the lie to his previous words and seem¬ 
 ing agreement with his mother’s theory and statements. 
 
 After Buckingham’s departure, Mrs. Broguand appeared 
 more like a maniac than a sane being; indeed, she was far 
 
SUSPICIONS HAUNT THE GUILTY MIND. 
 
 39 
 
 from being in control of her reason when thoughts of her 
 sworn revenge and past wrongs ruled her mind. 
 
 She felt positive that all her plans were now jeopardized ; 
 that, unless Dolores was at once removed, revenge would 
 never be hers. 
 
 She began at once to close and bar the windows and 
 secure the doors. Then she hastened to her chamber, and, 
 unlocking a chest, quickly assumed male attire. After apply¬ 
 ing some fluid to her face, and adjusting a false mustache 
 and goatee, she was transformed in such a manner that even 
 Buckingham would not have recognized her. 
 
 A black slouched hat, the crown of which concealed her 
 hair, which had been coiled around her head, completed her 
 disguise. 
 
 Taking a small revo^er and a dirk knife from the chest, 
 she ran down the stairs, after extinguishing the candles. In 
 five minutes more she was gliding last down the street which 
 led to the more frequented portion of the Crescent City. 
 
 Knowing the location of the home of Robert Barnard, she 
 went directly toward it, feeling confident that Buckingham 
 would be in that vicinity, with a view of gaining some infor¬ 
 mation in regard to the condition of Mrs. Barnard. 
 
 The Barnard mansion was in a section of the town which 
 was not much frequented at that hour. Consequently, 
 Bertha Broguand did not anticipate meeting with persons 
 who would be rude or inquisitive. 
 
 As she walked her brain was busy, while she noted every¬ 
 thing around her. 
 
 Suddenly she bethought herself that the sooner she struck 
 a blow in commencing her long-delayed vengeance the 
 better, for there seemed every probability that in much 
 which she had planned she would be defeated by Dolores. 
 The latter, she felt positive from the experience of the night, 
 was bent upon war against her, and war to the death. 
 
 This thought recalled the warning, together with the* 
 decision at whlclu'sho had arrived —that the old woman 
 would again visit her before acting against her, to ascertain 
 if sufficient gold to satisfy her would bo paid for her silence. 
 Dolores could not, especially by night, decide as to whether 
 a person living in the style in which she had found her would 
 he able to pay a large amount; besides, appearances were 
 sometimes deceptive. 
 
 She might, however, have learned all about her by previ¬ 
 ous secret espionage. 
 
 Bertha Broguand had not much of her own to give, but 
 why should she not have wealth f 
 
 Robert Barnard was living in grand style — was rich, 
 beyond a do"ht. 
 
40 
 
 SUSPICIONS HAUNT THE GUILTY MIND. 
 
 To deprive him of a portion of his gold would be not only 
 carrying out her oath of revenge, but would insure her safety 
 as far as Dolores was concerned, should she find it impos¬ 
 sible to remove the old hag. 
 
 Having been once her victim, Dolores would be sly and 
 cunning, and cautious in every movement that she made; 
 indeed, it would be no easy matter to put her out of the 
 wav. 
 
 After thus reasoning, Mrs. Broguand at once decided that, 
 if it were possible, she would relieve Kobert Barnard of his 
 gold, and with it bribe Dolores to secrecy. She might, 
 indeed, be able to secure her as an ally, by dividing with 
 her, liberally, the ill-gotten gains. 
 
 But this decision was much more gratifying in the pros¬ 
 pective than it was easy of accomplishment. 
 
 Should she attempt a robbery, she might be compelled to 
 murder her victim. 
 
 And Robert Barnard must live. He must live to suffer as 
 she had suff r« 1 — if such were possible — even to the extent 
 of being lelt a! ne in his misery; his wealth and loved ones 
 all gone, and that through the work of her whom he had, 
 long years ago, so terribly outraged in every conceivable 
 manner. 
 
 Every step that the disguised woman took toward the 
 dwelling that sheltered him who had been, as she thought, 
 her ruthless enemy, she became more and more eager to 
 strike a blow that would wring his heart. 
 
 Soon she stood beside the fence that inclosed the 
 mansion. 
 
 The dwelling stood back some twenty yards, and large 
 trees were in front and on each side. A veranda extended 
 on all sides, and to the roof, and over it vines grew in rank 
 luxuriance. Every feature of this the woman’s keen eyes 
 noted. 
 
 Not a human being was anywhere in sight. 
 
 One of the upper chambers was brightly lighted, the win¬ 
 dows of which came down to the veranda roof, which was 
 nearly fiat. 
 
 Without doubt this was the apartment in which Mrs. 
 Barnard lay. 
 
 Probably there were nurses in attendance. 
 
 If she w as in a dangerous coudition, all the family would 
 be with her. This would favor any attempt at robbery m 
 other portions of the house. 
 
 Bertha’s plans were quickly formed, and as quickly put 
 in operation. 
 
 Disguised as she was, she stole inside the gate, and crawled 
 
SUSPICIONS HAUNT THE GUILTY MINI). 
 
 41 
 
 through the shrubbery to the veranda, on the side of the 
 dwelling that was least exposed to view from the street. 
 
 In live minutes more she was upon the roof of the veranda, 
 having caused no alarm. 
 
 She then noticed to her great joy, that the windows were 
 all open, for the night was sultry. 
 
 Entering one, which proved to he that of the sanctum of 
 Robert Barnard, with a reckless regard for her safety, she 
 ignited a gas jet, allowing, however, but a faint light, merely 
 sufficient to serve her purpose. She had reasoned that the 
 accident to his wife would, in all probability, have taken 
 Barnard to her in haste, and not only so, but without a 
 thought in regard to the way in which he left his papers. 
 
 Almost the first thing that met Bertha Broguaud’s view 
 was an iron safe, the door of which was slightly ajar, and a 
 bunch of keys hung from the one in the lock. 
 
 Well she knew that she was liable to be shot upon discov¬ 
 ery; and to insure herself time to escape from the open 
 window, she turned the key in the lock of the door which 
 led from that room into the upper hall of the house. 
 
 First, however, she gazed out into and down this corridor 
 toward the room in which she felt positive the injured 
 woman wa3, and the subdued voices she heard from those 
 who, with light steps, passed in and out the apartment in 
 question, proved that she was right in her conjecture. 
 
 The hall was lighted in the vicinity of the front room; 
 but where the intruder was darkness reigned. 
 
 After this hurried inspection, Mrs. Broguand locked her¬ 
 self in the library, turned the gas on stronger, and then 
 darted, with eyes glittering*vengefully to the safe. 
 
 She swung open the door. 
 
 Drawer after drawer she drew open, disclosing valuable 
 jewels, gold, bundles of bank-bills, with Government, rail¬ 
 way and mining bonds. 
 
 A fortune was before her eyes, but the value of the same 
 was far below the estimate the depriving Robert Barnard of 
 the same would afford the vindictive woman who stood gaz¬ 
 ing at the wealth displayed before her. 
 
 There was no time to lose, however. 
 
 Quickly she clutched a strong table cover that was near 
 her, and into it placed the valuables with all the expedition 
 in her power. Then, leaving the safe door and drawers as 
 she found them, she unlocked the door of the library, gath¬ 
 ered the conn rs and the outer edges of the cloth together, 
 and clutching her booty closely, turned off the gas, and stole 
 out through the window upon the veranda roof. 
 
 Notwithstanding the extreme peril in which she stood, 
 the revenge-maddened woman resolved to leave behind her 
 
42 
 
 STRONG AS PROOF FROM HOLT WRIT. 
 
 evidence that would give Robert Barnard the knowledge 
 that she still lived and had not forgotten her oath. Going 
 to his desk she wrote on a sheet of paper that lay before 
 her: . 
 
 “ Revenge is sweet. Benton Broguand rests easier in his 
 grave after this night’s work. Bertha, the Merciless. ” 
 
 The next moment she was out and away. 
 
 Little did she think that Dolores had been there before 
 her, and after telling the fortunes of the servants had suc¬ 
 ceeded in leaving her warning for the master of the 
 mansion. 
 
 Had Bertha Broguand known of this she would have been 
 positive that the old hag would ruin all her chances for 
 revenge, for the wealth of Robert Barnard was so great, as 
 betrayed by his surroundings and style of living, that Dol¬ 
 ores would be sure of a rich reward for any service she might 
 render. 
 
 The visit of Dolores to the home of Mrs. Broguand, and 
 the warnings given to her, indicated that the old nurse 
 knew well the whereabouts of Robert Barnard. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 “STRONG AS PROOF FROM HOLY WRIT.” 
 
 Buckingham Broguand, when he left his home for the 
 second time that night, had not the slightest intention of 
 visiting that of Robert Barnard. 
 
 Circumstances had made this young man what we see 
 him. 
 
 The manner of his mother’s treatment of him, together 
 with the suspicions, which had become facts since her con¬ 
 fession, had caused him to become reckless and somewhat 
 dissipated. 
 
 Naturally of a fine mental organization, and with a love 
 for all that was pure and beautiful, he had been led to stifle 
 his better nature through the demoralizing influences that 
 surrounded him. 
 
 He had no proud family name to boast of. 
 
 Had this been so, with the means he had ever at command 
 — for he was a lucky gambler — he could have mingled in 
 the highest circles ; but the mere suspicion that there was a 
 shadow upon his birth had caused him to hold himself aloof 
 from the society he craved. 
 
 He had lived in constant dread that inquiries might be 
 made as to his people and family. Why he had become 
 more intimate with Benedict Barnard than with others he 
 
STRONG AS PROOF FROM HOLY WRIT. 
 
 43 
 
 could not, for the life of him, have told; but such was the 
 case. So it happened that after attending a ball, at the 
 solicitation of the latter, at which he was introduced by him 
 to his sister, Buckingham felt that he had been ruled by 
 some unaccountable inlluence to feel more friendly toward 
 his rather reckless companion — an inlluence of the fates 
 which destined him to meet Bianca Barnard. 
 
 It had been to him a source of no little wonder to perceive 
 the vast difference in appearance, temperament and char¬ 
 acter between the brother and sister, and he began to detest 
 Ben for being so low and dissipated, with so much to have 
 made him otherwise. 
 
 Buckingham Broguand felt that were he to bo in the com¬ 
 pany of Bianca Barnard but a short time she x old become 
 more than all the world to him. He felt that la could wor¬ 
 ship the very ground upon which she trod. But the bare 
 thought of one such as he knew himself to be, associating 
 with one so pure and good, was almost maddening. 
 
 He had, the first time after leaving home after hearing 
 the secret of his birth, passed down the street like one who 
 walked in his sleep; his brain benumbed by the shameful 
 truths, which up to that time had been suspicions merely, 
 though torturing ones. He had visited some of his usual 
 haunts, found Ben Barnard in one intoxicated, and left him 
 in disgust; and, on his way back, having learned of the 
 accident to Mrs. Barnard, had passed tho muttering Do¬ 
 lores. 
 
 Notwithstanding all that Mrs. Broguand had revealed ov 
 her past life, a suspicion that had haunted him many a time 
 previous wouid now and then arise — namely, that this 
 woman, so cold and strange and unsympathetic, could not, 
 after all, be his mother; but if not, he certainly was without 
 the power of proving himself the son of any one else. If she 
 had stolen him from his parents, and reared him in the way 
 she had done, for some base ends of her own, Buckingham 
 felt that he could strangle her with his own hands, and laugh 
 at her dying struggles. 
 
 Her manner, actions and words at times were of such a 
 character as to make it seem absurd that she could be bus 
 mother. 
 
 Doubts would constantly arise, but, however it might be, 
 his only course was to be directed by her, to enter with her 
 into her plans for revenge upon Robert Barnard. As this 
 occurred to him, he suddenly caught at the hope that 
 through this man Barnard he might perhaps ascertain some¬ 
 thing as to his own birth and history. But this seemed 
 doubtful. 
 
 At any rate, he had no other course to pursue than to join 
 
44 
 
 STRONG AS PROOF FROM HOLY WRIT. 
 
 in the scheme laid out by the woman who declared, as she 
 had always claimed, that she was his mother. 
 
 Why had she considered it necessary to declare so solemnly 
 that he was her son f 
 
 There had been no occasion for this, as he had not mani¬ 
 fested any doubts whatever during her recital of her life 
 history. This, in itself, was suspicious — more than sus¬ 
 picious. 
 
 And, what a fiendish revenge she had planned! 
 
 He was to woo and win the hand of the most angelic 
 maiden he had ever beheld; and, when married to her, she 
 was to be told that her husband was base- born, and the 
 grandson of an executed criminal! 
 
 It was horrible, but he knew that she was capable of car¬ 
 rying out all that she had sworn, and he must keep his part 
 of the compact. This he must do, for the very lives of the 
 Barnard family depended upon his agreeing and working 
 with Mrs. Broguand. 
 
 He would not, however, in spite of all that she had told 
 him, think of her as his mother. 
 
 And yet Buckingham knew that, when in her presence, 
 she held a strong and unaccountable influence over him, 
 gjjmd that he could not combat the iron will that had gov¬ 
 erned him tl 'ough life. With all that, he felt that she was 
 to be greatly pitied, even though she might have magnified 
 her wrongs. 
 
 All that she had asserted in regard to Robert Barnard had 
 yet to be pro ved, and to the young man it was evident that, 
 in the fatal street encounter, Barnard had acted in self- 
 defense. li e would give worlds, did lie possess them, to be 
 able to confront that man, and ask of him an explanation of 
 all these matters. But this ne dared not do. 
 
 Buckingham Broguand was in a most demoralized state 
 of mind. His main object now, in returning to the more 
 frequented portion of the city, was to seek out the old hag 
 who had passed him, muttering, u Gold or a coffin. ” 
 
 The explanation given by Mrs. Broguand did not satisfy 
 him. 
 
 She was not the kind of woman to faint away, or run and 
 fall over a chair. 
 
 Besides, so always went armed, and a tramp would not 
 have left sue: a paper unless lie held some secret, or was 
 agent for so; v one who did. And Buckingham did not be¬ 
 lieve it wa a man, as his mother had asserted, but felt 
 sure- -indeed, he had no doubt —that the wretched-look¬ 
 ing old woman who had passed him was the very identical 
 person who had visited his house, and left the combined 
 warning and threat. 
 
STRONG AS PROOF FROM HOLY WRIT. 
 
 45 
 
 It was she, then, who had frightened Mrs. Broguand. 
 
 But why ? 
 
 She must hold some power over her, for Bertha Broguand 
 was not easily alarmed. 
 
 In the meantime, how was he to act ? 
 
 Would it be right for him to press his company upon 
 Bianca Barnard, situated as he was f Certainly it would 
 not be honorable; but, could he avoid doing sof If he 
 refused, then Mrs. Broguand would probably change her 
 plans; she might even — he felt she would not hesitate for 
 a moment — assassinate that lovely girl! 
 
 Clearly there was nothing for him but to agree to this 
 woman’s demands for the present, and something might, ore 
 long, turn up in his favor. 
 
 Then he recalled the fact that when ho had been nearly 
 crazed with thoughts of what had been told him of his birth 
 and history, he had gone out listlessly, and meeting young 
 Barnard in one of his pet resorts, he had, finding that the 
 hopeful scion of his enemy’s house was intoxicated, tried to 
 induce him to return home with him. Ben had been insult¬ 
 ing and combative, and Buckingham had left him with a 
 contemptuous remark, as he bantered him to fight. 
 
 As he now thought of this encounter, Buckingham 
 thought how humiliating it would bo to the miserable young 
 man’s family should he return to his home in that condition, 
 especially as his mother now lay between life and death. In 
 the midst of alibis mental worry, he could not avoid think¬ 
 ing of this. 
 
 So deep in the thought was ho that he knew not where 
 ho was going, and cared but little could ho but get a sight 
 of the old hag in whom he had so deep an interest. Yet, it 
 appeared absurd to search for her. 
 
 Just as unreasonable would it have looked to Bucking¬ 
 ham to*search for Ben Barnard. Indeed he had not the 
 slightest idea that ho would see either of the two. Put 
 action was a necessity to him. lie felt that he would have 
 stifled had he remained a minute longer under the same 
 roof with Mrs. Broguand. 
 
 Let her bo his mother or not, her house would no longer 
 seem as home to him. 
 
 His meditations w T ere suddenly interrupted by a cry of 
 mingled terror and pain in front of him. Looking up, to 
 his intense amazement, he beheld the very old crone ho so 
 much desired to meet; but she was in conflict with a man, 
 and our young friend gazed spell-bound, as he saw the flash 
 of steel, and then the woman’s antagonist fell to the earth. 
 Bpringing nimbly over the nearest fence, she darted among 
 the shrubbery in a private park; but, from her lips, as sho 
 
46 
 
 STRONG AS PROOF FROM HOLT WRIT. 
 
 ran, came the words: “ Revenge or gold! Death or 
 gold! ” 
 
 " Buckingham Broguand rushed to the side of the fallen 
 man. But the cry of the old hag had been heard by two 
 policemen, and soon their lanterns flashed over the pros¬ 
 trate man, and the one who knelt beside him. 
 
 Not until that moment did the latter recognize the victim 
 of the old woman. 
 
 It was Benedict Barnard! 
 
 Then Buckingham realized that he was in a suspicious 
 position. 
 
 “ Snap the nippers onto him, Jim ! We got him foul by - 
 our double quick. 7 ’ 
 
 “ You’re mighty right, Bill.” said the other, as he 
 clutched Buckingham. 
 
 “ Gentlemen,” said the latter, “ you have made a mis¬ 
 take. This man was assaulted by an old woman. She 
 sprang over that fence before I could intercept her, and 
 escaped. ” 
 
 “ That’s too thin, my cove! Why didn’t you say it was a 
 man ? That would look more reasonable. ” 
 
 Both officers were now examining the wounded man, 
 whose swarthy face was now ghastly. 
 
 “ What’s your'name, and how do you account for being 
 here at this hour % You needn’t answer if you don’t wish 
 to. ” 
 
 “ My name is Broguand, and I know this man. He is my 
 friend, Benedict Barnard. His father is Robert Barn¬ 
 ard.” 
 
 “ Just so. I see your name is engraved on this dagger. 
 We hold you for murder! ” 
 
 Buckingham could say nothing. 
 
 The officer held up the weapon. 
 
 Buckingham saw it plainly. 
 
 It was Mrs. Broguand’s! 
 
 Nc longer had he a doubt as to who was his mother’s 
 unwelcome visitor. But what could have been her 
 object? 
 
 Words cannot express the agony the young man suf¬ 
 fered. 
 
 Ho mentally cursed himself for not having sped on after 
 the hag. 
 
 That she knew him, and his history, he felt sure. 
 
 That she entertained hatred and the most vengeful feel¬ 
 ings toward both the Barnard and Broguand families was 
 also plain; for she had stabbed a member of one, leaving 
 the weapon ol one of the other to fix the crime upon him. 
 
 Buckingham Broguand would have given years of bis life 
 
FOR THIS RELIEF, MUCH THANKS ! 
 
 47 
 
 cohave been free; but he was fast ironed, and with very 
 oossibly the charge of murder hanging over him. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 li FOR THIS RELIEF, MUCn THANKS! ” 
 
 Buckingham Broguaxd had now lost his liberty. It 
 was out of his power, now, to seek and gain the intelligence 
 he had so longed to know. The hag of whom he had been 
 in search was a murderess; and she would not have run 
 such fearful risks to assassinate Benedict Barnard had she 
 not entertained the most murderous hatred toward him. 
 
 The young man recalled, too, the fact that some of the 
 associates of himself and Ben had witnessed their quarrel 
 earlier in the evening, w T hen he had tried to induce his 
 inebriated friend to return home, or go to an hotel and sleep 
 off his intoxication. This would be considered a strong 
 evidence against him, for they had left the drinking saloon 
 together, and, indeed, coupled with the discovery of the 
 dagger, it would leave little chance for his escape. 
 
 Buckingham had been desperate, and his mind upset by 
 all that he had heard, or he would not have quarreled with 
 Benedict. 
 
 Everything had gone wrong with him. 
 
 His cause w ith Bianca Barnard had been ruined. 
 
 But what mattered that, as ho was now, beyond doubt, if 
 Ben should die, doomed to an ignominious death —the death 
 of the criminal wdio, Mrs. Broguand had asserted, was his 
 grandfather. 
 
 Upon reflection, he began to believe that he must in reality 
 be the son of Bertha Broguand. Her narrative of the awful 
 mistakes that had ruined her life seemed*to be repeating 
 itself in him. 
 
 He stood erect, rigid, and speechless after his explanation 
 had been ridiculed. 
 
 He did not seem to feel the slightest grief or horror in 
 connection with the ghastly form and face of his associate 
 and friend. 
 
 This state of mind surprised him. 
 
 The police once more examined the body. 
 
 I don’t believe he’s dead, ” said one. “ He’s a subject 
 to call for attention at the hospital.” 
 
 u Better take him there,” agreed the other, “ for, if he’s 
 Robert Barnard’s son, his mother wais injured only a few 
 hours ago by being thrown from her carriage. It would 
 A Woman's Revenge 4k 
 
48 
 
 FOR THIS RELIEF, MUCH THANKS! 
 
 hardly do to take him home. The hospital is decidedly the 
 
 better place. ^ 
 
 a x’ll stay here, Jim, while you take the prisoner to the 
 
 station and send an ambulance. Best signal one of the 
 boys.” 
 
 “ All right! ” 
 
 He blew a peculiar whistle. 
 
 Then Buckingham was clutched roughly by the arm. 
 
 “ Come on, my cove,” commanded the policeman; “ this 
 has been an unlucky night for both you and the fellow who 
 lies there.” 
 
 The young man made no response, but walked along 
 mechanically. 
 
 It had been a terrible night for him. 
 
 Unlucky was not the word. 
 
 It was simply awful to think of. 
 
 It seemed a mercy that his brain was in such a benumbed 
 condition that he was prevented, for the time, from suffer¬ 
 ing the excruciating agony and despair which must other¬ 
 wise have been his. 
 
 He paid no attention to the police whom they met, and 
 with whom his captor conversed, directing them to the 
 scene of the murder, but he gazed fixedly ahead, his face 
 more pallid than ever. 
 
 Even the officers were forced to shudder, so wild and 
 unnatural was his appearance, though it seemed natural 
 enough in a detected assassin. 
 
 Thus on they passed through the streets he had so often 
 passed, his conductor making a short cut through a some¬ 
 what gloomy alley. When about half through this filthy 
 passage, they were brought to a halt by a voice, cracked 
 and harsh, and which instantly caused the brain of Bucking¬ 
 ham Broguand to become clear. It aroused him at once, 
 for he knew it was that of the old hag to whom he owed his 
 present dread position. 
 
 But before he could so much as speak, or clutch with his 
 manacled hands the confronting figure, hardly recognizable 
 e /en m outline in the darkness, a dull thud sounded in his 
 eai the sound of a heavy blow—and, with a groan, the 
 policeman fell upon the filthy pave of the dark allev. 
 
 Buckingham was filled with horror. 
 
 Then came a twitching at his irons, while cold, talon-like 
 lingers encircled his wrists, and the handcuffs dropned 'with 
 a clang upon the pave. 
 
 ^ un > Benedict Barnard! Death by the rope is not for 
 l&to aiU * carLI10 ^ sacrifice myself. Fly, before it is too 
 
FOR THIS RELIEF, MUCH THANKS ! 
 
 49 
 
 “ Ha! ha! ha! T am on the trail. Gold will not satisfy me 
 now. I have chosen death ! ” 
 
 These words were spoken in that same cracked voice 
 which he had heard twice before. Then all was silence. 
 
 There had been a scuffling of the hag’s feet, but he could 
 not for the life of him tell which way she had gone. 
 
 He was now free, but in the alley, and with the senseless 
 policeman at his feet. 
 
 He must tly. 
 
 It was the only way to save himself from, it might be, an 
 ignominious death — fearful punishment for a crime of which 
 he was innocent. 
 
 More than previously he was now’ convinced that this 
 strange old female knew 7 the history of his life. But then, 
 she< had called him bv the name of the man she had 
 stabbed. 
 
 If he now gave himself up, there would be but little hope 
 for him. Escape he must, and then, if possible, solve the 
 mystery as to his origin. But, even then there would be 
 henceforth an insuperable barrier between him and Bianca 
 Barnard. 
 
 Was escape possible ? 
 
 Suddenly it occurred to Buckingham that he might dis¬ 
 guise himself with the coat and cap of the policeman, who 
 was a much larger man than himself. 
 
 He could put the coat on over his own. 
 
 The situation was one that called for immediate action, 
 and the metamorphosis was quickly made, while ho thrust 
 his own slouched hat into his pocket. 
 
 Placing his hand on the left side of the senseless police¬ 
 man, Buckingham assured himself that he was not dead. 
 He then glided up the dark alley, returning on the track 
 himself and captor had a short time previously traveled. 
 
 Choosing a street that ran parallel with that which the 
 police would naturally follow to and from the scene of the 
 attack, the young man strode rapidly along, crossing the 
 street from side to side, to avoid the gaslights. Only a few 
 scattering pedestrians were to be seen. 
 
 Then occurred to Buckingham the manner of the old 
 woman’s escape from him, by scaling the fence into a pri¬ 
 vate park. 
 
 An almost uncontrollable influence seemed to urge him to 
 seek that spot, and steal to the near vicinity of the scene of 
 the stabbing. He felt positive that a number of policemen 
 and citizens would be there, even had the body of Ben 
 Barnard been removed. 
 
 His mind had been in a wild whirl of excitement since 
 that strange voice had struck his ears in the gloom of the 
 
50 FOR THIS RELIEF; MUCH TKA2LL~ l 
 
 valley, and as he had proceeded it because more and more 
 deeply wrapped in speculations upon the strange and start¬ 
 ling occurrences of the night. To such an extent was this 
 the case that he did not notice the surroundings, or realize 
 that he was in the near neighborhood of the mansion ol 
 Robert Barnard. 
 
 Consequently, another surprise awaited him. 
 
 He would have previously turned, and crossed the street 
 to gain the rear of the park he had been seeking, but he 
 had been lost in thought. So it was that he soon found 
 himself at the entrance gate of the Barnard grounds. 
 
 The front door of the dwelling was open, and the hall 
 light cast its rays afar, sufficient to show the glittering but¬ 
 tons on the coat which he had assumed as a disguise. 
 
 The instant Buckingham reached the gate it flew open, 
 and Robert Barnard himself rushed out, bareheaded and 
 full of excitement, clutching the supposed policeman by the 
 arm and dragging him up toward the veranda. 
 
 This act so startled Buckingham that he was helpless as 
 a child. 
 
 IIis brain had been so overtaxed during the night that it 
 was little wonder he was appalled when thus seized by the 
 father of the man whom he was charged with slaying — the 
 father of the maiden whom he cherished in his heart as the 
 
 best and purest of created beings. 
 
 u Search my house at once ! 77 ordered Mr. Barnard, in a 
 husky voice, and in the greatest excitement. “ I have been 
 robbed — I am ruined! 77 
 Evidently he thought him a policeman. 
 
 The-young man had naturally, although it was absurd, 
 believed that Robert Barnard had received information in 
 regard to his son’s mishap, and had recognized him as the 
 author ot it. Hence his relief may be imagined. 
 
 He recovered himself on the instant. 
 
 , He must escape, and at once, or he was a lost man, for 
 »ie, lelt that he could not keep up the character he had 
 assumed. 
 
 He struggled to tree himself from the grasp of Robert 
 Barnard, and his cap fell off. 
 
 T be o Ul1 °i the hall lamp fell upon his face, 
 h Barnard gazed at him in amazement. 
 
 Hi, ,?. r tl i ] 11<)l , 11011 1 gasped for breath ; his clutch upon 
 
 f S arm 10 ^ ax ed, and then, with aloud cry, he 
 
 Riw-Hn' -1 T v) \ l I 110 ver anda, as if stricken with death. 
 Buckingham stood, frozen to the spot. 
 
 h J,r! Iht I ang ? r bis Potion was forced upon him. He 
 
 he snrnnir °! i )ors< > uy approaching from within, and 
 ' 10 ^ a te, but only to be confronted by a police- 
 
THE TIMES AKE OUT OF JOINT. 
 
 man — one doubtless sent to inform the father of wha\ had 
 befallen his son. 
 
 There was no time for hesitation. 
 
 An instant might confine him to a felon’s cell, and the 
 young man dashed madly forward, striking the officer a ter¬ 
 rible blow between the eyes before he could comprehend 
 the scene before him. lie, no doubt, believed it to be a 
 fellow-policemen rushing for assistance, and somewhat 
 demoralized by having been in conflict with criminals, for it 
 seemed probable that the man whose shriek he had heard 
 had been killed. 
 
 The officer fell as if a bullet had pierced his brain, and 
 Buckingham, springing over his body, rushed across the 
 street as if the fiends were after him. 
 
 There was no place in the vicinity that promised a hiding 
 place, except the park he proposed to visit, and straight 
 toward it he ran at headlong speed, bounding over the pal¬ 
 ings, and in among the dense shades, his very brain seem¬ 
 ing to be on fire. 
 
 He was incapable of reasoning, and strove not to think of 
 The last startling occurrence. 
 
 Soon he reached the opposite side of the park, and peered 
 out toward the street. 
 
 He could scarce repress an outcry of astonishment. A 
 crowd of citizens and some police were at the spot where 
 Benedict Barnard had been stricken down. 
 
 Some of the.se had lanterns. 
 
 The body of the young man had been removed. 
 
 There was a confused murmur of many voices. 
 
 But it was not this that caused the emotion of Bucking¬ 
 ham Broguand. 
 
 What, then, was it? 
 
 Nothing more nor less than the self-same hag hobbling 
 about, supporting herself by a large cane, and Buckingham 
 could see that her lips moved. 
 
 He even imagined that he could hear the woids, as before, 
 u Gold or death ! Gold or a Collin r ” 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 (i THE TIMES ARE OUT OF JOINT.” 
 
 Robert Barnard had been terribly shocked when his 
 wife was brought home after her accident. 
 
 The injured lady was at once placed upon her bed, and 
 medical aid summoned, the husband and daughter mean¬ 
 while suffering great anxiety, which the latter strove, on her 
 
62 
 
 THE TIMES AKE OUT OF JOINT# 
 
 father’s account, to repress. They were greatly relieved 
 when the surgeon declared her to be in no danger; but that, 
 if kept quiet, 'Mrs. Barnard would, in a week’s time, be as 
 well as ever. 
 
 There were no bones broken ; so, a quieting potion having 
 been administered, after the sufferer had regained conscious¬ 
 ness she soon sank to sleep, and all was still in her apart¬ 
 ment 
 
 After the departure of the medical men, Mr. Barnard and 
 Bianca both decided to remain with their patient, and not 
 leave her to the care of a domestic; so, hand in hand, they 
 sat near the bedside, watching the slumbers of their loved 
 one, and whispering softly the while. 
 
 There was little stir about the mansion, as the servants 
 endeavored to make as little noise as possible; but, so 
 engrossed were the father and daughter with each other — 
 Bianca relating every incident connected with their drive 
 and the accident—that any slight movement made by the 
 disguised Mrs. Broguand in her burglarious entry into the 
 dwelling and the robbery of the safe was not noticed by 
 either of them. 
 
 Both Mr. Barnard and Bianca were anxious and appre¬ 
 hensive, expecting at any moment the return of Benedict, 
 who might be boisterously intoxicated, or, at all events, so 
 much under the influence of liquor as to fall down stairs 
 after having succeeded in reaching the landing. This might 
 startle and arouse his mother, and be of great injury to 
 her. • 
 
 But the young man came not. 
 
 They little dreamed that he lay as one dead, but two 
 •docks distant, with a dagger wound in his breast; and on 
 that dagger w r as engraved the name, u Broguand. 99 
 lhat name would have awakened memories most strange, 
 and caused apprehension most torturing in the father’s mind, 
 as w ell as emotions in the breast of the daughter which 
 u ere strange and unaccountable, even when in no wav con¬ 
 nected with the crime mentioned. 
 
 For some reason neither Benedict nor his sister had men- 
 lonecl Buckingham Broguand’s name in the presence of 
 mu iather, although, perhaps, neither of them was aware 
 that they had never done so. 
 
 1 ime passed in that quiet chamber until Mr. Barnard 
 morecomposed, when he recalled, the fact that he 
 • 1 1 lbrai T abruptly, without even locking his safe. 
 Rnnptnm ln f ^ 1S } nt,en ti° ns to his daughter, he left for his 
 
 r'tnrtn.frVmf * ab secure > but without for an instant 
 A&hacn anything could possibly have been disturbed. 
 As he entered he struck a match and lit the gas. 
 
THE TIMES AEE OUT OF JOINT. $3 
 
 t 
 
 Almost ino first thing that met his eye was the paper 
 upon which Bertha Broguand had written. 
 
 With trembling hand Robert Barnard grasped the sheet, 
 and his eyes started from their sockets as he scanned the 
 words upon it. 
 
 It will be recalled by the reader that this was not his first 
 communication of the kind. Dolores had left a warning on 
 his desk previous to the visit of Mrs. Broguand, evidently 
 with the intention of demanding gold of him in return for 
 her acting against nis much-feared foe in her projected 
 revenge. This he would not be likely to give, unless he was 
 sure that Bertha still lived and intended persecuting 
 him. 
 
 But, so shocked had he been by the arrival of his wife in 
 the condition described, that the paper left by Dolores, 
 which he believed to have come from his old enemy, had 
 been forgotten until now. The one that lay before him 
 Robert Barnard thought to be the same, until he hastily felt 
 in an inner pocket of his dressing-gown and found it. 
 
 He was far more dumbfounded now than he had pre¬ 
 viously been, for he at once detected, upon comparing the 
 two, that they had been written by different persons. What 
 Bertha Broguand meant by the last words she had penned 
 he could not imagine. 
 
 It was tolerably certain that she had not been the cause 
 of the accident Mrs Barnard had met with; yet he was 
 unable to think of anything else ot any moment that had hap¬ 
 pened to him and his. He was not only m a quandary, but 
 was now doubly alarmed. Two bitter enemies had, it 
 would seem, been within his home, and that without their 
 presence being detected. 
 
 Who the first one was he could not tell, but there was no 
 mystery in the case of the second, and her merciless and 
 vengeful character. 
 
 But what was it that she had accomplished in the way of 
 revenge ? 
 
 Then, for the first time, he perceived that the window 
 was open. It had been an easy matter, therefore, to gain 
 an entrance from the veranda roof, and not difficult, either, 
 to climb from the ground to that point. 
 
 Well, he would see that the windows were kept closed and 
 fastened hereafter. 
 
 But Robert Barnard was soon to learn that it was too late 
 to lock the stable door after the steed had been stolen. 
 
 He crumpled the two papers savagely, one in either hand, 
 cast them upon the floor and trampled them Then he 
 took them up once more, this time thrusting them into his 
 pocket. 
 
54 
 
 THE TIMES ARE OUT OF JOINT. 
 
 It was only then that his eyes fell on the keys in the door 
 of the safe, and he staggered backward as pale as a corpse. 
 Then, with desperate haste, he jerked open the safe door* 
 and frantically, one after another, the drawers that had 
 contained his money and valuables. 
 
 All were empty! 
 
 His breath nearly left him. He sank upon his knees in 
 very weakness, the tears rolling down his cheeks as he 
 strove to cry out. The words came in a gasping whisper, 
 
 “Gone! All gone! We are beggars now — I and my 
 children. My curse be upon her who has made my life mis¬ 
 erable for so long, and by this act has beggared me ! ” 
 
 Robert Barnard suffered agonies of mind in the next few 
 moments, such as would have driven many insane. Then 
 he became furious, sprang to his feet, and stood trembling 
 in the intensity of his emotions. 
 
 V 
 
 An hour previous he had been wealthy. 
 
 Now he was almost a pauper. 
 
 He cared but little for himself. He thought but of his 
 wife and children. 
 
 He dared not return to the bedside of his wife and meet 
 Bianca. 
 
 Death, but for them, would be welcome ! 
 
 But suddenly he changed. 
 
 He braced himself, and swore that he would not be thus 
 ruined. 
 
 He would put detectives on the trail of Bertha Broguand— 
 she should not triumph. 
 
 They must hunt her down. 
 
 He would cause her arrest at once. 
 
 With this object in view, Mr. Barnard rushed to the outer 
 door. . He even forgot his sleeping wife, and the necessity 
 ot maintaining quiet on her account. 
 
 A policeman chanced to be passing, and he sprang and 
 caught him by the arm, dragging him to the veranda. The 
 01 JSniggled to release himself, and in so doing his cap 
 tell on. Robert Barnard was indignant. 
 
 W hy should this officer manifest such aversion to entering 
 the house f & 
 
 rmV 0 neare ‘ to the light, and thus, for the first 
 
 time, had a look at the man’s face. 
 
 Robert Barnard shuddered from head to foot, 
 
 ™ment there came a piercing cry, and he fell 
 
 ieff him l ! P T l l° or c ! f the porch. There the policeman 
 reach l L an( lj lu frantically to the gate, felling, as he 
 A sinl !’ ,‘ U W ° fflce 1 r "1 th a ten ' mc Wow of his fist, 
 in the darkness. be ' ^ l>elllud him ’ and then disappeared 
 
BE JUST, AND FEAR NOT. 
 
 35 
 
 When Bianca Barnard heard the shriek of her father, she 
 ran to the front window and looked out on the partly 
 illumined grounds. To her great surprise she saw an officer 
 about to enter the gate, but he was struck to the ground by 
 another who met him going out. After reaching the street, 
 the latter gazed back. 
 
 He was pale and handsome. 
 
 Bianca recognized him, in spite of his disguise. It was 
 Buckingham Broguaud. 
 
 The maiden gave one look at her mother, thankful that 
 the poor woman still slept, then, terribly concerned, she 
 left the room and hurried down the stairway, only to find 
 there her father, lying senseless, and, for all she knew to 
 the contrary, dead. 
 
 By an almost superhuman e/Tort she restrained a cry of 
 alarm and horror, and threw Herself upon her knees beside 
 him. 
 
 It had been, indeed, a sad night. 
 
 She was distracted, dazed, as some vague fascination im¬ 
 pelled her to hasten to the garden. 
 
 The officer, an old man, was lying near the gate, just 
 arising to his feet. 
 
 Bianca was overwhelmed with emotion as she discerned a 
 familiar figure in the distance. 
 
 What did all the dark mysteries of the night portend ? 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 “ BE JUST, AND FEAR NOT. ” 
 
 It required the utmost self-control in Buckinghan Bro- 
 guand, when he saw the old b ig in the street, to conquer 
 the desire he felt to rush out and compel her to reveal all 
 that she knew in regard to himself. 
 
 Providentially for him he was able to restrain himself. 
 
 no realized that, whoever she-was, she had, for her age, 
 great nerve and strength of will, and was also most 
 determined and desperate. 
 
 It was almost beyond belief that she should thus visit the 
 scene of her crime, even while the blood sho had spilled lay 
 fresh upon the ground ! 
 
 Not until now had Buckingham had time to think ration¬ 
 ally upon all that had happened. From having the old hag 
 within view, he recalled every word that had been spoken 
 by her in the dark alley. And not until this moment did it 
 Btrike his mind with any significance that she had called 
 him Benedict Barnard. 
 
56 
 
 BE JUST, AND FEAR NOT. 
 
 Be could hardly bring himself to believe that she had 
 thus addressed him; yet, the more he pondered on it the 
 firmer was he in his belief that it was by this name she had 
 called him. 
 
 Had it been mere confusion on her part? 
 
 This seemed probable. Yet, when he remembered that 
 loud cry of Robert Barnard when he first caught a glance 
 at his' face, Buckingham was the most puzzled man 
 imaginable. 
 
 What did it all mean? 
 
 Why did that strange old woman rescue him from the 
 officer of justice, thus proving that she felt at least an inter¬ 
 est in him? Why had she stabbed Ben Barnard, and left 
 Mrs. Broguand’s dagger in his breast? 
 
 She could not have had any grounds for supposing him 
 to be in the vicinity, even though she knew who he was 
 when he had passed her when going toward his home. 
 Clearly the knife could not have been left behind with any 
 object of criminating himself or Mrs. Broguand; just the 
 opposite, for tne hag had risked much to rescue him. It 
 did appear that she must have seen and known him previous 
 to that night. 
 
 ►She could not have known that she was to meet Benedict 
 Barnard, and, therefore, could have had no plans in connec¬ 
 tion with the dagger and all that had occurred. 
 
 It had, undoubtedly, been unpremeditated. 
 
 But still it remained an indisputable fact that this old 
 creature knew the history of Mrs. Broguand and himself; 
 and also she must, since his reputed mother held such 
 revengeful feelings toward Robert Barnard, it was evident, 
 know the history of both families, for she was in possession 
 of a secret that was of great importance to both. 
 
 r i he strongly evinced emotion of Mr. Barnard upon get¬ 
 ting a view of his face seemed to indicate that he resembled 
 some one who was greatly feared, hated, or loved — he could 
 not possibly decide which. 
 
 It appeared that the presence of the old woman was, in 
 soinc as yet unknown manner, to clear up the mvsterv that 
 had clouded and cursed his life. 
 
 Such were the thoughts and reasoning that flashed 
 hiough the brain of Buckingham Broguand, but in so con- 
 msea a manner that lie could gain but little sense of satis- 
 ac ion from them. The wonder was that he retained suf- 
 1101011 ’ command over himself to remain in the park for a 
 
 tliat > a lthough the old woman had rescued 
 criminate herself by testifving to his 
 innocence should he be again arrested and brought to trial. 
 
BE JUST, AND EEAR NOT. 
 
 57 
 
 Neither could ho call upon Mrs. Broguand to prove that 
 the dagger had been stolen from her that same night, for 
 this would bring her into notoriety, which, he felt assured, 
 she would not hesitate to sacrifice his life to avoid, as it 
 would stand in the way of her revenge. lie must, therefore, 
 keep in the shade. 
 
 The crowd in front of him had become by this time greatly 
 excited by the report of a new-comer from the direction of 
 the police station, and, soon after, the arrival of the very 
 officer Buckingham had knocked down was perceived by 
 the young man, from the opposite direction, lie could see, 
 also, that the old hag was greatly interested in the report of 
 the policeman from the Barnard mansion, and soon she her¬ 
 self hastened in that direction ; but Buckingham dared not 
 attempt to gain an interview with her, for others followed 
 quickly after. 
 
 He stripped off the uniform of which he had deprived his 
 captor, and threw it into the hushes, for he knew that the 
 report in regard to the knocking down of both policemen 
 had been spread, together with the appropriation of the 
 coat and cap, and the fact that the escaped prisoner had 
 thus disguised himself. The officer whom he had knocked 
 senseless at the gate of the Barnards, upon learning that 
 his brother policeman had been dealt with in the same 
 manner, and robbed of his uniform, would decide at once 
 that his assailant had been the missing assassin. 
 
 Buckingham made up bis mind that he would at once 
 return home, secure some money, and fly : and no easy mat¬ 
 ter would it be, he well knew, to dude tlie searchers in quest 
 of him. 
 
 He acted at once, tor every moment was precious, more 
 so than gold. His very life might depend upon a moment’s 
 time, in his endeavor to escape suffering for the crime of 
 another. He stole from the park, and, by unfrequented 
 streets and a circuitous route, ho proceeded toward the 
 dwelling that had been his home — an apology for such,but 
 better than none — now his home no longer. 
 
 The young man was well aware that he must seek a 
 refuge far from New Orleans, that he must roam among 
 strangers in a strange land; but this appeared to be a rebel 
 to him rather than a regret. 
 
 There was now but one person in the city for whom he 
 had any regard of consequence, and this was Bianca Barn¬ 
 ard. But the fearful occurrences of that night had most 
 certainly placed him in a position that prevented any fur 
 ther acquaintance with her, so he crushed down the 
 thoughts of that fair girl which would ac times press to the 
 
58 
 
 BE JUST, AND FEAR NOT. 
 
 front in liis mind, knowing that it would unfit him for the 
 gauntlet he must run if Le would make his escape. 
 
 As Buckingham Broguand drew near the retired dwell¬ 
 ing which had been his home for so long a time, he became 
 greatly perplexed in regard to meeting the woman he had 
 called mother from his childhood, but had never loved or 
 reverenced 
 
 How should he explain matters to her? 
 
 Should he divulge his intended flight and the cause of the 
 same ? 
 
 He was greatly puzzled what to do or say. 
 
 He had sufficient money in his desk to last him for some 
 time ; and, even had he been out of funds, he would start 
 out in that condition rather than ask Mrs. Broguand for 
 another dime. It was through her secrets, through the 
 enmity existing between her and that old hag and mur¬ 
 deress, whatever might be its origin, that he was now 
 obliged to leave New Orleans an outcast. to roam in strange 
 lands should he succeed in escaping, and, if not, perchance 
 to die like a dog! 
 
 He had always distrusted her, but he knew now that she 
 was base, deceitful, treacherous, and murderously revenge¬ 
 ful ! 
 
 Instead of having been herself so foully wronged, the 
 probability was that she had terribly wronged him by 
 deceiving him as to his birth — that he was the child of 
 honorable parents, and had been stolen by her through 
 hatred toward them. This, if true, was enough to cause 
 him to class her as a fiend. 
 
 As this thought came into his mind, Buckingham sud¬ 
 denly halted and cried out wildly, from the very depths of 
 his soul: 
 
 ^ Oh, my God! Can it be possible ? ” 
 
 He had been addressed as Benedict Barnard, and Robert 
 
 am aid had tainted at sight of him. Could it be that he 
 
 was ielated to the Barnard family ? that the father saw, at 
 
 once, so strong a resemblance in him to some one near and 
 
 1° Inm that lie was bereft of sense by the discovery? 
 
 tnin ° U fJ 10 ) iave ^ )oen so deeply affected had not some¬ 
 thing of this kind been the case ? 
 
 It did not seem probable. 
 
 emotion^ \ '( ni o t ( 1 ‘ x l )1 ‘ t ' ss the agitation, the overpowering 
 occurred ti Buckingham Broguand as these thoughts 
 
 remembrance !,' n ’ tt ai " tlie moment banished every 
 S Sl ‘ « reat P 0ril in which he stood. But 
 
 "•rounds to nbni! i ri !' easonoc l that, eveu were there 
 
 and allied to Robert B uirlrd" Tp ° f honcrable l,irth 
 
 rsarnaid — he was now, it was almost 
 
59 
 
 BE JUST, AND FEAIt NOT. 
 
 certain, forever prevented from proving it, or in any way 
 inquiring into it. 
 
 Better far, under the circumstances, that he should remain 
 a nobody, than to find his relatives only to bring on them 
 the disgrace and dishonor of which, although entirely inno¬ 
 cent, he could not clear his name. 
 
 Again he thought of the name by which the hag had 
 called him — Benedict Barnard. 
 
 Could it be that he was the son of Robert Barnard, and 
 that he who boro that name was the offspring of Bertha 
 Broguand — she having effected the change when they were 
 infants? 
 
 This did not seem improbable, considering some things, 
 but very much so, considering others. 
 
 He would in that event be the brother of Bianca ; and he 
 could not believe that Mrs. Broguand, vengeful and merci¬ 
 less as he knew her to be, would plan and carry out so 
 infernal a revenge. Again, it did not seem reasonable that 
 she would allow her son to be reared by her most hated 
 enemy, thus depriving herself of her only comfort in her 
 misery, and that while she, at the same time, nurtured the 
 child of her hated destroyer. 
 
 Perhaps it was because of the necessity of so doing that 
 Buckingham crushed from his mind, as wild and absurd 
 fancies born of his demoralized mental condition, these 
 hopes and conjectures; but often were they, in spite of him¬ 
 self, fated to occupy his brain. 
 
 He had by this time reached the garden, climbing the 
 fence and using the greatest caution, for he knew that it 
 was quite possible for officers to have arrived, in search of 
 him, had they ascertained the locality in which he lived. 
 
 There was but oneway in which he could explain his 
 abrupt departure, or fiight, to Mrs. Broguand. 
 
 She would be certain to be suspicious of him, and he would 
 not be able to deceive her as to liis intentions. 
 
 He would, therefore, tell her that he had inaugurated the 
 plot of vengeance by killing Benedict Barnard. But he lost 
 sight of the fact that she had warned him not to do Ben any 
 bodily harm, which, had he recollected in his recent rea¬ 
 sonings, would have had a bearing, with the other matters 
 that did occur to him, toward his possible relationship to 
 Robert Barnard. 
 
 At times Buckingham paused and listened intently, but 
 all was dark and silent about the dwelling, and In* stole to 
 the rear door, to which he had a key, and, opening the 
 same, he entered. 
 
 Lighting a candle, he examined the lower rooms, and then 
 
60 
 
 BE JUST, AND FEAR NOT. 
 
 went, lightly hut quickly, up the stairs and tapped at Mrs 
 
 Broguand’s door. 
 
 There was no response. 
 
 He then tried the door, and found it locked. 
 
 He inspected the other chambers. 
 
 All were empty. 
 
 There was no one m the house, unless, it might be, m Mrs. 
 Broguand’s room. 
 
 Just then he remembered that the key of his own cham¬ 
 ber fitted hers, and he instantly resolved that he would 
 enter. 
 
 He did so, and as he stepped inside he uttered an excla¬ 
 mation of astonishment. 
 
 Before him, thrown carelessly on the floor, was the apparel 
 of a man It lay as though it had been hastily cast aside 
 by the wearer. 
 
 But, amazed as Buckingham was, he dared not linger. 
 
 He believed that Mis. Broguand must have assumed 
 male attire, and, doubtless, had followed him to ascertain if 
 he held converse with the old hag, her recent and unwelcome 
 visitor. 
 
 He returned to his own apartment, where a greater sur¬ 
 prise awaited him There lay a figured table-cover partly 
 filled with rolls of gold coin, bundles of bank bills and jewels 
 of great value. 
 
 It was a princely fortune, as he knew. 
 
 On the band of a roll of papers there was a name. The 
 young man grasped it and read it. 
 
 It was u Robert Barnard! ” 
 
 He now recalled the circumstance of Mr. Barnard’s having 
 cried, as he clutched him so wildly when in the policeman’s 
 uniform: • 
 
 “ I am ruined ! I have been robbed! 77 
 fe now saw how that had been done. 
 
 Mrs. Broguand had taken the initiatory steps toward 
 accomplishing her revenge by depriving him whom she called 
 ner enemy ot his wealth. But how she could have accom¬ 
 plished such a feat was a mystery. 
 
 Buckingham at once resolved that it should all be returned, 
 and by himself, at the risk of his life. 
 
 In piace of injuring Robert Barnard, lie would do him a 
 iavor--indeed, save him from ruin. 
 
 S ^'ap^ession made upon him by the man whom he had 
 W ; niL ^l^/ or ^ the first time, led him to this decision. 
 
 Mnotw ^ i Ui l { (r iSm rt S ^ ie ^ ea ^ Ult not only was there 
 SKIS? 6 . t0 MlS ' Bro S uaful ' s narrative, but that he him- 
 iamily "' in somo wa y l )e connected with the Barnard 
 
NOT AS DEEP AS A WELL. 
 
 61 
 
 At all events, lie vowed that he would befriend instead of 
 persecuting them, and would frustrate at least this first 
 attempt of an unprincipled woman to carry out her plan of 
 revenge. 
 
 In addition to that, he would warn Robert Barnard of her 
 presence in the Crescent City, and of her intentions in con¬ 
 nection with him and his. 
 
 Securing Bertha’s ill-gotten booty, and with it such a 
 change of clothing as would best disguise him — taking, 
 also, his own money — Buckingham Broguand left all else 
 as he had found it and passed out silently into the gloomy 
 gardens. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 “ NOT AS DEEP AS xV WELL.” 
 
 When Bianca Barnard returned to the house she was 
 in a most deplorable position, to say the least, as she again 
 knelt, crying as if her heart would break, by the side of her 
 senseless father. 
 
 Beyond the gate, outstretched on the hard pavement, and 
 also unconscious, was the policeman who had been felled by 
 the desperate Buckingham, while, in her own apartment 
 above stairs, lay the injured mother, now sleeping under tho 
 influence of opiates, and the anguished daughter was in 
 dread that she might awaken and find herself alone. 
 
 The servants had all retired. Luckily, however, the 
 gardener had been aroused by the cry of Mr. Barnard, and 
 soon appeared, being completely upset by tho scene that 
 met his eye. But ho was a man of good judgment and 
 common sense, and be knew that Ills young mistress, in her 
 present state of mind, ought not to be worried by anxious 
 questions, so he rushed into tho house, procured restora¬ 
 tives, and not until his employer, with a heavy groan, gained 
 a sitting posture, did ho venture to ask what had caused his 
 faint. 
 
 This Bianca was unable to say definitely, and tho man 
 then hastened to perform a similar service for tho police 
 officer. 
 
 It was no wonder that Mr. Barnard remained for some 
 time in a dazed condition. During that eventful night ho 
 had received shocks that were sufficient to demoralize his 
 brain ; but the sight of the uniformed policeman brought up 
 the near past, which was moro forcibly recalled when his 
 gaze became fixed upon his wooping daughter. Yet he 
 would not have revealed his thoughts for worlds. 
 
62 
 
 NOT AS DEEP AS A WEEL. 
 
 Neither would he have mentioned the finding of the warn¬ 
 ings upou his desk. 
 
 Naturally, his first thought on seeing the officer was that 
 it was the same man the sight of whom had so strangely 
 affected him, and, even when he had partially recovered, he 
 feared to look a second time toward the gate. 
 
 The shock he had received banished from his mind for the 
 moment the recollection that he had been robbed, that he 
 was, in consequence, ruined, and w r as new too much broken 
 by anxiety and apprehension to hope ever again to possess 
 wealth. 
 
 Yet he felt for his wife and daughter even then, and urged 
 Bianca to return to her mother, and he would, in a little 
 time, explain matters. Indeed, lie was decidedly impatient 
 and commanding in his words, for he feared that the young 
 girl would get a view of the face that was so like her own 
 as to have prostrated him by the suspicions it had brought 
 up — suspicions that many a time had arisen, regardless of 
 his efforts to crush them down. 
 
 Little did he dream that his daughter had looked into the 
 face that had so impressed him — that she had held converse 
 with the man to whom it belonged, although, of course, the 
 suspicions he had entertained had never once been thought 
 of by her. 
 
 Kissing her father, Bianca ran hastily up the stairs, to 
 again watch by her mother. 
 
 Robert Barnard regained his feet when his daughter left 
 him, and was intensely relieved when she disappeared from 
 view. 
 
 He almost dreaded to remain himself, fearing to again 
 look on that face. 
 
 He leaned against a post of the veranda for support, and 
 strove to collect his scattered whirl of thoughts, which madly 
 surged through his tortured brain. But this was only for a 
 moment. The gardener again came up hurriedly. 
 
 “ Mr. Barnard,” he said, “ the officer has recovered and 
 would like to speak with you at once, for duty calls him 
 away.” 
 
 Robert Barnard gave one quick glance toward the gate, 
 and the expression of his face and eyes changed on the 
 instant, a look of relief taking the place of the anguish that- 
 had been stamped there. He saw that the policeman was 
 
 not the same whom he had accosted in his first alarm and 
 excitement. 
 
 Touching his hat, the latter spoke: 
 
 “ Mr. Barnard, I believe? ” 
 
 " That is my name. sir. ” 
 
NOT AS DEEP AS A WELL. 
 
 63 
 
 41 Do you know who the ofleer was that was with you a 
 short time ago, and who knocked me down If 77 
 
 u I do not, 77 was the reply. 
 
 Then turning to the gardener, ho said: 
 
 44 Joe, take those bottles inside. 77 
 
 The man left on his mission, and Mr. Barnard remained 
 silent until he had gotten beyond hearing distance. Then 
 he resumed: 
 
 44 My house has been robbed to-night. My wife was 
 thrown from her carriage, and was brought home in an 
 unconscious condition. I was so bewildered and alarmed at 
 the time that I left my keys in the safe in my library, which 
 is in the second story. 
 
 44 A thief entered while I was at the bedside of my wife, 
 and robbed the safe of a large amount in gold, notes, bonds 
 and jewels. Upon discovering my loss, 1 ran down-stairs, 
 and peiceived a policeman passing. Rushing out, 1 drew 
 him inside and upon the veranda. Strange to say, a reac¬ 
 tion to my unnatural excitement came on me suddenly, and 
 I dropped senseless. 
 
 44 Now I await your explanation of the after occurrences, 
 as you must have reached here about that time. 77 
 
 41 You are right, sir, 77 returned the officer. 44 1 was coming 
 to your house on a mission from which 1 would gladly have 
 been excused. 77 
 
 44 What do you mean? 77 
 
 44 Do you know the whereabouts of your son ? 77 
 
 44 I do not He is usually at home long before this hour, 
 though at times, much to my regret and displeasure, he 
 remains absent throughout the night. 77 
 
 44 You are aware, I presume, of his associations, and know 
 that he is liable to come to harm? 77 
 
 44 Yes, but please explain—you alarm me greatly! 77 
 
 “I.regret to say that Mr. Benedict Barnard has been 
 stabbed — perhaps mortally. 77 
 
 44 Good heavens! 77 
 
 Robert Barnard staggered back against the gate. 
 
 At that moment another policeman rushed breathlessly 
 up beside them. 
 
 44 Well, what’s up now? 77 demanded the first. 
 
 44 The matter is that the murderer — ^ suppose you have 
 told Mr Barnard — has escaped, aftei knocking No. 128 
 down. He then stripped off 128 7 s coat and cap, and suc¬ 
 ceeded m getting off in that disguise. 77 
 
 44 By thunder ! It was he, then, who knocked mo down. 
 Mr Barnard, the assassin is the same who, a short time ago, 
 was in your company. He’s a cool one. 77 
 
 44 And I’m after him! 77 burst out the last comer 44 Thero’s 
 A Woman s Kroenge 5 
 
64 
 
 XOT AS DEEP AS A WELL. 
 
 a big reward offered by the Chief. Which way did he 
 go 't ” 
 
 ‘ As to that, he left us both senseless,” said the bruised 
 officer “ He took me unawares. Mr Barnard, we 7 ll inves¬ 
 tigate that other matter by daylight. Fm sorry for you. 
 So long!” 
 
 Both the policemen departed, 
 
 Robert Barnard did not appear to have the least vestige 
 of life remaining. He leaned against the gate, having much 
 the appearance of a stiffened corpse. It was doubtful 
 whether he heard everything, but the words that had told 
 of the possibly fatal injuries received by his son had awak¬ 
 ened suspicions which had been put aside for the time, and 
 again they tortured him. 
 
 That this man, with the face so strongly resembling 
 Bianca’s, should have tried to kill Ben fairly dazed the 
 unhappy father. What he had begun to persuade himself 
 was impossible now seemed highly probable. 
 
 Again was all tho thought of the burglary pressed to the 
 background by the appalling revelation of the officer. And, 
 from the fact that he was not conscious of experiencing the 
 horror and anger to be expected from a parent under the 
 dread circumstances — from the fact that he found it impos¬ 
 sible to feel as greatly grieved and shocked as he otherwise 
 must have done — the probabilities now seemed to him 
 almost certainties, tearing his very heart-strings. 
 
 No longer did it appear such a mystery, that of the asser¬ 
 tion of the warning; that is, that the first blow had been 
 struck, and the next would soon follow 
 He dare not ask himself what that first blow had been. 
 He dare not even whisper it. 
 
 He had not even asked the officers where Ben had been 
 taken, or to explain the circumstances, connected with the 
 murderous assault. 
 
 It seemed hours since he stood where the policemen had 
 left him — the last of the trio. 
 
 r ihen an idea struck the officer, and he hastened to return, 
 exclaiming. 
 
 “ Mr. Barnard, I forgot to say that the murderer’s name 
 was on the dagger.” 
 
 Robert Barnard gasped. 
 
 The officer continued: 
 
 “ The name was Broguand ! ” 
 
 He then turned and left, for tho second time. Had he 
 remained, he would have regretted having spoken the last 
 woi a, lor had a bullet entered his brain in place of that 
 name, it would not have caused Robert Barnard to drop 
 upon the paved walk anv quicker. 
 
HORROR AND NIGHT GO WITH THEE. 
 
 65 
 
 Soon, however, the gardener returned and carried his 
 employer within doors and into the library, where he placed 
 him upon a lounge, without having disturbed Bianca in 
 ascending the stairs. 
 
 He then informed the latter that her father had been too 
 much excited by the occurrences of the night to bo of any 
 assistance to her, and that ho had lain down in the library, 
 the gardener stating that ho would remain up and attend 
 to his employer’s wants, and that he would be ready to do 
 anything required by Bianca, in connection with Mrs. Bar¬ 
 nard, also. 
 
 The almost prostrated maiden was compelled to acknowl¬ 
 edge that this was the best arrangement that was possible 
 for the remainder of tbe night. Had she known the whole 
 truth, it is doubtful if the poor girl could have borne up 
 under it better than her father had done. 
 
 It had most certainly been a black night in the history of 
 the family of Robert Barnard ; but the latter could hardly 
 have suffered in mind more than did Buckingham Bro- 
 guand. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 u HORROR ANI) NIGHT GO WITH THEE.” 
 
 When the old hag, Dolores, left the home of the Bro- 
 guands, after stealing the dagger and drawing the outline 
 of a coffin upon Bertha’s brow in blood, she proceeded 
 slowly, seeming to hobble along toward the more frequented 
 portions of the city. Soon an ejaculation of pleased surprise 
 escaped her as she beheld the form of a man coming toward 
 her, on the same side of the street. 
 
 She would not have noticed him but for the fact that he 
 passed directly by a street lamp, up at which he cast a 
 glance. This clearly revealed his face, which was remark¬ 
 ably pale- 
 
 It was Buckingham Broguand returning home. 
 
 When she passed him, the old woman muttered the words, 
 il Gold or a coffin, ” but continued hobbling along without 
 noticing him in any way. 
 
 Notwithstanding the worried state of the young man’s 
 mind, he noticed the strange words, little thinking, however, 
 that he would soon lie forcibly reminded of them, and that 
 through her he would have his life placed in jeopardy. It 
 was evident to Buckingham that this was not the first time 
 she had seen him. 
 
 She had given him a hint that would set him to thinking, 
 
60 
 
 HORROR AND NIGHT GO WITH THEE. 
 
 and thinking deeply, for she believed he would reach hom* 
 before Mrs. Broguand could remove the marks from her 
 forehead and put the room to rights. He would find the 
 house in darkness, it was more than likely; and when he 
 had procured a light he would discover the paper which she 
 had purposely left on the floor. 
 
 From the fact that it was partly burned, and the candle 
 lying upon the fioor, he would suspect his supposed mother 
 of having attempted to burn the tell-tale missive, and that 
 she had been defeated in the attempt. 
 
 Dolores was satisfied that, from having repeated the 
 words mentioned in the hearing of the young man, she had 
 started what would lead to more or less complications and 
 suspicions on his part toward the woman whom he had been 
 taught to call mother. She had thus acted without any pr<> 
 \iously-formed plan in this connection, for she had no 
 thought of meeting Buckingham Broguand. 
 
 “No gold in that family, 77 muttered the aged crone. 
 “ Now for the other, where riches abound. I thought to 
 bleed them both. Robert Barnard must know by this time 
 that the viper still lives. 1 can play my cards to win. 7 ’ 
 
 Again Dolores indulged in soliloquy. 
 
 “ She thought the knife of Antonio found my heart; but 
 I die hard. Years I suffered from the wound, and that 
 cowardly assassin knew, when I gazed into his death-film¬ 
 ing eyes, in Cuba, that his stiletto had failed him, but mine 
 did not foil me ! Now. she shall pay for every pang I suf¬ 
 fered. 
 
 “ She thought me dead, or she would have chosen a sly 
 place to live. The fates have favored me, for Robert Barn¬ 
 ard has eluded her for years. He was a fool, after my 
 warning him of her character and her oath, to come back 
 to New Orleans. Yes, yes, a fool, but all the better for 
 Dolores. 
 
 “ T aw sorry for the boy, and T hate myself for helping 
 Bertha to do such a deed; but it is not too late to remedy it, 
 and to gain gold as well I feel kindly toward him, for I 
 
 have been the means of his having to live with that she- 
 devil as a son. 
 
 “ But her brat, who has been reared in luxury— 1 hate 
 inm . He sneered at me and spurned me only yesterday, 
 when 1 stopped to beg at his gate. He little thought that 
 Umld hisdestiny in my power — that through me he has lived 
 a hie of ease as the son of a man whose own son’s place he 
 nas usurped. But 1 gained a few coins later, when he had 
 gene to quench his thirst for rum. I told the fortunes of 
 the servants, and left my warning. 
 
 Rolan i Barnard will think it is Bertha that has been in 
 
HORROR AND NIGHT GO WITH THEE. 
 
 6 ? 
 
 his house, and not the old nurse, Dolores, who cared for his 
 infant heir. Fine times I’ll have with them all; but woe be 
 to him who calls himself Benedict Barnard! I’ll kill him ii 
 he again insults me ! ” 
 
 With like mutterings she wandered, seemingly without 
 aim; but eventually she turned, at a faster pace, in the 
 direction of the Barnard mansion. She had overheard two 
 men who passed her speaking of an accident to Mrs. Barn¬ 
 ard. 
 
 She now entered a street that was but little frequented, 
 the few dwellings being some distance back from the trav¬ 
 eled wav, and with trees and shrubbery in the front yards. 
 She saw but one pedestrian ahead, and him she noticed but 
 ctle; but she realized by his unsteady gait that he was 
 under the influence of liquor. 
 
 She hastened to pass him, just within the outer lino of 
 light from a street lamp, but he suddenly turned upon her 
 with a vicious oath, and made a clutch at her arm. 
 
 At once she recognized him. 
 
 It was Benedict Barnard, and he had also recognized in 
 her the old beggar woman whom he had sworn at on the 
 previous day. She had threatened him then, and he 
 remembered it. Being of a low and vengeful nature, he 
 resolved to punish her, old as she was, and a woman at 
 that. 
 
 He clutched her arm with a painful grip, whe.i, whb a 
 hissing curse, she buried a dagger in his bn ast! 
 
 His grasp relaxed, and he fell. 
 
 She saw another man approaching at a run, and, without 
 stopping to draw the knife from the breast of her victim, 
 she ran and climbed over the palings of the adjacent 
 park. • 
 
 She paused amid the shrubbery, for she believed that the 
 approaching form was that of the pale young man she had 
 so recently passed in another street, some distance away. 
 Peeping from the bushes, she at once perceived that her 
 conjecture was true. 
 
 It was Buckingham Broguand, and he was bending over 
 her victim. 
 
 Certainly, thought the old hag, the fates an* this night 
 playing strange freaks with those over whose destinies they 
 hold control! 
 
 Both of the young men, over whom Dolores held such 
 power for good and evil, she had met in the same hour; and 
 that without striving to do so, or even without having 
 thought of such a tiling as possible. 
 
 Hut stranger than all was the fact that Buckingham Bro¬ 
 guand should be the man of all men who was fated to be 
 
68 
 
 horror and right go with thee. 
 
 drawn to the dying form of the one who had enjoyed the 
 society and the regard of those by whom, in all right, he 
 himself ought to be loved and respected as a son. 
 
 When, however, the old woman discovered the officers 
 hastening to the scene and recalled t lie fact of her having 
 left the dagger she had taken from Mrs. Broguand in the 
 breast of Ben Barnard — then, indeed did it seem to her 
 that everything was out of joint. Not until the police 
 appeared had Dolores even entertained a thought in com 
 nection with there being any danger of Buckingham’s being 
 taken for the assassin. She was aware that these young 
 men were occasional associates, for she had used every 
 means to ascertain everything that was possible of them 
 both; but she knew not that the two had quarreled the 
 afternoon previous, and that in the presence of witnesses. 
 
 However, it would not need this evidence to fasten the 
 crime upon Buckingham; as he was found with the freshly 
 stabbed man, and not another human, being within view. 
 
 If the wounded man did not recover sufficiently to speak, 
 and tell who it wtis that assaulted him, then Buckingham 
 was doomed; unless, indeed, she should sacrifice her own 
 life to save him, which was too insane an idea to entertain 
 for a moment. 
 
 Old Dolores knew that the young man had informed the 
 officers of the true state of the case, and that his story had, 
 ot course, been considered a most absurd one, especially 
 after the police had discovered the name engraved on the 
 dagger .She knew that he had given them his name, pre¬ 
 vious to their having informed him of the one that had so 
 criminated him. 
 
 She also knew that, if he had not been convinced by the 
 warning which she had left in the parlor of Mrs Broguand, 
 that he had passed the same person on the street wiio had 
 lett that mysterious missive and terrified his supposed 
 mother, he would now know that the strange visitor was 
 
 the same wffio had murdered, or attempted to murder, Bene- 
 met .barnard. 
 
 I he crouching Dolores saw Buckingham manacled and 
 .eel away, for the crime she herseif had committed. 
 
 fcne then knew r that Ben Barnard could not have spoken, 
 and she believed she must have killed him outright, * Then 
 
 ^owwnhcrV' 6 ^ 16 ^' ^ ^ she allowed her rage to thus 
 
 T£ ..f^ ore Bad J? een ways open for a more satisfactory 
 
 . p 3 j U ? on bertha Broguand than slaying her worthless 
 
 wmiirfo ]1 °i V ’ Buckingham w r ere taken to prison, there 
 would be no hope for him. 
 
 Mis. Broguand would not come to the front, and swear 
 
HORROR AXD NIGHT GO WITH THEE. 
 
 69 
 
 that the weapon was hers and had been stolon from her, 
 unless, in so doing, she could see a chance to foist the crime 
 upon the real criminal, whom, of course, she would delight 
 in bringing to the gallows. But the wily Bertha might not 
 even dare do this, even though she might have a certainty 
 of condemning Dolores to death; for she would fear the 
 disclosures that her victim would he sure to make. 
 
 Thus reasoned the old woman from her hiding-place in 
 the park. 
 
 She noticed the direction taken by the custodian of Buck- 
 inghain, and resolved that she would rescue him if possible, 
 even at great risk to herself. She was not yet so degraded, 
 so without mercy or feeling, as to allow an innocent man to 
 suffer for her crime, without holding out to him a helping 
 hand—especially as she had been a party to a deed that 
 had blighted his life. 
 
 Dolores glided through the dark shades of the park, and 
 followed the policeman and Buckingham afar off, until they 
 entered the dark alley; when, hastening around to its othei 
 entrance, she secured a club, and, as has been recorded, 
 "Tied the policeman to the earth, securing his keys and 
 releasing Buckingham from the handcuffs. 
 
 Hastily telling the young man to fly, and directing him, 
 as has been shown, she ran uuiekly away, eventually return¬ 
 ing to the scene of her crime. She there gathered that 
 Benedict Barnard had been quite badly cut, and that little 
 hope had been entertained of his recovery She also heard 
 an officer speak of the burglary of the Barnard mansion. 
 
 She knew that it would be no use to go to the house in 
 question, yet she mechanically wandered in that direction. 
 
 She had now plenty of food for thought. 
 
 She knew that Mbs. Barnard bad been injured, that the 
 house had been robbed, and the son, or supposed son, had 
 been stabbed, it was thought, mortally. 
 
 Dolores stole into a garden and sat down to iest, which 
 she greatly needed. The strange old being wished also to 
 ponder and reason upon the situation of affairs. 
 
 The result of tins reasoning caused her to eventually turn 
 her steps once more in the direction of the home of the 
 woman she so hated and detested, and whom she had sworn 
 to torture to the utmost limit of her power. 
 
 Bertha Broguand feared her, and seeing no way in which 
 she could compromise with her or purchase her secrecy, had 
 decided, as we have seen, to rob the Barnards, and thus 
 gain money sufficient for all purposes. 
 
 In the excitement Consequent upon the bringing home of 
 the injured wife this had not been a deed difficult of 
 accomplishment; and, even had it been so, Mrs. Broguand 
 
70 
 
 FULL OF SOUND AND FURY. 
 
 was now desperate and determined. She was not the woman 
 to halt, or swerve one iota from a course once decided upon 
 by even the most serious dangers and difficulties. 
 
 And this Dolores was thoroughly persuaded of. She 
 became satisfied in her mind that Bertha Broguand was the 
 one who had robbed the safe of Robert Barnard. 
 
 By so doing, that vindictive female had killed two birds 
 with one stone; that is, she had struck a blow for revenge, 
 and had gained the gold of her enemy, which would give 
 power for further revenge, and to buy off one that might 
 stand in the way of it. 
 
 And, although the conclusion at which old Dolores had 
 arrived led her to decide also that she was to share the pro¬ 
 ceeds of the robbery, nevertheless she was furious at Mrs. 
 Broguand for having dared commit such a deed, after 
 wronging the man she had now deprived of wealth, in a 
 manner beyond all restitution, to say nothing of the great 
 wrong to his wife and children. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 “ FULL OF SOUND AND FURY.” 
 
 It had been no little task for Bertha Broguard to reach 
 her home after the robbery, for the plunder was heavy for 
 her slender frame, which was unaccustomed to burdens, 
 even the lightest. 
 
 She had, all the way to her dwelling, feared arrest: for, 
 in that case, her sex would be known, and the long term of 
 imprisonment, which would of a certainty follow, was terri¬ 
 ble even to contemplate. Then the tables would, indeed, 
 be turned. Robert Barnard would recover his wealth, and 
 would be forever free from her persecution and revenge. 
 
 To be afflicted with any further misery and disgrace 
 through him would certainly kill her. Then that old hag, 
 Dolores, would reveal everything; and hoi son, whose love 
 and society she had denied herself, through an all-consuming 
 thirst for vengeance, would be thrust out by the Barnards 
 -—an outcast, and with the knowledge that his mother was 
 a convict, and the daughter of a man who had been hanged 
 for murder! 
 
 All these dread possibilities flashed into the mind of Mrs. 
 Broguand before she had advanced in her flight toward her 
 home but a short distance. Panting for breath, and her 
 senses strained to the utmost, she crawled into some shrub¬ 
 bery near the street for the purpose of resting. 
 
 Here she crouched, in great trepidation. 
 
FULL OF SOUND AND FURY. 
 
 71 
 
 While thus hidden, two men passed, talking excitedly. 
 
 “ His name is Broguaud,” said one, “and Ben Barnard 
 was a chum of his. It does seem strange that he should 
 have stabbed him.” 
 
 The listener sat, horrified. 
 
 4 ‘ But I heard, ” rejoined the second man, “ that they quar¬ 
 reled this evening, a few hours earlier That will he brought 
 in proof, but it will not be needed He was the only person 
 in sight. Ben may live, but I doubt it. It lie dies, 
 Broguand will hang, as sure as fate.” 
 
 The two men passed beyond hearing. 
 
 But Bertha Broguand had heard enough — more than 
 enough ! 
 
 Never, until that moment, had she known how precious 
 her boy was to her, blunted as had been her affections by 
 her revengeful nature. 
 
 She had always comforted herself with the thought that 
 she could regain him at anytime should she find trace ot 
 the Barnards. She had known he would bo better cared 
 for and educated, than if he had remained in her charge. 
 Even when his whereabouts had been a mystery, she had 
 been confident that all was well with him. 
 
 Though she had but that day been told that he was wild 
 and dissipated, she had not behoved that he was more so 
 than other young men. She had warned Buckingham not 
 to harm him, and said distinctly that he was not to bo 
 included in her plans of vengeance, and yet Buckingham, 
 it seemed, had slain him within that very hour. 
 
 Could it bp that Buckingham had suspected his origin — 
 had found that Benedict had usurped his place and name? 
 
 Had Dolores so soon revealed the secret t 
 
 Had.she robbed the safe, and secured gold to bribe the 
 vindictive old creature, in vain ? 
 
 Should she never again behold her poor, wronged bov 
 alive? 
 
 With such thoughts crazing her, the miserable woman 
 sat, her fingers clutching into the sward to support her 
 swaying form, as she still crouched in thoso gloomy shades. 
 What a day had been that which had passed! 
 
 In it she had ascertained much which for years she had 
 longed to know in regard to the Barnards and her son ; and 
 that evening, when sho had told the story of her life to 
 Buckingham, had been a trying ono. But the night had 
 been filled with startling and agonizing events indeed. 
 
 First, Dolores — whom she had thought dead —the only 
 person who could betray her, or stand in the way of her 
 plots and schemes—had appeared and threatened iier. 
 
 Now, too, she recalled the actions and manner of Buck* 
 
72 
 
 FULL OF hJUND AND FUR'S 
 
 ingham, and it appeared to her that he must have disbe 
 lieved her, in some of her assertions [it least. He did not 
 appear to thinh that it had been a man who had frightened 
 her, but rather that it had been the old hag whom he had 
 passed on the way home. 
 
 Thus, for a few minutes, Mrs. Broguand satin a most un¬ 
 enviable state of mind, until the very desperateness of the 
 situation forced her to action. She secured the plunder more 
 compactly in the cloth and again stole onward. 
 
 When she gained her own grounds, she scaled the fence 
 and rushed through the shrubbery like a maniac ; then into 
 the dwelling and to her chamber, where she tore off her 
 male attire and resumed her own. 
 
 She understood that Buckingham was under arrest, con¬ 
 sequently there was no danger of his returning home, so she 
 did not hide the disguise. Then the thought occurred to 
 her that possibly Buckingham might be believed to be the 
 burglar that had robbed the safe of Robert Barnard, before 
 stabbing Benedict. 
 
 If so, his home would be searched. 
 
 She had always hated Buckingham, but now that feeling 
 was redoubled in intensity. 
 
 She felt that she could tear bis heart out! 
 
 In the event of a search of the house, she resolved that 
 proofs should not be wanting that would lay the burglary at 
 his door. She, therefore, pfiaced the booty in his room, and 
 then locked her own chamber, after taking a hat and cloak 
 from a closet, suitable for the night walk she had resolved 
 upon. 
 
 In five minutes more Bertha Broguand was again in the 
 street, hurrying toward the scene of the stabbing, to gain all 
 information possible in regard to her son, and also of the one 
 whom she had reared as such. 
 
 She had not gone half the distance between her home and the 
 fatal spot, however, before Buckingham returned to prepare 
 for his flight. He found his room as we have described, and 
 was convinced that Airs. Broguand, and none other, had 
 committed the robbery. But his mind was so demoralized 
 th;it he indulged in no speculations in regard to her motives 
 in pl acing the proceeds of it in his apartment. 
 
 He started, as has been stated, to return it. Before, how 
 ever, he had proceeded far, if suddenly struck him that Mrs. 
 ->roguand must have learned of the stabbing, and his arrest 
 as well, on her way home from the Barnard mansion. In 
 that case, she had placed the plunder in his room in order 
 torauher criminate him, did she find it possible to do so 
 
 Jn toe event of its being presumed or proved that he could 
 nave ion )ed the sale before meeting and assaulting Ben this 
 
FULL OF SOUOTD AN1> FURY.. 
 
 73 
 
 might be brought against him. Yet it seemed hardly reason¬ 
 able. 
 
 It will be seen, therefore, that Buckingham believed the 
 woman, who had sworn that he was her son, capable of any 
 wrong against him. His faith in hei, never very strong, was 
 now greatly shaken. 
 
 But, to return to Mrs. Broguand 
 
 She hastened to the center of excitement. There was now 
 quite a crowd present, for the news had spread on every 
 side, and both Buckingham and Benedict were tolerably 
 well known. 
 
 The presence of a woman closely veiled created no com¬ 
 ment, for it was natural that some female would be thus 
 interested in one or the other of the two young men. By 
 the time she arrived it had become generally known that 
 the accused had escaped the police, the manner of it caus¬ 
 ing much comment and exc itement 
 
 Greatly exaggerated reports were circulating in this con¬ 
 nection, but it was know n for a certainty that Buckingham 
 had knocked senseless the officer who had been leading him 
 to the station-house, had gotten free from his irons, and, 
 after stripping off the coat and cap of the fallen policeman, 
 had darted off, proceeding—a fact that was considered 
 remarkable — direcily past the house of the father of his 
 victim, who had ran out at that moment, and was felled by 
 him to the ground. A like fate had met another officer who 
 had rushed to the assistance of Mr. Barnard. 
 
 After this,*Buckingham had fled, no one knew whither, 
 but all the extra police and many detectives were searching 
 for him, and there could be little doubt that he would be 
 arrested before morning. 
 
 It was also asserted in the crowd that the two young men 
 had quarreled during the earlier portion of the evening, that 
 threats had passed, and that the dagger found had the mime 
 “ Broguand 77 engraved upon it. The evidence, therefore, 
 was overwhelming. 
 
 All this Bertha Broguand heard, and she could hardly 
 . stagger free from the throng and toward her home, so over¬ 
 powered was she by the last portion of this news. 
 
 She had been sure that it w as Dolores who had taken her 
 dagger, and not Buckingham; for lie had just ignited the 
 candle when she came into the parlor; besides, ho was then 
 on the opposite side of the room from that on which the 
 weapon had been. Yes, it must certainly have been taken 
 by Dolores. 
 
 But, if so, in what manner had it come into the possession 
 of Buckingham, unless the two had met. and, in that case. 
 
74 
 
 FULL OF SOUXD AXD FURY. 
 
 the old woman must have informed him that he was the son 
 ot Robert Barnard. 
 
 Bertha Broguand was greatly agitated. 
 
 She was unequal to the task of going to the hospital, and 
 ascertaining in regard to the condition of Benedict Barn 
 ard. 
 
 He was hers, and it would be awful to have him die, bear¬ 
 ing the name of the man who had so injured them both ; but 
 she could do nothing—not even seek his bedside — for if he 
 could speak, he would curse her for having placed him in 
 such a position. 
 
 The wretched woman was nearly insane from the whirl of 
 thoughts that were born cf the undreamed-of events of the 
 night. 
 
 She was incapable of reasoning clearly, or deciding what 
 it was best to do. 
 
 She gave not a thought, for the time being, to the gold 
 and valuables she had stolen. 
 
 Could she gain any satisfaction in the way of revenge upon 
 Robert Barnard, out of these unlooked-for happenings? 
 
 'At once it occurred to her that, even did the latter find 
 out the whole truth—get proof that Buckingham was his 
 son—he would not own him before the world. Even did 
 Ben recover, Buckingham would be convicted of assault 
 with intent to kill; and she would, in the meantime, arrange 
 a plan by which he could be charged with the robbing of 
 his own father’s safe, which would give him another term of 
 years in prison. 
 
 Not even the anguish and concern that were hers on account 
 of her own son, could keep her from viewing matters in 
 this new light. Her thirst for revenge was still her ruling 
 passion. She had impoverished Robert Barnard. She was 
 now plotting to have his son condemned to prison for many 
 years. Then, and not till then, should he know the truth. 
 
 He should be told that Buckingham Broguand, the felon, 
 was his own flesh and blood. 
 
 And her revenge, she vowed, would not even end there. 
 
 If Benedict recovered, he should work with her to that 
 ttkl; and Bianca Barnard should be made to wish she had 
 never been born. 
 
 r lhe parents, themselves, should be brought in sorrow to 
 the grave. 
 
 • °‘ which she had deprived them, would aid her 
 
 m her schemes. A part of the jewels would be sufficient to 
 
 fasten the robbery upon Buckingham. She would attend 
 to that. 
 
 As Bertha Broguand reached this stage, she found herself 
 once more at her home, and, as on the previous occasion* 
 
FULL OF SOUND AND FDliY. 
 
 75 
 
 she stole through the garden to the house. Quickly she 
 entered and crept up the stairs, after having lighted s, 
 candle in the hall. 
 
 She opened her chamber door and gazed inside suspi¬ 
 ciously. Not until then did she think of the possibility of 
 Buckingham’s seeking refuge at his home. For this reason 
 she dreaded to enter his apartment. She, therefore, pro¬ 
 ceeded to examine the other rooms, but found no trace of 
 his presence. Remounting the stairs, she could not pass 
 Buckingham’s door without ascertaining if the booty she 
 had risked so much to gain was safe. 
 
 Of course it must be, but there was no harm in making 
 sure. 
 
 Possibly Buckingham might be in his own room. 
 
 She had searched neither it nor her own. 
 
 She called out his name, but in a low voice. 
 
 There was no response, and she then opened the door. 
 
 All had the appearance of being as when she left it. But 
 a second glance was not so reassuring. 
 
 Her eyes started. Her face became like that of a corpse. 
 
 The gold, and bonds, and jewels, even the cloth in which 
 they had been, were gone ! 
 
 Madly Mrs. Broguand rushed to her own chamber, and 
 flung open the door. 
 
 She gazed along the floor. 
 
 The male costume was missing, and yet she had found the 
 door locked! 
 
 She would have shrieked, in her agony and alarm, but 
 her tongue refused to articulate. She was paralyzed by a 
 nameless dread. 
 
 At that moment a human form sprang up from behind a 
 lounge, and stood erect upon the same. It wore tho very 
 costume which she had assumed when on her burglarious 
 mission; but its hair was long and gray, and upon its fore¬ 
 head was the outline of a coffin, drawn in blood! 
 
 Bertha Broguand gave once glance of horror, and then, 
 with a loud cry, whirled and sprang toward tho stairway. 
 
 The candle was extinguished by her rapid motion, and all 
 'was darkness. 
 
 She ran frantically forward, however, a fiendish laugh 
 behind her freezing the very blood in her veins. Then she 
 fell, with another piercing shriek, and went rolling to the 
 bottom of the stairs, where she lay, silent as death, and 
 senseless. 
 
 A hideous and exultant laugh sounded from the chamber. 
 
 u Gold or death! She has lost one; has she found tho 
 other t Ha! ha! ha! No, net she. Satan protects his own! 
 
 It was the haq Dolores. 
 
LIKE a summer cloud. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 “ LIKE A SUMMER CLOUD. ” 
 
 After the gardener of the Barnards had satisfied himsel 
 that Bianca Vv T ould remain with her mother, he hurriedly 
 returned to his employer, and soon had the gratification ol 
 seeing in him signs of recovery. Ere long, Robert Barnard 
 raised his head and gazed at his servant in a strange 
 manner. 
 
 “ Do not worry yourself, sir, ” said the man. a The police 
 have gone, and all is quiet. Miss Bianca is with Mrs. Barn¬ 
 ard, who is sleeping comfortably. That is what you need, 
 too., sir ; you must try to sleep. ” 
 
 “ Sleep ? ” returned Mr. Barnard. u I shall never sleep 
 peacefully again.” 
 
 Then, seeming to realize that he was awakening wonder 
 in his servant, he continued, more naturally , 
 
 “ Brown, I am not well. You are right, I need rest. I 
 have been greatly excited, and cannot compose myself while 
 you remain in the room. I would like, however, if you 
 would kindly sit on the veranda and enjoy your pipe until 
 the morning. My daughter may need you . 79 
 
 “ But J told Miss Bianca I would remain with you, sir . 97 
 
 u Never mind. It will be all the same. She will hear 
 you go down-stairs. Leave me now to my meditations. 
 But stay — I believe T am losing my senses! Lock the front 
 door, take the pass-key, and run to the hospital! 
 
 ^ My sou was stabbed to-night while on his way home. 
 No wonder that I seem to be going out of my mind. Do 
 hurry, Brown, and bring me back word how Benedict is ! 77 
 
 The gardener stared at his employer in amazement. 
 
 “ Hasten, I sav! ” ordered Mr. Barnard, u I am speakin 
 the truth. The policeman who last arrived told me of it.” 
 
 Brown lingered no longer. He felt that it would endanger 
 Ins personal safety to do so. He began to understand the 
 cause of the second fainting fit. Doubtless it had been 
 occasioned by the dreadful news brought by the officer. 
 
 W it 1 1 this thought m his mind, the gardener hurried softly 
 down the stairs, closing and locking the outer door with 
 cars, tor he lelt that Miss Barnard would be greatly worried 
 should she hear him depart. 
 
 Brown was greatly agitated. 
 
 . H\ei’v one seemed to him to have gone crazy, and he felt 
 m danger of losing his wits himself. 
 
 W non lie overheard people by the hospital gate speak ot 
 tiie biuglary at the Barnard mansion, he was more than 
 ever d'lmbfounded. This seemed more improbable even 
 
 & 
 
Like a summer cloud. 
 
 7 ? 
 
 than the assertion of Air. Barnard that Ben was assassi¬ 
 nated. 
 
 But when he ascertained that the son of his employer 
 really lay in a dangerous condition, unable to speak, Brown 
 was almost convinced that the remainder was true also; 
 although it did appear improbable that he would have been 
 sent to the hospital in such a case, thus leaving the house 
 unguarded, with both the master and mistress ill, and the 
 daughter but little better. 
 
 • But, before he returned, he was forced to the conclusion 
 that much had transpired during the night. lie learned 
 nearly the whole particulars from excited groups of men, 
 who were talking over the strange and startling affairs 
 which had occurred. 
 
 Poor .Toe Brown hardly knew which end he stood upon, 
 after gaining this knowledge; and he was almost deter¬ 
 mined that ho would not return to the mansion, upon which 
 such an avalanche of trouble had been hurled in the short 
 space of a few hours. He was superstitious, and the stories 
 which he heard caused him to be more so. 
 
 It seemed to the gardener that some dreaded calamity 
 would befall himself did he return; but pity and sympathy 
 got the better of his fears, and he decided that he would not 
 add to the misery of his employer by absenting himself, and 
 losing a moment in relieving his mind as to the condition 
 of Ben; for Mr. Barnard might come to the conclusion that 
 his son was dead. 
 
 Brown, therefore, hastened homeward ; but only to bo 
 again dumbfounded by the discovery ho was destined to 
 make upon bis arrival. 
 
 Indeed, ho had but entered the gate when he became 
 almost paralyzed with terror. Before him stood a man, 
 with a face that was deathly pale, blazing eyes, and a 
 hunted look 
 
 But there was, in the intruder, a something more than 
 this, which startled the gardener. 
 
 It was the striking resemblance which he bore to Bianca 
 Barnard. 
 
 The stranger broke from the screen of shrubbery, from 
 around the east corner of the veranda, rushing headlong 
 toward the gate. Brown was unable to move a muscle. 
 
 The next instant he lay upon his back, struck senseless to 
 the earth. 
 
 For some time he remained thus, without recovering. 
 When he did so, he darted into the dwelling with tho utmost 
 baste, shutting and barring tho door to iusure against 
 nnother fright and attack. 
 
 But we must now return to Robert Barnard, when Brown 
 
 10 
 
78 
 
 LIKE A SUMMER CLOUD. 
 
 had set out for the hospital, leaving him alone in his 
 misery. 
 
 No sooner had the gardener left the library than Mr. 
 Barnard staggered to his feet, and began pacing the apart¬ 
 ment hack and forth — the very picture of misery. 
 
 “ Great heavens! ” he groaned, in his mental agony, “ will 
 this mystery ever be made clear ? That first blow — what 
 could it have been, but the stealing of my child from the 
 cradle and the leaving of her brat in its place ? 
 
 “ That, I am convinced, must be the awful truth. Bertha 
 has reared my boy in crime, and foisted lier’s upon me, that 
 he might be reared in luxury, and might enjoy the love and 
 care of those whom she so hates. 
 
 “ But, if this be so, can that depraved woman be so lost 
 as to detest her own child, merely because he has been raised 
 by me? Can she have influenced my son to murder hers? 
 It seems impossible, unnatural ? 
 
 “ But the woman is a monster, and is capable of anj 
 unnatural crime. To give up her own flesh and blood to ai(, 
 in the accomplishment of her revenge, proves this. 
 
 “ It is little wonder that, after seeing my poor wife brought 
 home in such a condition, and then finding my safe robbed, 
 reducing me and mine to poverty—little wonder that it so 
 paralyzed me, when I look into a face of a man so striking, 
 like what my son might have been. A glance from his eye 
 seemed to pierce me to the soul! 
 
 “ Has my heart been warm and fatherly toward Benedict, 
 since he grew beyond babyhood, and betrayed such a vicious 
 and depraved disposition f No ! Have I not often thought, 
 when he was gazing at me in anger, on account of some of 
 my expostulations and rebukes, that I recognized the ex¬ 
 pression so peculiar to her eyes ? Yes ; and miserable has 
 it caused me to be! 
 
 “ Good heavens! This will kill me. She has been merci¬ 
 less indeed, if this be really so. I was warned by Dolores 
 when it was too late. I left New Orleans with my wife and 
 child — but was it ours? My God! I wonder my brain 
 does not burst! 
 
 u She has found me again, and again her infernal work is 
 but too plainly evident. She has prevented my flight this 
 time by depriving me of my wealth, and I believe it is her 
 intention to deprive me of wife and daughter also, by some 
 
 diabolical plan that could be thought of, and executed, by 
 her only. 
 
 “I was an idiot to return to the city. I might have known 
 Bertha was not one to die until she bad caused me to drink 
 
 the cup of woo to the bitter dregs. But, my son—I must 
 have him! ; J 
 
LIKE A SUMMER CLOUD. 
 
 79 
 
 u He cannot be as depraved as she is. She shall not min 
 him. He shall not die the death of a murderer. She has 
 influenced him to some cowardly deed, but I will not believe 
 it was to kill Ben. 
 
 u That must have been a mistake. He must have been 
 made to believe him some one else, through Bertha’s base 
 
 lies. 
 
 “ I am now penniless, but the first knowledge of that fact 
 did not strike me one-tenth as deeply as the sight ot that 
 face so like Bianca’s. What shall Ido? What can I do? 
 I cannot tell my dear ones that w t o are paupers. I cannot 
 tell them my suspicions. 
 
 “ Suspicions, did I say ? They are truths — I am positive 
 of it! Ben is Bertha’s brat, and that other is my son ! ” 
 
 At that very instant, Robert Barnard was interrupted by 
 a most startling occurrence. 
 
 When Brown had first brought his employer into the 
 library, ho had raised the window to give him air; and, 
 just then, there came crashing and jingling sounds, and 
 through the window, ana upon the floor, fell the bundle of 
 plunder that had been stolen from the safe by Bertha Bro- 
 guand. The gold and glittering jewels were strewn over the 
 velvet carpet. 
 
 At the same moment, a voice sounded in the ears of the 
 dumbfounded occupant of the apartment, who sat with pallid 
 face and distended eyes gazing toward the window'— 
 
 “ There is your gold, Robert Barnard ! I return it, but 
 I did not take it from you. I have defeated your worst 
 enemy! ” 
 
 And, for an instant’s space, while these words sounded, 
 a form enters the room, the gas-light fully revealing f>oth 
 face and figure distinctly— stood none other than Bucking¬ 
 ham Broguand, the supposed assassin of Benedict Barnard, 
 and for whom police and detectives were now searching the 
 city from end to end ! 
 
 The tableau may he imagined. 
 
 As the last word was spoken, Buckingham darted back, 
 and sprang over the edgeof the veranda, in one wild leap to 
 the earth. 
 
 Robert Barnard, gasping and trembling in a pitiable 
 manner, staggered over gold and jewels toward the window^ 
 his face drawn and deathly in appearance, while he strove, 
 ?n a spasmodic manner, to cry out. But only a husky 
 whisper came from his almost colorless lips. 
 
 One must have bent low toward them to have heard the 
 gasping utterances. 
 
 “My son! Ob, merciful Father in Heaven! My son — 
 my own boy! ” 
 
 A Woman's Revenge f 
 
fcO my DlftlATS AND MY DACJUHTER. 
 
 Into the midst of the strangely restored booty, staggered 
 Robert Barnard. 
 
 The wealth that lay scattered around him was enormous. 
 All of it, however, he"would have given freely to have been 
 able to detain the young man who wildly sprang from the 
 veranda roof. 
 
 Buckingham vanished on the instant. 
 
 Robert Barnard stood for a moment, with eyes and face 
 uplifted; a perfect personification of the most fearful mental 
 torture, his thin lips seeming to move, as if in prayer. 
 
 Then his form swayed back and forth, and he sank upon 
 the floor, amid gold, and jewels, and wealth in bonds and 
 stocks, but which were as nothing to the love he craved 
 from the one so long lost, and now perhaps lost to him for¬ 
 ever. 
 
 He could never again be deceived in that one particular. 
 
 In so far, Bertha Broguand’s plots must henceforth fail. 
 
 In form and poise, gesture and bearing, face, complexion, 
 and in the very intonation of voice, the truth had at length 
 been proclaimed to Robert Barnard. 
 
 In that window had just stood the son stolen from him in 
 infancy! 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 U MY DUCATS AND MY DAUGHTER. ” 
 
 Desperate, indeed, had Buckingham Broguaud become, 
 when he reached the grounds of Robert Barnard, bearing 
 the treasure which he proposed returning to its lawful 
 owner. 
 
 Many a narrow escape had he made from being arrested, 
 while making his way by a circuitous route, to the mansion 
 ot the man who had fainted at merely beholding him. He 
 knew that the city was being searched for him, and that his 
 movements must be guarded as well as rapid. 
 
 V bat would he not have given to have known positively 
 his own history and identity? 
 
 Yet, what "would that avail him nov r ? 
 
 He was, in the eyes of the law. a criminal, and was being 
 hunted by all. 7 
 
 . ^ ver J man’s hand was against him; and the woman who 
 bad roared him as her son had done so only that she might 
 
 avenge herself in that w r ay, and use him as a tool to further 
 her schemes. 
 
 Of this, the young man was confident. 
 
 Even were he now to ascertain his real parentage^ it would 
 
MY DUCATS ASD MY DAUGHTER. 
 
 81 
 
 only bring disgrace upon those whom he might have the 
 power to claim. 
 
 It was true that, for all ho knew, his parents might them¬ 
 selves be degraded and criminal. But this ho could not 
 bring himself to believe. 
 
 He dared not entertain the thought that he might bo the 
 son of Robert Barnard and the brother of Bianca; for, if 
 such were the case, he had had disgrace thrust upon him — 
 criminal disgrace — although through no act of his own. 
 Just the opposite, for it had been through his pity, in rush¬ 
 ing to the aid of the wounded man, whom, to his astonishment 
 and grief, he found to be Benedict Barnard. 
 
 The evidence against him had been too plain for refutal ,* 
 indeed, ho acknowledged that he himself would have been 
 positive of the guilt of any person who had been found by 
 the side of a man just stabbed, and with his name engraved 
 upon the dagger. 
 
 There was no hope to bo looked for from Mrs. Broguand, 
 and certainly none from the real criminal. 
 
 All Buckingham could look forward to was the possibility 
 
 that Ben Barnard would recover sufficient 1 v to reveal the 
 
 * 
 
 circumstances connected with the assault, and describe tlie 
 person who had stabbed him. But it would not do to depend 
 upon such a bare possibility. 
 
 Ho would, if arrested, be held for assault with intent tc 
 kill, for assault upon an officer in discharge of his duty, 
 and, in addition, should Benedict die. for murder. And it 
 would be beyond his power to prove himself innocent. 
 
 He must get out of the city before daylight, or he was 
 lost. 
 
 He determined to resist arrest, to hurl from his path all 
 who confronted him. 
 
 Such were his decisions when he reached the home of 
 Robert Barnard; and, when he sprang from the veranda 
 on his return, he was prepared for desperate flight. 
 
 But, as Buckingham touched the ground, he turned tc 
 gaze up at a lighted window, and his heart ceased beating 
 at the picture he beheld. 
 
 There, between window and curtain, was Bianca Barnard, 
 appearing almost ethereally beautiful, her eyes fixed in in¬ 
 tense wonder upon him ; for ho had sprung far out from the 
 veranda. Evidently the maiden had seen and recognized 
 him before he bounded from the roof. She was more thar 
 usually pale, as was Buckingham himself. 
 
 Not unt:’ tin 1 had this struck him. 
 
 Perhaps the suspicions he had lately entertained led him 
 to be more observing. 
 
82 
 
 MY DUCATS AND MY DAUGHTER 
 
 Never before had he been so strongly impressed by the 
 young girl's appearance. 
 
 And why ? 
 
 He saw, in one glance, that Bianca Barnard and himself 
 strongly resembled each other. 
 
 He then recalled his long conversation with Mrs. Bro- 
 
 guand. ' • 
 
 She had asked him if Kobert Barnard’s daughter was not 
 
 naturally pale, in such a tone, and with such a manner, that 
 he had thought it strange at the time. 
 
 Bianca drew back quickly. 
 
 “ It must be! ” the young man exclaimed. “ What have 
 I ever done, that I must lose so much ? Is there no justice 
 on earth? ” 
 
 Madly Buckingham dashed through the shrubbery, and 
 almost upon Brown, the gardener, whom he believed to be 
 heading him off. He struck the terrified man a blow that 
 knocked him senseless, and then sped out from the gate and 
 down the street. 
 
 On ho rushed toward the levee — toward the broad and 
 muddy u Father of Waters.” 
 
 When first arrested, the young man had worn a long- 
 skirted light coat and a black "soft hat. These he had 
 replaced, on his returning home, with a black coat and a 
 light hat with wide brim." This last he pulled low down on 
 his forehead, and, to further disguise himself, he had thrust 
 into his pocket a set of long whiskers, once worn by him in 
 amateur theatricals. 
 
 This he now adjusted upon bis face as he ^eft behind him 
 the home of Robert Barnard, which now contained, as he 
 felt persuaded, all on earth to whom his love and respect 
 were due; of whose affection and society Bertha Broguand 
 had deprived him. Most bitter was his hatred now for that 
 base woman. 
 
 Buckingham knew in his heart that those whom she had 
 followed with such an inhuman hatred were good and noble, 
 well worthy the respect of the best and highest. 
 
 Yet he had not the hope to cheer him that he would ever 
 be recognized by them as a friend, much less a relative. 
 
 He was now a fugitive from justice, an ignominious death, 
 or at least a long incarceration in a prison, awaiting his 
 recapture. Yet lie had no definite plan of escape. In fact, 
 he could not, in his misery, determine \a what direction to 
 
 fly-. 
 
 His brain had been in an agonizing whirl for so long g 
 time that he longed for rest and a secure place to ponder 
 and plan. 
 
MY DAUGHTER AND MY DUCATS. 
 
 83 
 
 Few would, under the circumstances, have chosen the 
 point he at length decided upon. 
 
 He made his way, as di r ect as was possible, to Jackson 
 Square, and, although the police headquarters were on one 
 side of the same, strode boldly in. But a short distance 
 from the equestrian statue of “ Old Hickory ” he threw him¬ 
 self upon the grass beneath the branches of a clump of 
 oleanders, the perfume of the blossoms filling the air, and 
 having an agreeable and soothing influence upon the unfortu¬ 
 nate and much-wronged young man. 
 
 Buckingham had slept but little the previous night, and 
 he knew that if he lay long in his present position, he would 
 fall asleep, and this would, most certainly, result in his 
 arrest. 
 
 Consequently he strove to form a plan for his future move¬ 
 ments, and sat up against the trunk of an oleander, facing 
 the river, which was but a short distance from him. 
 
 The sky was filled with scattering clouds, which almost 
 continually, as they floated through the sky, hid the moon 
 from view; but, at times, Dame Luna struggled forth free, 
 and transformed the murky waters ot “Tie Mississippi into a 
 vast expanse of seeming molten silver, only to be rendered 
 darker and more desolate, more like the river of death, 
 when the moon was again covered with clouds. 
 
 Afar across the broad river glittered like tiny sparks the 
 lights of Algiers ; and the hunted young man longed to be 
 there, where he would be, for a time at least, comparatively 
 safe. 
 
 He knew that he must arrive at some decision in regard 
 to his future movements very soon, as, in the course of an 
 hour or so, it would be morning. Already, indeed, were 
 some of the earlier risers proceeding toward the French 
 Market. 
 
 But the longer he lingered the less inclined w as ho to 
 depart from the city. 
 
 He was confident that he could secrete himself on some 
 one of the river steamboats; but he felt, after thinking of 
 the events of the night, that he would risk everything rather 
 than fly to distant parts, thus placing it beyond his power 
 to ever know the secret of his birth and family history. 
 
 Then it occurred to him that could he again meet the old 
 hag, to whom he owed his present condition of mind and 
 body, he might prevail upon her to tell him what she knew 
 of Mrs. Broguand and himself. Even by spying upon her . 
 he might learn much. 
 
 He knew that Bertha Broguand would now have so strong 
 a hatred against him that she would seek his life. She 
 
84 
 
 THE POUND OF FLESH, 
 
 would believe that he had stolen lier dagger, and with it 
 stabbed the one who was in reality her son. 
 
 She would also know that he had deprived her of the 
 fortune which she had stolen from Robert Barnard. Great, 
 indeed, would be her fury. 
 
 His one fear m connection with her, however, was that 
 she would now do some terrible deed to fulfill her oath of 
 vengeance against the family of Robert Barnard. 
 
 He knew that she was capable of any crime, however 
 fiendish. 
 
 She might murder Mrs. Barnard — he must not even think 
 of her as his mother, lest the thought of his life-long loss 
 should drive him mad. She might sneak into the house, as 
 she had done when she robbed the safe, and stab the injured 
 lady in her bed. The thought was horrible ! 
 
 Again, she might hire desperate and crime-stained men 
 to abduct Bianca, either event breaking the heart of Robert 
 Barnard. 
 
 Such meditations, such possibilities, served to make 
 Buckingham almost frantic, and caused him to swear that 
 he would not fly, and leave the Barnard family to the mercy 
 of such a fiend as Bertha Broguand, 
 
 No sooner had he arrived at this decision than he, by 
 another course, made his way back to his former home, 
 arriving just before-daybreak at the rear portion of the 
 grounds of Mrs. Broguand. 
 
 Climbing a board fence, he kept himself screened from 
 view by stealing through the shrubbery and gaining a small 
 stable which had for some time been vacant. 
 
 Stealing up a ladder to a loft, upon which was some hay, 
 poor Buckingham cast his weary form upon the same, and, 
 notwithstanding his tortured state of mind, soon fell into a 
 heavy slumber. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 “ TIIE POUND OF FLESH. ” 
 
 When Benedict Barnard had been taken to the hospital 
 he was; in reality, more dead than alive. 
 
 His wound, however, was skillfully dressed by*the attend¬ 
 ing surgeons, who pronounced it a serious case. They 
 knew that the young man had been indulging freely during 
 the evening, and therefore ordered that brandy should be 
 given him.. Without this he would have had terrible 
 spasms, which would have kept his wound in violent hem¬ 
 orrhage, and must have resulted in his death in a short 
 time. 
 
THE POUND OF FLESH 
 
 85 
 
 As it was, he had lost a large quantity of blood, which 
 caused him to te as weak as an infant. 
 
 In addition to this, the large amount of vile liquor that he 
 had drunk had the usual bad effect upon his brain. 
 
 Indeed, he seemed not to notice anv of those who stood 
 about his couch, or to realize where he was or the danger 
 he was in. 
 
 His eyes were open, but were glassy and expressionless, 
 and were fixed in a stony stare at one point in the ceding, 
 directly above his head. Ilis arms lay listless, and he made 
 no effort to move a muscle. 
 
 When addressed, he showed no indication that ho was 
 aware of the fact. And yet he was conscious, and under¬ 
 stood every word that was spoken, although Ins brain was 
 in such a state that nothing made any impression. 
 
 Had one of the surgeons caught up a knife and cried out, 
 as he thrust it toward the breast of the wounded man, “ I’ll 
 kill him and end his misery!” Ben Barnard would neither 
 have winked nor cringed. His brain was, to a certain extent, 
 benumbed; incapable of entertaining fear or concern, joy 
 or sorrow — in short, he lay in a trance-like state. 
 
 As to the near past, events might have been dreams for 
 aught he could tell to the contrary. 
 
 lie had sufficient sense, however, to know that lie was 
 badly wounded. He could hear, too, the whole affair talked 
 over by those who were near his bed. 
 
 Often he heard Buckingham Broguand mentioned as the 
 man who had stabbed him, but never that any other was 
 suspected; hence it was not strange that lie believed 
 his friend had attempted to assassinate him; and, if the 
 actual facts as to his being assaulted by the old hag 
 occurred to him, lie considered it but a dream, or ono of 
 many frightful fancies that had flitted through his brain, 
 without any attempt or exertion on his part to think of 
 anything. 
 
 Strange visions flitted before his mind, hut, from hearing 
 the mention of his associate, Buckingham Broguand, the 
 face of tho latter was brought more frequently before his 
 mental vision; and, had he been equal to the exertion, he 
 would have been furious, murderously so, against his 
 treacherous friend. 
 
 For the scene at the bar-room, when Buckingham and he 
 had quarreled, was also dreamily brought before his 
 mind. 
 
 Opiates, sufficient to have operated favorably upon 
 several strong men, were administered to the wounded man 
 before his eyelids slowly closed, and at length he slept, but 
 
86 
 
 THE POUND OF FLESH. 
 
 it resembled the sleep of the dead, there being hardly a 
 perceptible respiration. 
 
 At the last there had been but one physician in attend¬ 
 ance, and those who had at first lingered by the bedside 
 had done so more from curiosity than to volunteer advice to 
 theii brother doctor who had the case in hand. They had 
 hoped to hear the patient speak and reveal something of 
 the circumstances connected with the assault upon him, for 
 they had learned of the escape of Buckingham and the fell¬ 
 ing'of two police officers and the wounded man’s father by 
 the accused. Their amazement and curiosity were, there¬ 
 fore, no more than natural. 
 
 These had, as has been mentioned, ali departed. 
 
 Benedict Barnard had been placed in a small room by 
 himself, as it was known that his father was a man of means 
 and good social position, and that he would pay well for the 
 attendance and other expenses in connection with the case. 
 
 A man was detailed to remain with the patient, and to 
 supply him with brandy should there be need when he 
 awakened, although it was not believed he would recover 
 from the effects of the drug before the morning at least. 
 However, this was possible as his brain was in a strange 
 condition 
 
 Directions in regard to the wound were also given to the 
 attendant, who was attached to the hospital, and he was 
 left alone with his patient. 
 
 It so happened that this nurse was a kind of masculine 
 Gamp, in whose hands liquor was not safe at certain times, 
 and upon this particular night a strong craving ruled him 
 for stimulants, the odor of the brandy being more than he 
 could well resist. 
 
 So it was that he drank, and, as he felt sleepy, drank 
 again, as there was no change in his charge, and he did not 
 believe the patient would awaken before daylight. 
 
 Long before the gray streaks of coming morning were to 
 be distinguished, the attendant was asleep — as perfectly 
 unconscious of his surroundings as was his patient. 
 
 ^ hile he thus slept, a private ambulance stopped at the 
 gate of the hospital, and two men alighted, presenting an 
 order from the surgeon who had Ben’s case in charge, to 
 deliver the patient to those who should call for him, that he 
 might he taken to the house of his father The guard at 
 the gate was a new man, unaccustomed to his duties, and, 
 in consequence, those who came for the patient were allowed 
 to proceed at will. 
 
 Lie condition of the nurse favored them, and, lifting the 
 nanow iron bedstead, they boro it and its occupant to the 
 am ulance, and, placing it inside, drove slowly away, giving 
 
THE POUND OF FLESH. 
 
 87 
 
 the gatekeeper a quarter-eagle, which pleased him not a 
 liotle, although when he received his dismissal in the morn- 
 iug he was not quite so joyous. 
 
 The amazement of the attendant upon awakening —he 
 having slept in his chair — may be imagined, when he found 
 that not only his patient, but bed and bedding as well, had 
 vanished. He had really expected that his charge would 
 be dead by morning, but it did seem as though he had lit¬ 
 erally taken up his bed and walked away. 
 
 The ambulance in which was the sleeping form of Ben 
 Barnard was driven to the home of Mrs. Broguand, the 
 house being in darkness, as far as could be determined from 
 the street. Quickly the bed and its occupant were conveyed 
 within, and to a small chamber in the rear of the upper 
 story, the door of which was concealed by drapery. The 
 men laid down their burden. 
 
 There was a candle in the room. 
 
 The next moment a woman appeared. 
 
 It was Bertha Broguand, and she seemed more like a 
 corpse than a living, breathing woman. Her forehead was 
 bandaged, and her appearance was ghastly in the ex¬ 
 treme. 
 
 She extended her hands to the two men. 
 
 In each was a roll of coin. 
 
 They took the money, while they gazed in dread, not 
 unmixed with horror, upon the giver. Then she spoke. 
 
 “ Swear that nothing of this shall pass your lips. I have 
 more work for you soon. 99 
 
 u We swear! ” was the response. 
 
 “ And if you do not keep your oaths your hearts’ blood 
 shall pay the forfeit. Go ! ” 
 
 The men stood not upon the order of their going. They 
 acted as if greatly relieved to get away from that gloomy 
 abode. Springing into the ambnlance they whipped up the 
 horses and sped away. 
 
 Bertha Broguand followed them to the outer door, and 
 stood on the threshold until they had driven away. Then, 
 satisfied that they had not been observed, that no one was 
 anywhere near on the street, she secured the door and fairly 
 flew up the stairs. At once she darted into that back 
 chamber and closed the door. 
 
 Then she stood beside the bed, swaying, gasping for 
 breath, and trembling from head to foot. 
 
 For the first time since his infancy she gazed upon her 
 own son, now as weak and helpless as when, in the long 
 ago, she had clasped his baby form to her breast. Ho had 
 been all that she cared for on earth, and yet she had ban- 
 
88 
 
 THE POUND OF FLESH. 
 
 ished him in order that she might carry out a fiendish plan 
 for vengeance. 
 
 It was a startling and impressive scene. 
 
 It was more than that—it was horrible; for the son 
 appeared like a corpse, and the mother was little less so. 
 
 No one could have beheld them without repulsion and 
 horror, and no one would have looked within that room a 
 second time. 
 
 For a few moments Mrs. Broguand stood as if at any 
 instant she might fall senseless; her mouth was agape, and 
 her eyes fearful in expression. Remorse the most cankering 
 for the time seemed to rule her. 
 
 Then she sank upon her knees by the side of the couch, 
 and tremblingly her hands wandered toward those of the 
 sleeping man. 
 
 It did not seem to her that he could possibly be living. 
 So her expression indicated. But she felt his pulse, and 
 then her joy and relief was manifest. Slowly her head sank 
 forward, and her lips were pressed to his forehead. 
 
 Her whole frame continued to tremble. 
 
 It seemed that tears could not come, and that her anguish 
 was driving her insane. 
 
 Her eyes, as well as her actions, indicated great mental 
 agony. Low moans occasionally escaped her. She touched 
 the hands of the sleeper gently, and then his face, and softly 
 smoothed his disordered hair. She seemed at times to be 
 picturing to herself the wound in his breast, and that in an 
 exaggerated manner. 
 
 Her glassy eyes were burning, as if the natural moisture 
 had been long since exhausted; but there was a tenderness 
 and a love expressed in their depths for the man who lay 
 before her, unsuited though any such emotions seemed to 
 one like Bertha Broguand. There was little of the human 
 mother in it. She appeared more like a ferocious she-wolf 
 watching over her cub. 
 
 At length she carefully drew down the clothes, exposing 
 the blood-stained bandages; but she shuddered greatly, 
 and, quickly returning them to their place, she sprang to 
 her feet. Again she was herself—a merciless avenger. 
 
 Without another glance at the bed she walked up and 
 down the apartment, her form bent forward and her eyes 
 lixed upon the carpet. Her lingers were clinched tightly 
 
 into the palms of her hands, and there was murder in her 
 look. 
 
 Back and forth, like a caged animal, walked Bertha the 
 Merciless back and forth beside the couch of her son — 
 the child of sh ime! The child whose love and companion¬ 
 ship she had denied herself since his earliest infancy, and 
 
I'LL DO, I'LL DO, AND i’ll DO. 
 
 89 
 
 *hat in order that she might carry out a long-cherished 
 scheme — a scheme of sworn revenge. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 u I’LL DO, i’ll DO, AND l’LL DO. v 
 
 We must now make some explanation in regard to the 
 movements of Dolores, and how it was that she came to be 
 m the house of Mrs. Broguand. It has been previously 
 mentioned that Buckingham, from his covert in the park, 
 beheld the old hag who had, by her murderous act, placed 
 him in such a dread position, hastening in the direction of 
 the Barnard mansion. 
 
 This was after the policeman, who had been knocked 
 down at the gate, had recovered, and, hurrying to the scene 
 of the assassination, had made known the facts connected 
 with his visit to Robert Barnard. 
 
 Not far did Dolores proceed, however, when she paused, 
 and with a gleeful ejaculation changed her course toward 
 that part of the city in which was located the dwelling of 
 the woman she so hated, and whom she now intended to 
 baffle in her schemes. 
 
 The offlcer had stated in her hearing, that the safe of Mr. 
 Barnard had been robbed, but she did not at that moment 
 suspect who had committed the burglary. This was what 
 now caused her change of course. It had suddenly struck 
 her that Bertha Broguand was the robber. 
 
 Dolores had good reasons for thus deciding. 
 
 In the first place she knew that Mrs. Broguand was cap¬ 
 able of committing the deed, and that it would be one move 
 toward avenging herselt. Secondly, it would furnish her 
 with the means of further accomplishing her revenge. 
 
 Doubtless the warning missive which she had left had 
 greatly influenced tlie desperate woman in the matter. 
 
 Thus reasoned Dolores- 
 
 Bertha Broguand, with ample means at her command, 
 could bribe lawless men to do her bidding Without this 
 she would havo to depend upon herself alone, lor by this time 
 she would probably have come to the conclusion that Buck¬ 
 ingham had been informed by the or.e she most feared that 
 he wa,s not the son of the woman who had reared him as 
 3uch. 
 
 Again, with Barnard’s gold once in her possession, Bertha 
 could bribe the woman whom, in the long ago, she had hired 
 an assassin to put out of the way, but who had suddenly 
 
90 I 7 LL DO, I’LL DO, AND I’LL DO. 
 
 come upon the scene, as from the dead, to stand once more 
 in her way. 
 
 The warning had implied , indeed had signified as much. 
 
 Having thus reflected, Dolores had no doubt that Mrs. 
 Broguand had robbed the safe, taking advantage of the 
 excitement which had been caused by the accident to Mrs. 
 Barnard. The means by which she had accomplished the 
 deed were, however, of little moment; but the old hag 
 resolved to satisfy herself more fully. 
 
 Her future plans depended upon this. 
 
 Robert Barnard poor would be a far different man from 
 Robert Barnard rich—at least to her —for her aim was 
 both to gain gold and right wrong at the same time, if pos¬ 
 sible. As far as Mrs. Broguand was concerned, Dolores 
 was confident of baffling her, and extorting money from her 
 at the same time. 
 
 She had determined that Buckingham should know his 
 own history, but it must be at her convenience, although 
 she had hoped to have done so before he had been placed in 
 a position of such danger. He had now her warmest sym¬ 
 pathy and respect, hag though she was, and apparently 
 without any regard for aught in the world except herself. 
 
 As she plodded on toward the house of Mrs. Broguand, 
 the latter was going out from it to gather information in 
 regard to her son, after leaving her plunder in the apart¬ 
 ment of Buckingham. 
 
 Dolores gained admittance through a window in the rear 
 of the dwelling that had been left unfastened. But, as she 
 climbed inside, she heard some one leaving the dwelling 
 stealthily by the front entrance. She therefore remained in 
 her position, not daring to move for fear of betraying her 
 presence, and little thinking that the person she had heard 
 was Buckingham, or that he would come around to the rear 
 of the house. 
 
 To her astonishment, however, she beheld him and recog¬ 
 nized him, even in the doubtful light, as he passed through 
 a space that was clear of shrubbery. She also saw that he 
 carried a heavy bundle. 
 
 More than this, Dolores heard the slight jingle of metal, 
 and this put the old woman’s thoughts into quick action. 
 
 She lingered not by the window, but hastened to the par¬ 
 lor in front. She knew that Buckingham was now some 
 distance away, and also that Mrs. Broguand was not at 
 
 home or she would have heard some words spoken between 
 them. 
 
 . Indeed, had Buckingham returned and Bertha been 
 informed by him of the stabbing of Benedict Barnard, and 
 that he stood charged with it ; Dolores felt positive that he 
 
I'LL DO, I'LL DO, AND I’LL DO. 
 
 91 
 
 would never again have set foot outside the dwelling. She 
 believed that the woman who had reared him as her son 
 would have murdered him then and there, regardless of his 
 protestations of innocence. 
 
 The street reports, had she heard the same, would have 
 convinced Mrs. Broguand of the guilt of Buckingham, espe¬ 
 cially after her interview with Dolores, for she would now 
 be convinced that the secret had been revealed, and that 
 Buckingham had slain ten for having so long usurped his 
 place and name, thus robbing him of home and parental 
 care and training 
 
 Feeling secure, Dolores procured a light and v it limit 
 delay ascended the stairs, and began an inspection of the 
 upper rooms. 
 
 She was prepared for any emergency with skeleton keys 
 and lock picks, and therefore found no difficulty in entering 
 Mrs. Broguand’s room. 
 
 The first glance revealed the male disguise, thrown care¬ 
 lessly upon the floor. 
 
 No longer was there the slightest doubt in the mind of 
 Dolores in regard to the burglary at the Barnard mansion. 
 
 It had, indeed, been Bertha Broguand. but, then, what 
 had she done with the booty f 
 
 She could not have carried it away. 
 
 It was evident that she must have left the house in a 
 great hurry, alter having resumed her own garments. This 
 implied that she must have heard something in connection 
 with the stabbing of Benedict Barnard. 
 
 For no other reason would she have been in such haste, 
 or so careless as to leave the disguise she had worn 
 unsecreted. 
 
 Thus the old hag decided at once, and she decided to 
 search for the gold. 
 
 There was no trace of it in Bertha’s chamber, so she 
 sought the apartment of Buckingham. She had seen the 
 young man depart with a bundle, and had believed at the 
 time that he was taking some clothiug, intending to lice the 
 city; but she felt a curiosity to examine his room closely. 
 
 It was by no means impossible that Mrs. Broguand might 
 have placed the plunder there, in order that should the 
 house be searched she would not bo suspected as the thief, 
 and thus further lisgrace W'ould be heaped upon the one 
 she so hated. 
 
 Looking around carefully Dolores saw a diamond bracelet 
 and a roll of gold coin lying upon the carpet. Then she 
 thought of the bundle Buckingham had taken with him. 
 It was not clothing. It had been absurd to suppose this. 
 What he had carried otf was the booty brought by Bertaa 
 
92 
 
 I’LL DO, i’ll DO, AND I'LL DO. 
 
 from the house of Robert Barnard — Dolores was satisfied 
 of this 
 
 " The*roll and the bracelet had fallen from the parcel, and 
 had not been perceived by him. this, beyond a ciouht, was 
 
 the fact of the case. 
 
 What now would Buckingham do with the plunder'? 
 Dolores did not believe he intended appropriating it to 
 
 his own use. 
 
 She now recollected that she had called him by tne name 
 of Benedict Barnard, when in the dark alley, as she released 
 him from the custody of the policeman. Had he noticed 
 this ? Could he have previously entertained any suspicions 
 that* he was not the son of Mrs. Broguand? If so, the 
 thought that Robert Barnard might be his father might 
 cause him to return the property to the owner. . 
 
 He must have known that Mr. Barnard’s safe had been 
 robbed, and then upon finding this vast wealth in his apart¬ 
 ment, had decided that Bertha Broguand was the guilty 
 party from his knowledge of her character as well as her 
 feelings to the Barnards. 
 
 Satisfied in this connection as far as she could be under 
 the circumstances, Dolores resolved to make sure — 
 to know beyond all doubt in this respect — by remaining 
 until Mrs. Brogaund returned. 
 
 She also determined .to give her enemy another fright. 
 With this in view Dolores quickly changed her attire for 
 that which Mrs. Broguand had worn, even to the boots and 
 hat. 
 
 She then secreted her own clothing, first making sure of 
 the roil of gold and the bracelet. 
 
 Then -he got herself up as described, and hid beneath 
 the lounge. It was a decidedly cramped position, but she 
 was detained not to remain long in it. 
 
 She had relocked the door and extinguished the candle. 
 Not a sign or a trace was there to indicate that an intruder 
 had been in the dwelling. 
 
 Soon Dolores heard Mrs. Broguand unlock the door 
 and enter. The latter advanced up the stairs and opened 
 her chamber door, glancing inside hurriedly As she passed 
 across Tie hall to the door of Buckingham’s room the old 
 hag immediately sprang up, removed the boots from her 
 feet, and stole out, just in time to see the mistress of the 
 house when she discovered that the plunder was missing. 
 
 Had there been any doubts in the mind of Dolores all 
 would have been removed by a glance at the face of the 
 amazed and enraged woman. It was clear to her that 
 Buckingham had been there and had taken the boooty 
 away with him. 
 
93 
 
 i’ll do, i’ll DO, and i’ll do. 
 
 Dolores hastened back and concealed herself, again 
 appearing to Mrs. Broguand as the latter returned to her 
 chamber. 
 
 No sooner had the strange old being become satisfied that 
 she had accomplished her object than she procured her own 
 clothing, bound it in a compact bundle, and stole out from 
 the house in the same way in which she had entered, leav¬ 
 ing Mrs. Broguand at the foot of the stairs in a senseless 
 condition, her forehead bruised and bleeding. She then 
 crawled off into the dense shrubbery and seated herself to 
 rest, and ponder and plan for the future. 
 
 She had gained an excellent disguise and a considerable 
 sum of money, besides information that might be very 
 valuable to her. 
 
 But she had been in this position but a few moments 
 when she heard a loud knocking upon the front door of the 
 house. She arose and stole to a point from w hich she could 
 gain a view of the entrance without being discovered, and 
 where she could hear anything that might be said. 
 
 The knocking increased, and gruff demands to open the 
 door followed. 
 
 Dolores could see lanterns flash upon uniformed men, 
 some of whom went around to the back of the house. The 
 old woman devoutly thanked the fates that she had left the 
 house just in the nick of time, for she knew that these 
 parties were the police, wdio had come to search the house 
 for Buckingham. 
 
 The confusion increased. The door was kicked vio¬ 
 lently, and pretty soon Dolores heard t he voice of Bertha 
 Broguand. 
 
 The next moment the door was opened, and the officers 
 entered, searched the house and departed. 
 
 Dolores came to the conclusion that Bertha had, in some 
 plausible maimer, accounted for her bruised head, or, possi¬ 
 bly, she had wrapped a cloth around it, and asserted that 
 she had been sleeping soundly. 
 
 Whether she pretended to the police that she knew noth¬ 
 ing of the assassination, or of Buckingham’s being impli¬ 
 cated, or the whereabouts of the latter, the old hag neither 
 knew nor cared. 
 
 It was sufficient that the search had been made when 
 neither she nor the suspected young man was inside j and 
 this was much for which to be thankful. 
 
 Feeling now pretty positive that the officers would not 
 rettifn, and that Buckingham had not yet been re arrested, 
 Dolores, who was now almost prostrated with fatigue, crept 
 to an unoccupied stable, which she knew the police had 
 searched, climbed a ladder, crawled over some hay to a spot 
 16 
 
94 
 
 POISONED WITH A LIE. 
 
 at some distance from tlio place at which she had entered 
 the loft, and cast herself down. 
 
 In a little time she was in a profound slumber. 
 
 An hour or so afterward, Buckingham Broguand came to 
 the same ladder, and threw himself upon the hay hut a 
 short distance from old Dolores. 
 
 But he knew nothing of her presence i and he, too, soon 
 fell asleep. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 “ POISONED WITH A LIE. ” 
 
 Bertha Brogtjand, although she recovered her con¬ 
 sciousness soon after her fall, was in no hurry to open the 
 door at the summons of the police. 
 
 She lighted a candle, and rushing up to her own apart¬ 
 ment, arranged her disordered attire; then she assumed an 
 air of alarm, and feigned not to believe they were officers of 
 the law who demanded admittance. 
 
 None of the police mentioned the name of her supposed 
 son, for obvious reasons. They were satisfied she knew 
 nothing of the assassination almost as soon as they entered; 
 for she forbade their searching the house, and vowed that 
 when her son returned he would enter complaint against 
 them all at headquarters. 
 
 The officers did not care to inform her of what had hap¬ 
 pened, and excused themselves, after searching the prem¬ 
 ises, and departed; knowing that she would be made aware 
 but too soon, for her own peace of mind, of the crime of her 
 son. Only one of them, a shrewd-faced man of courtly 
 manners, endeavored deftly to lead her to reveal something 
 of the mysteries of the night. 
 
 In this, however, he was unsuccessful. 
 
 Bertha Broguand had acted her part well. None of her 
 visitors suspected, for a moment, that she knew aught of 
 what had happened. 
 
 Great would have been their astonishment, had they been 
 told that the woman whom they found so indignant at being 
 disturbed had, but a short time previous, committed a most 
 daring robbery in the very heart of the city. 
 
 Notwithstanding all the fatigue and excitement she had 
 ! uat night undergone, Mrs. Broguand, after the departure 
 01 p. 6 made ready for another out-door mission. 
 
 rust, however, she seated herself at a table, and wrote 
 an order for the delivery of Benedict Barnard to the bear- 
 ' 01 £ m & the signature of the physician who had taken 
 
POISONED WITH A LIE. 
 
 95 
 
 charge of the wounded young man, and whose name she 
 Lad, fortunately for her object, gained from parties whom 
 she had overheard conversing on the street, when she had 
 last been on a tour of discovery. 
 
 This done, she again locked up the house, although that 
 precaution had before proved useless, and hurried to a 
 quarter of the city where congregated low and lawless men 
 and women. 
 
 That Bertha was acquainted with the head of the house 
 she visited was evident, as she was received with much 
 distinction, and given a private interview. This resulted 
 in the summoning of two men from an upper room, who, 
 after a short consultation, and having received some money, 
 departed on the errand for which they had been sought and 
 bribed. 
 
 This was neither more nor less than for them to convey 
 Ben Barnard, dangerously wounded though he was, to her 
 residence; full directions how they were to proceed being 
 given the pair, should their petition be denied them. They 
 were to knock down the guard at the gate, and the attend¬ 
 ant, if necessary, to carry out their object. 
 
 As they had long been out of money and a job, it was 
 tolerably certain that they might be depended upon for the 
 fulfillment of their mission, especially as they were to 
 receive a heavy reward upon the delivery of the young 
 man alive and unharmed, further than he had already been 
 by the knife of the assassin. 
 
 After the departure of these men, Airs. Broguand made 
 arrangements for a negro dwarf to be at her place before 
 daylight, and to serve her in any way or manner she should 
 choose to direct. 
 
 We have already seen how the two ruffians succeeded, 
 but it may also be stated that when the ambulance drove 
 up to the mansion Buckingham, aroused from his sleep in 
 the hayloft, heard the vehicle stop. Instantly he groped 
 his way to the ladder and down the same, hastening amid 
 the shrubbery to a point from which he could gain a view of 
 the front garden. 
 
 To sav that he was astonished at what ho saw would but 
 •/ 
 
 mildly express it. 
 
 There was but one person whom Buckingham could bring 
 to mind as the possible occupant of that hospital bed. 
 
 But how could they have gotten him out ? 
 
 It seemed impossible. 
 
 The young man began to think he must be dreaming. 
 
 But "the return of the pair of ruffians to the house and 
 their rapid departure was too real, and ho went back to his 
 
 A Woman's Revtngs 7 % 
 
96 
 
 POISONED WITH A LIE. 
 
 hiding-place the most bewildered of men as to the object 
 Mrs. Broguand could have in view. 
 
 If Ben was really this woman’s son. why had she thus 
 removed him from the hospital, where the best of attention 
 would have been hist She must have known that to 
 remove him might be the cause of his death. 
 
 Perhaps the unfortunate young man was already dead, 
 and the body had been given up to her. 
 
 If so, in the eyes of the law he, Buckingham Broguand, 
 was a murderer. 
 
 But there was another hypothesis, and the bare thought 
 of it took the young man’s breath away. 
 
 Was it possible that this fiendish woman was about to 
 make sure of the death of her son in order that she might 
 insure the hanging of the son of Robert Barnard ? 
 
 Time alone would tell 
 
 Buckingham was resolved, if possible, to sleep, for it was 
 tolerably certain that there would be no use in further spy¬ 
 ing around the house that night, and he decided it would 
 be very imprudent for him to enter the house, even in a 
 secret manner. 
 
 He strove to sleep, but without avail; and again he found 
 himself thinking deeply of Bertha’s latest move. 
 
 A thought struck him, and he sprang up. 
 
 The two men whom he had seen were desperadoes — he 
 would stake his life on that. 
 
 They were not hospital attendants. 
 
 They were low villains, who had been hired by Mrs. Bro¬ 
 guand to get possession of Ben. 
 
 It was all very mysterious; but had Buckingham seen 
 the hideous negro dwarf arrive and enter the dwelling, he 
 would have been still more mystified. 
 
 Of one thing only he was certain. He was in great peril. 
 An ignominious death threatened him, and he had no hope 
 of being proved innocent should Ben Barnard die. 
 
 Tired nature, however, at length demanded rest, and the 
 madly-whirling brain of the young man was presently 
 stilled in sleep. 
 
 When Buckingham had awakened upon hearing the 
 ambulance, Dolores had been aroused by his movements, 
 and she crawled to a small aperture in the side of the build- 
 just in time to catch a glimpse of the young man as he 
 stole from the shadow of the barn to the shrubbery. 
 
 She recognized him, and knew that he must havo sought 
 the loft for rest and concealment. She crawled out, and 
 ran around to the front on the opposite side of the house 
 from, that taken by Buckingham, and was more than puzzled 
 
YOU HAVE YOUR FATHER MUCH OFFENDED. 
 
 97 
 
 by discovering the two men as thoy left the dwelling, sprang 
 into the ambulance and drove away. 
 
 The meaning of this nocturnal visit Dolores vowed to 
 find out before many hours; but, as she crouched in the 
 bushes, and saw the black dwarf obtain entrance, she 
 realized that her enemy had been arranging some scheme 
 that she had not suspected. Nevertheless, Dolores was 
 determined she would not give it up. 
 
 She knew that Buckingham had returned to the hay-loft, 
 and wondered if he had witnessed all that she had. Not 
 feeling it safe to return to the stable, the old woman 
 entered an arbor, in which was an immense box that had 
 contained gardening utensils. 
 
 Raising the lid, she found there was not only ample room 
 inside for her, but that knots had dropped out of the rear 
 board, thus leaving holes through which sufficient air was 
 admitted to supply a human being when shut within. Into 
 this the old hag squeezed herself, her bundle serving for a 
 pillow; and lying down, she allowed the lid to drop, 
 inclosing her. 
 
 Here, most certainly, she could sleep undisturbed, and 
 sleep came to her at once. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 “ YOU HAVE YOUR FATHER MUCn OFFENDED. ” 
 
 When Brown, Air. Barnard’s gardener, returned from his 
 visit to the hospital, and again entered the library, he was 
 perfectly thunderstruck ; for the gas was still burning, and 
 his employer lay prostrated upon the floor, amid a scattered 
 mass of gold coin, notes, bonds and glittering jewels. 
 
 How came all this in such a placet 
 
 Then Brown recollected having heard while on the streets 
 that Mr. Barnard had that night been robbed of all that his 
 safe contained. 
 
 He had thought it at the time but an idle rumor, but here 
 was plain evidence that cither the safe had been robbed 
 and the booty returned, which was unreasonable, or that 
 an attempt at robbery had been made since he had been 
 absent, which attempt had been frustrated by Mr. Barnard. 
 But this was also unreasonable to believe. 
 
 It was no wonder that poor Brown was completely dumb¬ 
 founded. 
 
 Hastily he stepped forward and felt the pulse and breast 
 of his employer, lie was greatly relieved on finding that it 
 was merely a swoon, as before. 
 
98 YOU HAVE YOUR FATHER MUCH OFFENDED. 
 
 As has been said Brown was not entirely free from super¬ 
 stitious fears. 
 
 He wished himself out of the house—a house that seemed 
 that night to be governed by the furies, who were hurling 
 down misery upon the Barnard family 
 
 The poor fellow would not have been greatly surprised 
 had the room burst into a blaze, or had a thunderbolt 
 crashed through the mansion, although there were no indi¬ 
 cations of a storm. 
 
 He resolved first to ascertain if Miss Bianca had been 
 disturbed, even before he again attempted to restore the 
 proprietor of the mansion. He, therefore, hastened through 
 the hall and very gently tapped at the door. Lightly it 
 was opened, and Miss Barnard stood before him pale and 
 trembling. 
 
 “ Beg pardon,” whispered the gardener, “ but I wished 
 to know if Mrs. Barnard is comfortable .’ 1 
 
 “ My mother is still sleeping,” was the reply; “ but my 
 father — is he more composed? And tell me, Brown, have 
 you heard any one about the house?” 
 
 “ Mr. Barnard is asleep,” said the man, for he saw how 
 anxious the young lady appeared, “ and I have heard noth¬ 
 ing to cause alarm. Have you, Miss Bianca? ” 
 
 “No,” she returned, hesitatingly, and seeming greatly 
 relieved. “ T believe I am nervous and imaginative. Will 
 the doctor, think you, return before morning? ” 
 
 “ No, not to-night, Miss. He did not think Mrs. Barnard 
 injured to any great extent, but her nervous system was 
 shaken by the accident. Your mother will get over it soon, 
 Miss Bianca.” 
 
 “ I do hope and pray she will, Brown. But please remain 
 with my father until morning, will you not? ” 
 
 “ Most certainly I will, Miss. - ” 
 
 Bianca closed the door and Brown returned quickly, quite 
 conscience-stricken for not having suggested to Mr. Barnard 
 that some one else be sent to the hospital, as then he would 
 have known what had transpired. He believed that Miss 
 Bianca had seen or heard whatever it was that had caused 
 her father to again lose all consciousness. 
 
 The gardener at once proceeded to use restoratives, after 
 laying his employer on the lounge and closing the window, 
 which he blamed himself for not having done previous to 
 his departure. His negligence, he feared, had caused much 
 that had happened. 
 
 Robert Barnard, under Brown’s judicious treatment, 
 soon himself again. His wandering gaze soon fixed 
 itselt upon the gold and valuables scattered beneath the 
 window. 
 
YOU HAVE YOUR FATHER MUCH OFFENDED. 
 
 99 
 
 A strange cry burst from, bis lips, and relief and joy were 
 expressed in bis face. Ilis attendant observed bis looks and 
 manner, but be prudently refrained from noticing the wealth 
 upon the floor It was for Mr Barnard to explain its pres 
 ence there when be thought tit to do so. 
 
 “ You feel better, sir If” Brown asked. 
 
 “ 0, yes, thank you! But how long have you been here, 
 and do you know if my wife is still sleeping?” 
 
 11 1 was at the door of Mrs. Barnard’s room scarcely a 
 minute ago. She is still asleep, and has not been disturbed. 
 
 I saw Miss Bianca. I had just returned from the hospital. 
 Mr. Benedict was seriously hurt, but is doing very well, they 
 told me. ” 
 
 “ Thank you, Brown! I shall not forget your services, 
 depend upon it. I do not know what I should have done 
 had you not so kindly and considerately attended to matters 
 Have you heard anything more on the street that concerns 
 me? ” 
 
 “ It is reported that your safe has been robbed, Mr. 
 Barnard.” 
 
 “Y"es; I did not mention it to you, and my wife and 
 daughter know nothing of it. Brown, it is the most myste¬ 
 rious affair I ever heard of. There, before you, is, I pre¬ 
 sume, everything f hat was taken from my safe during the 
 excitement when Mrs. Barnard was brought home. 
 
 “ I am confident that the plunder was taken by one person 
 and returned by another. Were it not that I see my 
 property before my eyes, I should believe I had been dream¬ 
 ing. 
 
 11 But strange and incrediblo as it may appear, shortly 
 after you left me a man climbed to the veranda roof, and 
 hurled all that you see in at the window.” 
 
 “It is a very remarkable affair,” said the gardener* 
 “ Why, that amount would have made the man very rich, 
 whoever he was; and the man who returned it must be 
 honest, indeed. He had probably detected the burglar and 
 relieved him of it. Did you see his face sufficiently plain to 
 recognize him again? ” 
 
 ’* I believe — yes, I am positive — 1 saw him quite dis¬ 
 tinctly.” 
 
 I feared when I found you unconscious, and saw the 
 money and papers lying around loose, that you had been 
 injured by the burglar before he made his escape. It had 
 the appearance of his having been intercepted.” 
 
 ” It was my alarm at seeing the man, after what I had 
 already gone through, that caused me to faint. I have been 
 very much upset. Brown. My brain is greatly demoralized. 
 
100 YOU HATE TOUR FATHER MUCH OFFENDED. 
 
 But for this last occurrence, however, I should have been a 
 beggar. 
 
 “ Do you wonder that I have been driven nearly insane 
 by all that has come upon me to-night? ” 
 
 ‘ “ Indeed, I do not, sir! I have been in a most bewildered 
 state of mind myself ever since I was first awakened.” 
 
 “ Please assist me to place all these in the safe again, ” 
 said Mr. Barnard. “ I must go then and see my daughter. 
 You had better make out the balance of your sleep here 
 upon my lounge. 
 
 “ You say that Benedict is dangerously wounded? Well 
 I have often cautioned him in regard to his bad habits and 
 evil associates, but without avail. I have long feared he 
 would come to grief in the end. 
 
 “ I would go to the hospital, but T fear I am too weak, and 
 should be a fit subject for the doctors when I reached there, 
 if, indeed, I succeeded in doing so.” 
 
 “ 1 advise you not to attempt it, sir. You could do no 
 good to Mr. Benedict. He will receive all necessary atten¬ 
 tion, and Mrs. Barnard and Miss Bianca need you. ” 
 
 At the same time the gardener could not but think it 
 strange that a father should absent himself from the bed- 
 side of his son when in such a condition, but he made no 
 comment upon it. The two returned the plunder to the 
 safe. Mr. Barnard making sure to lock it and put the keys 
 in his pocket. He also took care to place the mysterious 
 notes he had received under lock and key, for he was 
 determined not to lose •them. 
 
 Brown fastened the window securely, but even then he 
 did not altogether like the idea of remaining alone in the 
 library. His employer, however, considerately passed a 
 bottle of brandy and some cigars to him, and then he began 
 to feel that he might worry through the remainder of the 
 night. He observed, too, as he ignited a cigar, that Mr. 
 Barnard had left a revolver on the table. 
 
 Indeed, after a few drinks, the worthy gardener felt little 
 curiosity as to the past or the possible future. He even 
 lound himself wishing that another attempt would be made 
 to rob the safe, as it would give him an opportunity to prove 
 himself able to take care of his employer’s property. 
 
 Robert Barnard hastened at once to the room within 
 which were his sleeping wife and watchful daughter. The 
 latter was rejoiced to see her father, and was relieved 
 beyond measure, and he was no less so to find his wife 
 peacefully sleeping, and both she and Bianca as yet 
 unluirmed by the female fiend whose vengeance he now so 
 greatly feared. 
 
 He decided that he would inform his daughter of the 
 
CAN THESE THINGS BE? 
 
 101 
 
 robbery, and also of the mysterious returning of the booty, 
 as she would be certain to hear of it from other lips on the 
 morrow. He did so, little dreaming that Bianca had seen 
 the who had returned it. 
 
 As hr related his story, the young girl could hardly 
 repress her joyful emotions, when she knew, by her father’s 
 words, that the young man whom she had seen had been on 
 a commendable errand, and had not visited them with any 
 criminal intent. She remembered that she had seen the 
 same face when her father had shrieked and fainted. Then, 
 Broguand, as she knew him, had been in policeman’s uni¬ 
 form, which was strange and unaccountable ; but she now 
 believed that he must have assumed that disguise in order 
 that, having learned of the burglary, ho might frustrate 
 the thieves. 
 
 Bianca felt great relief at this, for she bad, upon being 
 introduced to Buckingham Broguand by her brother, been 
 very favorably impressed. 
 
 She had felt, besides, that he greatly admired her; yet, 
 she had seemed prompted by strange feelings to repel his 
 advances, although he was at all times everything that was 
 gentlemanly and agreeable. 
 
 Strange to say, so confused was Robert Barnard, that he 
 did not recall the fact of his having heard the policeman 
 assert that the man in an officer’s uniform, whoso resem¬ 
 blance to Bianca had so struck him, was the same who had 
 stabbed Benedict, knocked down the officer who had him 
 in charge on his way to the station, and then assumed his 
 coat and cap as a disguise in his flight. 
 
 After having informed his daughter of the robbery and 
 the subsequent return of the plunder, this for the first time 
 came to his mind, and Mr Barnard was really shocked by 
 it; for he knew that the accused assassin of the man whom 
 ho had reared as his son was the same who had twice that 
 night presented himself at his dwelling, and that in so 
 strange a manner — one who, he believed, from his very 
 emotions, was his own flesh and blood; yes, his own son, 
 and who must also have at least suspected the relation¬ 
 ship. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 t: CAN THESE THINGS BE ? ” 
 
 Robert Barnard had, for long years, striven to believe 
 that Benedict was in reality his son. 
 
 Tho complexion, inclinations, character and disposition 
 
CAN THESE THINGS BE ? 
 
 102 
 
 of tbe young man were the very opposite of himself and 
 wife •, and, as has been said, he at times caught a gesture 
 or expression that reminded him, to a striking degree, of 
 one Bertha who had in his youthful days placed her affec¬ 
 tions upon him, and through a series of strange occurrences 
 had brought disgrace upon herself and danger and death to 
 others. 
 
 True, he himself had been the cause of the death of the 
 young man who had believed himself Bertha’s husband. 
 But he had had no intention of killing Broguand, who had 
 long been an intimate Iriend of his. 
 
 He had not believed that Bertha, upon due reflection, 
 and after his written explanations and oilers of sympathy, 
 would have entertained so strong a hatred toward him; 
 but he had, upon marrying and establishing a home in his 
 native city, been warned by an old servant, who had, dur¬ 
 ing his absence from New Orleans, been in the employ of 
 Bertha, that the latter had sworn a terrible oath of venge¬ 
 ance against him and his, and would without doubt bring 
 misery and anguish upon him through his wife and 
 child. 
 
 This same servant Robert Barnard had employed to take 
 care of his infant son, and had trusted her implicitly, 
 believing in her honesty, from the very fact that he received 
 the information named from her. 
 
 The name of this nurse had been Dolores. 
 
 Now, however, since the occurrences of that night, and 
 having seen the face of Buckingham, he had been forced 
 not only to the belief that Benedict was not his son, but 
 that the young man 'who so strangely resembled Bianca was 
 bis, and had been stolen from them in infancy. 
 
 But thG knowledge that he was the person wdio had 
 stabbed Benedict, and that with a dagger upon which was 
 engraved the name of Broguand — this was most strange 
 For it was absurd to suppose that such a woman as Berth* 
 would have permitted the young man whom she had doubt 
 less reared as her ow n, to entertain aught but the highes 
 regard for Benedict Barnard, were he ever to meet ana 
 
 know the latter, for Bertha would influence him to thgt 
 end. 
 
 That; this vindictive woman had had some fiendish plan 
 in view for the far future when she caused the exchange of 
 infants to be made, Robert Barnard was positive; but it 
 was to him a mystery what that plan could possibly be. 
 
 It was most strange and unnatural that a woman should 
 deprive herself oi the companionship of her child and rea? 
 as her own the offspring or one she so hated. 
 
 She must have intended to bring up the boy she had 
 
CAN THESE THINGS BE? 
 
 1173 
 
 stolen to a life of crime, and then reveal the secret to his 
 parents. 
 
 Perhaps, indeed, she had done so , hut the fates had 
 decreed that it should recoil upon herself, and thus had 
 brought about the murder of her own son by the one whom 
 she had trained to criminality. 
 
 This would be retribution indeed. 
 
 But Robert Barnard did not believe that the young man 
 who had restored the stolen money and jewels could be one 
 deeply stained with crime. 
 
 It was more probable that Bertha had procured men to 
 assist in the burglary, that Buckingham had found this 
 out, and having in some way discovered, or at least sus¬ 
 pected, his relationship to the man who had been robbed, 
 had returned the stolen property unknown to the real 
 thief. 
 
 Certainly the stabbing of Benedict and the return of the 
 proceeds of the burglary were somewhat conflicting deeds, 
 when everything was considered. 
 
 At all events, Mr. Barnard was satisfied that he and his 
 were in great danger. Ho also realized that should Ben 
 die, this strange young man would be in a terrible position. 
 How t would it all end ? 
 
 Would Bertha seek to convict him, to have him again 
 arrested and given up to justice; if he was now at her home, 
 in hiding? 
 
 Did she know that Ben was in danger of death, and that 
 through the very man who had been reared by her? 
 
 If not, she soon would, and in her tiger like ferocity would 
 doubtless slay him. 
 
 No matter in what way Robert Barnard might look, there 
 seemed nothing but death for the man whom he believed to 
 be his son — an ignominious death on the scaffold, or one 
 by poison or the knife. 
 
 There was an intense yearning in his heart to get posses¬ 
 sion of the young man, let him be guilty or innocent, and 
 to depart with him, Bianca and Mrs. Barnard to some dis¬ 
 tant city of refuge. There was no affection in his heart 
 whatever for Benedict. 
 
 Of course, he had never breathed his suspicions to either 
 his wife or daughter. 
 
 Both of these had nearly all their natural affection crushed 
 out of them by the evil ways and disposition of Ben, who 
 was in no way like them or Mr. Barnard, but seemed to be 
 utterly depraved. 
 
 Little wonder was it, with all this upon his mind, that 
 Robert Barnard did not become mentally deranged: foy 
 even was the young man whom he had seen his son, in no 
 
104 
 
 CAN THESE THINGS BE ? 
 
 way could he prove it except by Bertha—or possibly, 
 should she be alive, which was doubtful, by Dolores — for 
 the old nurse must have been the tool of Bertha, or the 
 latter could not well have succeeded in changing the 
 infants. 
 
 The unhappy man was, indeed, well nigh crazy before the 
 morning dawned. He sat beside the bed of his wife, while 
 Bianca lay upon a lounge near him. But there was no sleep 
 that night for Robert Barnard. 
 
 When the morning papers were delivered, he rushed to 
 receive them, repairing at once to his library to peruse them, 
 and excusing Brown from further duty. 
 
 Nearly the first- page of the paper was given to the assas¬ 
 sination of Benedict Barnard, die robbery, the arrest of the 
 assassin, Buckingham Broguand, with a detail of the over¬ 
 whelming evidence against him ; together with his singular 
 escape, disguised as a police officer, and his visit to the 
 house of the father of the man he had stabbed. 
 
 Altogether, it was the most startling and singular chain 
 of circumstances, in connection with a crime, that had ever 
 been recorded — the murderer and his victim having been 
 previously friends. 
 
 But the most singular part of the affair was the fact that 
 the nearly dead man, Benedict Barnard, had, with the cot 
 upon which he lay, been taken from the hospital during the 
 night and carried away in an ambulance, two men being 
 engaged in the abduction, they having imposed upon an 
 ignorant gate-guardsman by a forged order. This stated 
 that the patient was to be removed to his father’s house, 
 but a policeman, who had been stationed near that point, 
 reported that no ambulance had been seen in the vicinity. 
 
 While Robert Barnard was in the act of finishing "this 
 lengthy narrative a reporter was ushered into the library. 
 
 Mr. Barnard declined to speak of his affairs at length, but 
 gave the newspaperman an item, which the latter had no 
 idea of obtaining, and which added another strange feature 
 to the case. 
 
 This was the most singular circumstance of the contents 
 of-the safe, which had been stolen in the early portion of 
 the night, having been placed inside the window in the same 
 room from which they were taken. This had been done 
 some hours later. 
 
 He said nothing, however, in regard to having seen the 
 person who returned the plunder. He merely stated that 
 he had been at home all night, that he had nothing what¬ 
 ever to do with the removal of Benedict from the hospital, 
 
 and had known nothing of the occurrence until he read it 
 in the morning papers. 
 
CAN THESE THINGS BE! 
 
 105 
 
 It was all terrible to a man like Hubert Barnard. He 
 shrank from the publicity given to his family and himself, 
 and the comments of the press on every detail. 
 
 He was satisfied, after gaining this information, that 
 Bertha Broguand had obtained knowledge of Ben’s condi¬ 
 tion, and had been the prime mover in having him taken 
 from the hospital. This removed all doubts, if indeed any 
 had remained in the mind of Air. Barnard, as to Benedict 
 being the son of Bertha and Benton Broguand. 
 
 No one else would have been interested to the extent of 
 risking even life to get the wounded man away, andHo some 
 secret place. 
 
 But why had she done this? 
 
 Kobert Barnard could think of no reason, unless it might 
 be that she believed he might die, and she would, there¬ 
 fore, never have the opportunity to reveal to him that she 
 was his mother. 
 
 No trace of the men and ambulance or of the wounded 
 man had been obtained by the police, and, at the time of 
 going to press, there had been no information gained in 
 regard to the escaped assassin. 
 
 The house of his mother had been thoroughly searched, 
 but no trace of him had been found; indeed, the police 
 reported that Mrs. Broguand evidently knew nothing of the 
 crime that had been committed, or the whereabouts of her 
 son at the time the search had been made by them. 
 
 Kobert Barnard was rejoiced to read that the young man 
 whom he believed to be his son had not been rearrested. 
 But it did seem strange that the officers had found Bertha 
 Broguand at home, that she had known nothing of the 
 assassination, and yet the robbery and the removal of Ben 
 must have been accomplished through her and under her 
 own personal direction. 
 
 It was thus, at least, that he argued. 
 
 He felt grateful that he had found out, through the 
 paper, the location of Bertha’s home. 
 
 It was something gained. 
 
 He w'ould have her arrested if he could out gain proofs 
 against her, and could incarcerate her in prison; thus 
 ending her career of revenge upon him and bis. 
 
 But, in that case, lie could not hope to gain from her 
 proofs as to the identity of his son; who, although a fugitive 
 from justice, was very dear to him. 
 
 Could it be possible, he thought, that Buckingham had 
 been the one who had gotten Benedict away from the 
 hospital ? 
 
 That could hardly be, for it must have endangered Ben’s 
 
too 
 
 A DEED WITHOUT A NAME. 
 
 life; and Buckingham’s safety depended, if he should be 
 again arrested, upon the recovery of his victim. 
 
 With ail this to torture 1'is mind, the illness of his wife, 
 and the constant coming and going of inquisitive friends 
 and others to the mansion, Robert Barnard became so 
 excited that he at length caused the front gate to be locked 
 and barred, and then threw himself upon a lounge in his 
 library, swallowing an opiate that had been left by the phy¬ 
 sician in attendance upon Mrs. Barnard, and soon all sense 
 of his troubles was banished. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 “ A DEED WITHOUT A NAME. 99 
 
 Had Dolores but waited in the shrubbery a little longer 
 after the departure of the ambulance, she would have seen 
 the negro dwarf go and return with a white man, both 
 entering the dwelling. 
 
 This was a doctor upon whom Bertha knew she could 
 depend. She would pay him well for his services. This 
 she could do, for she had long hoarded, looking toward an 
 emergency like the present. 
 
 Buckingham had kept himself in funds, frequently win¬ 
 ning large sums at cards or at horse-racing; consequently 
 he had not been, for years, any burden in a pecuniary way 
 to her. 
 
 The physician whom she summoned gave her hopes of 
 Ben’s recovery, notwithstanding his removal in the jolting 
 ambulance. The wound was dressed while the patient yet 
 slept, and the doctor departed while it was just coming 
 morning. 
 
 The dwarf was then ordered to return to the place from 
 which he had been engaged, with instructions that one of 
 the men who had been sent to the hospital must report to 
 Mrs. Broguand at once. He was to enter the grounds in the 
 rear and conceal himself in the garden. 
 
 Mrs. Broguand would join him there, and give him 
 instructions as to the mission she had in view for him. The 
 negro at once started on his errand. 
 
 Every moment that Bertha was absent from the bedside 
 of the wounded man seemed to give her great anxiety, 
 1 his was because he might die and she not be present. 
 
 She longed to tell him that she was his mother. She had 
 concocted a story which would do until his recovery, should 
 he live, and then he should know the worst. 
 
 She would tell him that she sacrificed her maternal affec* 
 
A DEED WITHOUT A NAME. 
 
 107 
 
 tion, deprived herself of her babe that he might be reared 
 a gentleman with wealth at his command. She would 
 plead poverty in extenuation, and would make it appear 
 that it had been all through love for him that she acted. 
 
 Thus she resolved. 
 
 When he should he strong and well, he should know all, 
 and she would then incite him to aid her in her work of 
 vengeance. 
 
 There seemed no possibility now of bringing about a mar¬ 
 riage between Bianca and Buckingham, but Bertha had an 
 equally vengeful plan in view. She had warned Bucking¬ 
 ham not to harm Benedict; that he was not to be included 
 in her oath of vengeance. Yet ho had attempted to slay 
 him. He had also, there could be no doubt, visited the 
 house after his escape, found the plunder she had stolen 
 from Robert Barnard, and appropriated the same. It had 
 been he and no other, for Dolores had no means of getting 
 into his room, and had she done so, and secured the money 
 and valuables, she would have left at once. 
 
 As she thought of this, Mrs. Broguand became murder¬ 
 ously furious in her hatred for Buckingham, and resolved 
 that ho should die an ignominious death; thus, to a great 
 extent, avenging her wrongs at a single stroke. Ben might 
 recover, of course, but, in any event, Buckingham should 
 hang. 
 
 Her plot, in connection with bringing the young man to 
 the scaffold, will be unfolded as wo proceed. 
 
 She sat by the bedside watching her son, at times moist¬ 
 ening his lips with brandy. Her face was somewhat soft¬ 
 ened in outline by the maternal emotions thereon depicted, 
 but she was still hideous; the passions which had, during 
 the night, rendered her little less than a maniac having left 
 plain marks of their recent presence, and the long and soul¬ 
 ruling hate and thirst for revenge had previously been 
 deeply branded upon her sallow features. 
 
 The sound of a bell below stairs warned her, at length, of 
 the return of the black dwarf, and pressing her lips upon 
 the brow of her son, she reluctantly left the room. 
 
 A short consultation passed between the two, and then 
 the negro was sent into the garden to await the arrival of 
 the ruffian whom he had been sent to summon. 
 
 Mrs. Broguand returned to her vigil, but in a little time 
 she was made aware that she was wanted; that the 
 expected man had arrived. This was intimated by a low 
 whistle from the dwarf at the back window. Again Bertha 
 left her patient. 
 
 She secured the secret door, and after descending the 
 
108 
 
 A DEED WITHOUT A NAME. 
 
 stairs, ordered the little negro to remain at the foot of the 
 same until her return from the garden. 
 
 She passed out and into the shrubbery, where she met 
 one of the desperate characters who had, the previous night, 
 brought the wounded man from the hospital. 
 
 Quite a long conversation passed between them, during 
 which the man made great objections as to serving her in 
 the way in which she wished; but finally, after she had paid 
 him a liberal advance fee, he promised to do as she required. 
 Then he left, going to the rear of the grounds and climbing 
 over the fence. 
 
 Mrs. Broguand returned at once to the house, and resumed 
 her position by the bedside of her son; ordering the dwarf 
 to repair to the kitchen to prepare various articles of food, 
 in regard to which she gave him directions. 
 
 Poor Buckingham slept until the sun was high in the 
 heavens. He awoke with a terrible pain in his head; indeed, 
 in a very deplorable condition generally. 
 
 His first thought was to look out and gain a view of the 
 grounds. For all he knew, they might be filled w ith police 
 in search for him. He felt self-condemned at having slept 
 so late, thus perhaps losing opportunities to learn something, 
 by spying upon the dwelling, that might benefit him. He 
 knew, also, that he ought to have stolen food from the house 
 before daylight; but there was no use in worrying over such 
 trifles, when he had so many weighty causes to make him 
 the most miserable man. 
 
 He crept to the nearest knot-hole, and gazed out. Being 
 high from the ground he could see over the shrubbery. 
 What he saw was Mrs. Broguand in conversation with one 
 of the vagabonds who had brought the bed into the house 
 the night before. 
 
 Here was something new r and strange. 
 
 What other deed was to he done? 
 
 That it was nothing honest and above-hoard Buckingham 
 well knew, or a man like that would never have been 
 chosen. 
 
 He could see that there was some disagreement between 
 the pair. 
 
 Could it be in regard to payment for the services of the 
 past night ? 
 
 This did not seem probable, as such men would demand 
 their reward as soon as the services had been performed. 
 
 Buckingham would have given much to have been able to 
 hear what was said, hut they not only spoke in low tones, 
 but they were some distance from him, which made this an 
 Impossibility. 
 
A MED WITHOUT A NAME. 
 
 109 
 
 All at once, however, the man’s voice was raised to a high 
 pitch. 
 
 The young man heard but little, for it was difficult to 
 catch mere than an occasional word. 
 
 That which he did hear was: 
 
 11 To night, at midnight! ” 
 
 In a minute more the tramp had departed, and Mrs. Bro- 
 guand re-entered the house. 
 
 Buckingham was much puzzled, but he resolved to be on 
 hand at the time appointed. 
 
 He next perceived the black dwarf peering through the 
 kitchen window, and smoke was by that time curling from 
 the chimney, and the odor of cooking meat and the aroma 
 of coffee floated tauntingly toward him. He resolved to risk 
 discovery, to procure some food, before the day ended. 
 
 Then he began to recall the events of the night just 
 passed, and a whirl of thoughts filled his mind. The next 
 he heard was the outcry of a newsboy on the street that ran 
 along the rear of Mrs. Broguand’s grounds, and he longed 
 greatly to see a copy of the Picayune . 
 
 He changed his position to the side of the barn nearest 
 the street in which was the newsboy. Ho would make one 
 attempt at attracting his attention. 
 
 The wind blew strongly, and he watched keenly for the 
 boy. 
 
 The voice grew nearer and nearer, and the young man 
 stole out from the barn and crawled as far as the fence. He 
 then saw that the little fellow was delivering papers at the 
 doors, and throwing some into the yards and areas. After 
 he had passed down the street, a gust of wind blew one of 
 the sheets high in the air, and it came flying over the fence 
 behind which he crouched. Securing it, Buckingham 
 returned to the loft. 
 
 The reader must picture to himself the intense interest 
 with which our friend perused the longaccountof the events 
 of the past night, and connected with himself, his friends 
 and his foes. 
 
 But wflien his eyes became fixed on the account of the 
 taking away from the hospital of the dangerously-wounded 
 man, u Benedict Barnard, the victim of Buckingham Bro- 
 guand,” some time during the night, ho was no longer in 
 doubt as to the occupant of the bed that had been carried 
 into the dwelling so near at hand. 
 
 It had been Ben Barnard, and he was alive! 
 
 What could have been the motive of Bertha Broguand in 
 this? 
 
 Did she mean to kill her own son, in order to insure the 
 hanging of himself? 
 
 17 
 
*10 
 
 THE COUNTERFEIT PRESENTMENT. 
 
 Buckingham was almost paralyzed. 
 
 He could not, for the life of him, decide with any reason¬ 
 ableness the object of this female fiend, whom he had once 
 called mother. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 “ THE COUNTERFEIT PRESENTMENT.” 
 
 The assassination, the robbery and the return of the 
 booty in as secret a way as that in which it had been stolen 
 — Robert Barnard had said nothing in regard to his having 
 seen the man who returned it — the escape, so marvelous, 
 of the assassin, the abduction of the wounded man from the 
 hospital, these facts served as subjects for excited comment 
 and converse throughout the day following. The whole 
 city, indeed, was in a perfect flurry over these events. 
 
 Naturally, it was believed that the murderer had spirited 
 his victim away, to prevent the latter, if he recovered suffi¬ 
 ciently, from giving the name of his assailant and the cir¬ 
 cumstances connected with the murderous attack, although 
 all acknowledged that there was sufficient evidence to con¬ 
 vict Buckingham Broguand of the murder, should it prove 
 to be a murder. 
 
 Another and more reasonable motive in favor ot the be¬ 
 lief as to Buckingham having been the means of the patient 
 being removed from the hospital was, that if the former was 
 again arrested, it would be impossible to convict him of 
 murder, unless it could be proved that Benedict Barnard 
 was really dead, and this could not be done without pro¬ 
 ducing the body. 
 
 The abduction had insured Buckingham against being 
 convicted of murder if he should succeed, in the event of 
 Ben’s death, in burying the body unknown to others, or in 
 such a place and manner as to keep it from the knowledge 
 of the authorities. In that case, if our friend should be re¬ 
 captured, he could be tried only for assault with intent to 
 kill. 
 
 It was, consequently, decided by all that none other than 
 the assassin had been the prime mover in this latest devel¬ 
 opment of the strange affair. Many believed, also, that it 
 had been he who had robbed the safe of Robert Barnard, 
 and had no faith whatever in the published report of the 
 return of the plunder. 
 
 Many exaggerated reports were, of course, afloat, and our 
 young friend was believed by all to be a most hardened 
 villain, and he would have received rough treatment by the 
 
THE COTTXTEUFEIT PRESENTMENT. 
 
 m 
 
 people of the streets had he then been arrested and led 
 through the thoroughfares. 
 
 He had himself realized this when he had perused the 
 morning paper, He felt that he had been foolish to linger 
 in the city. 
 
 There was hope, however, that Ben Barnard might 
 
 recover. 
 
 But would not Mrs Broguand, when she knew through 
 her sor/s assertions that lie had been stabbed by the old 
 woman, Dolores, change her tactics ? This wou.d depend 
 upon which she nated the most, himself or the old hag. 
 
 Buckingham hoped for, and, indeed, expected that some¬ 
 thing would turn up the coming night to favor his cause, 
 when the ruffian who had just met Airs. Broguand in the 
 garden was to be again on hand. 
 
 The poor fellow passed a most miserable day, being more 
 than once obliged to secrete himself in tin* hay, as the police 
 came again and agair to inspect the premises. 
 
 Benedict’s presence in the ouse was not discovered, on 
 account of the only entrance to the chamber in which he 
 Jay being by a secret door. 
 
 Buckiugnam felt greatly relieved when darkness ap¬ 
 proached, for he was nearly lamished, not having had an 
 opportunity to obtain any food during me day. Soon after 
 darkness nad fallen upon the earth, however, he stole from 
 the stable and era vied amid the hushes to the kitchen 
 window, whicn he ound. open. He listened and heard the 
 negro inside. He therefore waited until the dwarf had gone 
 into the adjoining apartment. 
 
 Then he arose, thrust his arm in at the window, and 
 clutched a roasted fowl from a platter on which there were 
 two of them. 
 
 At the same moment anothei arm was pushed past him 
 which grasped the other fowl, both being drawn out nearly 
 together, and, indeed, coining in contact. 
 
 Buckingham was naturally startled. He turned quickly, 
 but his foot tripped on a v ine, and In* fell prostrate. At the 
 same instant some one fell directly upon him. 
 
 He believed he was in the power of an officer, but lie still 
 neld fast to the chicken while he hurled the individual 
 from him, sprang to his feet, and ran quickly back to the 
 barn. 
 
 The negro had carried the light into another room, 
 scquciitly it was total darkness where Buckingham 
 
 con- 
 
 80qu( was total darkness v iiei e mu Kingham had 
 
 stood, and neither he nor the person with whom ho had 
 come in contact had seen each other. 
 
 Had ho known that this was the one of all others whom 
 ho wished to see, that is, the old woman who stabbed B6ne* 
 
 A Homan's firrrnf* * 
 
112 
 
 THE COUNTERFEIT PRESENTMENT. 
 
 diet, he would have clutched her more firmly than he did 
 the roasted fowl. For it was, indeed, the hag Dolores, she 
 having remained all day, or nearly so, in the tool-box, much 
 of the time asleep. But even had Buckingham seen her. he 
 would not, in her male costume, have recognized her. 
 
 The same idea flashed upon Dolores that had upon 
 Buckingham, she believing that an officer had been crouched 
 at the window. She ran, as she never ran before, back to 
 her place of concealment, there to run the risk of discovery 
 and to devour the fowl, which even in her extreme fright 
 and apprehension, she did not relinquish. 
 
 The black dwarf must have been infuriated as well as 
 astonished at the disappearance of the poultry; but he 
 evidently decided that sneak thieves had been around, for 
 he shut the window with an angry bang. 
 
 The next movement in the grounds was the entrance of 
 an ambulance through a rear gate which was but little 
 used. It was driven into a small grove, where it was com¬ 
 pletely hidden from the street. Then out of the vehicle 
 sprang a rough-looking pair—the same two who had 
 removed Ben Barnard from the hospital. 
 
 The horses were at once secured, and then both men, 
 without speaking, glided stealthily to the rear of the ambu¬ 
 lance, unfastening and rolling up the flap of the vehicle. 
 
 This done, they drew out a long plain box, one taking 
 hold of each end, and moving slowly and with much care 
 toward the house. It was now quite dark, and they were 
 guided by a light from the parlor window. 
 
 That the contents of the box were heavy, the manner and 
 movements of the two men proved. As they reached the 
 vicinity of the dwelling, they set their burden upon the 
 ground, one of them hastening forward to the door and 
 tapping slightly upon it. 
 
 The negro had apparently received orders, and was 
 expecting them, for he at once opened the door, and that 
 without taking the candle with him. 
 
 A word or two passed between them, when the dwarf 
 gave a low whistle at the foot of the stairs. 
 
 Mrs. Broguand at once descended, and bade the negro 
 return to the kitchen and close the door. 
 
 Then she addressed her visitor; 
 
 “ Well, have you succeeded ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, after no end of trouble.” 
 
 u Never mind! You shall be well paid for it. Is the 
 ambulance securely hidden ? ” 
 
 “ All hunky! ” 
 
 (i Then bring the box in, and be quick about it. You 
 can find the way up-stairs. Shut and lock the door when 
 
THE COUNTERFEIT PRESENTMENT. 
 
 113 
 
 Fou enter, and make no more noise about it than can be 
 avoided. ” 
 
 Bertha turned and went up-stairs. 
 
 The man disappeared. 
 
 All was darkness, the dwarf having been ordered to take 
 the candle into the kitchen. 
 
 Soon the two men with their heavy burden entered, and 
 the box was again lowered to the tioor in order that they 
 might shut and fasten the outer door. Again it was lifted, 
 and the bearers groped their way slowly and without noise, 
 up the stairway. 
 
 When they reached the top, a door to the right opened, 
 and a flood of light was thrown into the hall. 
 
 Into the lighted room the pair walked, and again placed 
 their freight upon the floor 
 
 The window curtains were drawn, the outer shutters 
 closed, and, in addition heavy blankets were hanging over 
 the window frames. No one on the outside would have 
 known that there was a light in the building except that in 
 the back kitchen. 
 
 The next minute Mrs. Broguand made her appearance 
 through the secret door which led into the apartment occu¬ 
 pied by the wounded man. The tramps stared at their 
 employer. 
 
 A look of exultation the most triumphant was stamped 
 on her corpse-like face, which was the face of a remorseless 
 and vengeful fiend in expression 
 
 She closed the door into the hall, and locked the same, 
 taking the precaution to hang some drapery over it to pre¬ 
 vent any one from peeping through the keyhole. 
 
 Then she pointed toward the box, saying; 
 
 u Open it! I cannot believe you have been successful iu 
 one thing — the resemblance. ” 
 
 “Wait and see! I had his fortygraph iu my eye ,” 
 returned one of the men, who now took a screw -driver from 
 his pocket and began at once to remove the nails from the 
 lid of the long box. 
 
 The other ruffian stood beside it, casting furtive glances 
 at Mrs. Broguand, whose eyes were fastened upon the case 
 with a look of great interest and impatience. 
 
 Soon the last screw was removed. 
 
 Then the villain straightened up and glanced at his 
 comrade. 
 
 The latter cast a keen gaze at the woman, and said • 
 
 “ We axes a hundred dollars a sight, each on us, ter start 
 
 with.” # 
 
 The woman paid no attention to this remark, but 
 demanded abruptly, pointing at the box: 
 
114 
 
 PALE, KEY-COLD FIGURE. 
 
 “ Where did you get it ? ” 
 
 The men grinned facetiously. 
 
 “ Cotched it, walkin’ round,” said one. 
 
 Bertha Broguand shuddered. 
 
 It was little wonder. 
 
 The statement was horrible ! 
 
 “ Wasn’t there none to be found,” she demanded, “ with¬ 
 out committing a crime ? ” 
 
 “ Warn’t nary one what looked like him,” pointing 
 toward the secret door; “but it war done up beautiful, 
 you bet. Stuck in tlier same place to a dot! ” 
 
 “ You happened to be equal to the occasion, I see. Well, 
 here’s the money. ” 
 
 Bertha passed to each of them five double eagles. 
 
 “ There’s more when you finish the work,” she continued. 
 “ Now, open ! ” 
 
 The lid was at once removed from the box. 
 
 Mrs. Broguand reeled backward with a gasping cry. 
 
 She could hardly believe her senses. 
 
 But she had seen the case opened, and she knew that she 
 had just left her son in the secret room. 
 
 The two villains laughed in gratification. 
 
 Before her in the box lay the form of a man, his breast 
 stained with blood, and his face the almost exact counter¬ 
 part of that of Benedict Barnard, her wounded son! 
 
 But the form in the box was a corpse. 
 
 It was a startling resemblance. 
 
 The dead man was clothed in rags, however, proving 
 that he was from the ranks of poverty, from which he 
 
 would evidently be but little missed. 
 
 # 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 • ** 
 
 “PALE, KEY-COLD FIGURE.” 
 
 “ You have done more than well,” said the female fiend. 
 “ They are very much alike ; but could you not have pro¬ 
 cured a body from the morgue, or some one who had diedf 
 1 infer that you had to commit murder — that you killed 
 this man ? ” 
 
 “ Thar warn’t no other way. We cudn’t get a stiff thet 
 looked like t’other wo’tli a cent. ’Sides thet, ther doctors 
 ’ud know. A fresh jabbed man like this’ll pass 0. K.” 
 
 Thus explained one of the dastards, in a cool and indif¬ 
 ferent manner. 
 
 u It was awful risky, too/’ put in the other.; “ but ther 
 
PALE, KEY-COLD FIGURE. 
 
 115 
 
 rest o’ ther programme air a heap woss nor risky, so we’d 
 better git inter biz. I wants it over. 
 
 “ Has yer any good liquor ? I’m powerful dry, an’ this’ll 
 be no easy job to fix up.” 
 
 Without a word Bertha Broguand procured a bottle and 
 glasses from a closet near at hand, and placed them upon 
 the table. 
 
 The ruffians each drank a stiff horn of brandy, and then 
 proceeded to remove the corpse from the box to the table. 
 
 Mrs. Broguand hurried down-stairs to put the dwarf on 
 guard. 
 
 Hardened though she was in crime, she could not keep 
 from trembling. 
 
 She was aware that the police might come at any moment 
 on another search for Buckingham. If so, her plot would 
 be ruined, and all in the house would be arrested. 
 
 It would be terrible if this should occur, for the secret 
 chamber would probably remain undiscovered, and her 
 wounded son would die alone, from not receiving necessary 
 attention. 
 
 It was no wonder that she trembled and appeared des¬ 
 perate. 
 
 She ordered the negro to sit by the front door in the 
 darkness, and warn her, by a tap at the door above, of the 
 approach of any one. 
 
 The candle in the kitchen she extinguished. 
 
 Meanwhile the dastards above stairs were busy removing 
 the clothing from the corpse, which was not yet fully stiff¬ 
 ened in death — the corpse of a man whom they had mur¬ 
 dered for a paltry sum of gold. 
 
 Bertha Broguand glanced at the naked breast as she 
 re-entered, and remarked, in a hoarse whisper: 
 
 “ You did well. The wound is much the same in appear¬ 
 ance, and is in the same place; but it is much deeper, or it 
 would not have killed him.” 
 
 She spoke without a particle of feeling. 
 
 “There is water,” she continued; “wash it, and then 
 comes what is the most dangerous work to me. I'll get 
 things ready.” 
 
 With these words Bertha proceeded to bring male attire, 
 bed-clothing and bandages from Buckingham’s apartment. 
 These she conveyed into the secret chamber. 
 
 There she formed a couch upon the floor. 
 
 Soon the two assassins came in bringing with them the 
 corpse. 
 
 They laid it upon the floor and then compared the dead 
 with the living. Benedict Barnard was as corpse-like as 
 his substitute, although his eyes were wide open, as when 
 
116 PALE, KEY-COLD FIGURE. 
 
 in the hospital, and were fixed upon the ceiling of the 
 room. 
 
 He did not have the appearance of being conscious of his 
 surroundings ; at the same time he knew everything that 
 was going on in the room. 
 
 It "was the same lethargic state and he was unable to 
 move a muscle. 
 
 His fiendish mother had not the slightest idea that he was 
 in a conscious state. 
 
 At a gesture from her the two villains assisted in remov¬ 
 ing the clothing from her son. This was done with the 
 utmost care, lest his wound might be started bleeding 
 afresh. 
 
 Even the bandages were removed and fresh ones bound 
 on in place of them. 
 
 Then the clothing which Mrs. Broguand had brought for 
 the purpose was put on him. 
 
 When this was accomplished Benedict was with great 
 care laid upon the couch upon the floor, and covered, as 
 previously, with blankets. 
 
 The corpse was then placed upon the cot that had been 
 taken from the hospital and exactly in the depression in 
 wh c h Ben had lain. The stained bandages taken from the 
 lattier were bound upon the dead. Then the clothing which 
 had been worn by young Barnard, and was marked with his 
 name with indelible ink, was also placed upon the corpse. 
 
 In color of hair, eyes and mustache, in form and build 
 generally, the dead man was strikingly like the wounded 
 one; indeed, Buckingham Broguand, or even any member 
 of the Barnard family, would have pronounced the corpse 
 to be that of Benedict Barnard. 
 
 Al] traces of what had been done were then removed, 
 and the two assassins braced themselves with another 
 copious drink of their favorite beverage. Mrs. Broguand 
 gave a teaspoonful of the brandy to Ben, and then joined 
 her hired miscreants. 
 
 u Ho you think you'll get through the work all right? ” 
 she asked. 
 
 u If we don’t we’re jugged, and ther game’s up. I said 
 afore ther rest o’ ther biz air most risky, an’ it air. We’ve 
 got ter go slow. ” 
 
 kk You know that to go boldly into the vicinity of police 
 headquarters will be the safest,” she suggested. u They 
 w ill not suspect anything crooked. I only hope it will con¬ 
 tinue to be dark. Come back w 7 hen you have completed 
 your contract, and I'll pay you tin* remainder of themonev. 
 I shall want to know that it is done. 
 
 “ Have the police found the assassin ? y> 
 
PALE, KEY-COLD FIGURE. 
 
 11/ 
 
 " Not yet, but they’ll nab him sure. Ef he war used to 
 ther biz, like us, he’d liev a better show ; but them high-tty 
 cusses don’t know whar ter hide.” 
 
 tl Ther cop’s’ll nab him, bet yer life, an’ this trick'll fix him 
 for a hemp neck -tie ! ’’ 
 
 <l He shall hang! 1 have sworn it, and this work to-night 
 proves that I mean to keep my oath.” 
 
 The vindictive woman looked the demon as she spoke. 
 
 Her tools had no time to linger. 
 
 It had taken them fully two hours to perform all that has 
 been recorded, and they were now anxious to get the bed 
 into the ambulance, with its ghastly occupant—the poor 
 fellow whom they had brutally murdered, to furnish evi¬ 
 dence against a man innocent of any crime, or thought of 
 crime. 
 
 But their employer insisted that they ought not to reach 
 their destination until some time after midnight, when they 
 would be supposed to be going to the French market with 
 produce, and would not attract attention. 
 
 They were forced to admit that she was correct. She 
 then bade them remain while she procured them food. 
 
 None of the three had paid any attention to the negro 
 dwarf who now lay seemingly half asleep in the hall 
 
 Mrs. Broguand now roused him up, and demanded of him 
 what had become of the pair of fowls she had ordered him 
 to roast. The negro explained that, during his absence 
 from the kitchen, some one had stolen them through the 
 open window. 
 
 Bertha felt indignant at what she considered the dwarf’s 
 carelessness. But this feeling changed to concern and 
 suspicion when she felt how unlikely it was that any tramp 
 or stranger of any kind, would approach the kitchen 
 window. 
 
 Could it be possible that Buckingham, the fugitive, had 
 been at the housef 
 
 The condition in which he probably was favored this 
 suspicion, and caused Mrs. Bioguand much apprehension. 
 She also thought of Dolores. Either of these two might 
 have been on the grounds. They might still be. 
 
 The wretched woman was much agitated, but she man¬ 
 aged to find sufficient food in the cellar to place before her 
 delectable gueRts, who ate with voracious appetites, seated 
 meanwhile upon the box within which but a short time 
 previous lay the corpse of the man they had murdered. 
 
 When they had finished Mrs. Broguand bado them search 
 the gardens to make sure that there were no lurking spies 
 within the same. 
 
118 
 
 PALE, KEY-COLD FIGURE. 
 
 But they returned without having found any trace oi 
 interlopers. 
 
 After a reasonable time they removed the hospital bed, 
 with its ghastly tenant, from the house to the ambulance, 
 buttoning the rear flap of the vehicle closely. 
 
 They were now in extreme danger until they reached a 
 street "where there were other wagons, and one of them 
 drove the team out of the gate, the othei closing the same 
 after first inspecting the street, and listening intently for 
 any sign of approaching footsteps. 
 
 Once clear of the grounds of Mrs. Broguand the pair 
 drove toward the more frequented portion of the city; 
 appearing, in the darkness, to be country farmers on their 
 way to market. Thus they proceeded unquestioned, until 
 they approached Jackson Square, when they made ready 
 for the most hazardous part of their night’s work. 
 
 It was quite dark at some points, as the trees and foliage 
 shut off the light from the street and park lamps. Espe¬ 
 cially was this the case at the south side of the square. 
 
 On the east side was the i>oliee headquarters. 
 
 The brandy they had drunk made the villains bold and 
 reckless. 
 
 One of them crawled into the rear of the conveyance, and 
 unbuttoned the flap. 
 
 His companion fastened the reins to the back of the seat 
 and sprang out upon the ground, as did the other from the 
 rear. 
 
 The horses walked slowly. 
 
 One of the men darted ahead to the side gate, and saw 
 that the coast was clear. He then returned to the 
 ambulance, giving a hiss as a signal. 
 
 Instantly the hospital bed with the corpse upon it was 
 drawn out, and one clutched each end, they ran in through 
 the park gate, quickly depositing their freight under the 
 oleanders near the walk. 
 
 Then they ran, but noiselessly, springing into the ambu¬ 
 lance under the flap at the rear, stepped over the back of 
 the seat, and, one catching up the reins, the horses were 
 whipped up, and away they went down the levee in the 
 direction of the French market. But not far did they pro¬ 
 ceed. Soon they turned back into the city streets away 
 from the river. 
 
 And beneath the oleanders lay the murdered man upon 
 the hospital cot, dressed in the clothing of Benedict Barnard, 
 and resembling him enough to be his twin brother 
 
TO ME IT MORE THAN SEEMS 
 
 119 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 11 TO ME IT MORE THAN SEEMS.” 
 
 Dolores ; having been nearer than Buckingham to the 
 point in the garden where the ambulance had been, heard 
 the jolting of the wheels, and was on the alert in an instant. 
 She stole out from the arbor, and lay down upon the grass 
 in such a position that she could distinguish what was 
 around with tolerable clearness. 
 
 The two men, bearing the long box, passed within three 
 feet of her espionage, and they and the burden they carried 
 were outlined against the sky. 
 
 From the tread of tho men she knew that the box con¬ 
 tained something heavy; at least it was not empty, and its 
 form was suggestive. 
 
 What the mystery was the old woman could not surmise. 
 
 The men entered the house, which soon became dark 
 Not a light was to be seen. This was more mysterious. 
 
 Dolores felt sure that some infernal work was being per¬ 
 petrated by the vindictive woman, who long since proved 
 her devilish disposition and character by bribing an assassin 
 to take her life; and that, too, after Dolores had served her 
 faithfully, to tho extent even of committing a deed which 
 she had ever since regretted, and for which she had resolved, 
 should it ever be in her power, to make amends. 
 
 Since she had been the means of placing Buckingham in 
 the fearful position in which he now was, the old hag had 
 determined to serve and save him at any cost short of 
 criminating herself. 
 
 She had thirsted for revenge on Benedict Barnard since 
 he had insulted her at the home in which she so well knew 
 he had no right to be; but she would not have stabbed him 
 had he not recognized her as the old beggar and struck her. 
 He was intoxicated, but that was no excuse lor such 
 cowardice. 
 
 Dolores Lad no idea who it had been over whom she had 
 fallen when stealing the fowl, or she would have been more 
 frightened than she was. She had remained on the grounds 
 of Bertha Broguand to gain all the information she could 
 in regard to her enemy’s movements, and It seemed now 
 that she was to see more than she could well understand. 
 
 She knew nothing of the removal of Ben Barnard from 
 the hospital, but even had she known it, the carrying in of 
 a box which appeared to contain a corpse would have been 
 a mystery still. Had it been taken from the house she 
 would have believed that Benedict was dead; that is* i i she 
 had known of Bertha s removal of him. 
 
120 
 
 TO ME IT MORE THAN SEEMS. 
 
 She resolved, however, to continue a sharp watch, and 
 ascertain all that she could. 
 
 She recalled the fact that an ambulance with two men 
 had been at the house in the early morning hours. These, 
 then, must be the same men, and, at their former visit, some 
 compact must have been entered into between them and 
 Bertha Broguand. 
 
 The old woman had a long time to wait, but she was 
 patient. 
 
 She could hear the men when they searched the garden. 
 They passed quite near her, and then returned to the house. 
 Soon after she heard them stumbling along through the 
 shrubbery in the gloom. 
 
 Could it be that they were bringing the box back again ? 
 
 This would be doubly mysterious — indeed, unaccount¬ 
 able. 
 
 They came nearer and nearer, and Dolores lay close to 
 the earth, realizing how favorable was her position. 
 
 Almost in their former tracks they came. 
 
 The sight that now met her gaze was dumbfounding to 
 Dolores. 
 
 They passed on into the dark grove, and she could hear 
 the creaking of the ambulance springs. She felt confident 
 that the two men had placed the bed and its occupant 
 within the vehicle. 
 
 Her senses being strained to catch any word that might 
 be uttered, the old woman was prevented from hearing the 
 approach of some one who had crawled on the trail of the 
 two men and their strange burden. 
 
 It was a man — no other than Buckingham Broguand — 
 and he crawled directly to the spot where Dolores lav. 
 
 Unconsciously she moved, and the next instant she felt 
 herself clutched tightly, jerked to her feet, and pushed for¬ 
 ward into the shrubbery. She feared to make the least out¬ 
 cry, and the man who had seized her was silent. She 
 believed liersolf in the hands of an officer of justice. 
 
 Not until the ambulance was some distance down the 
 
 street did her captor speak 
 Then she recognized him. 
 
 Then it was that Dolores really feared for her life 
 Buckingham whispered in her ear: 
 
 Not a word, but come with mo! You have been acting 
 the spy on this house and those men, and so have I We 
 will compare notes. Come to my hiding place. But first, 
 are you an officer — a detective? ” 
 
 “ No,” w T as the reply, “ I merely sought a shelter in the 
 arbor l am homeless. ” 
 
TO ME IT MORE THAN SEEMS. 
 
 121 
 
 u Good enough,” said the young man. “So am I, and 
 always have been, I believe.” 
 
 This he said bitterly, while he ground his teeth. 
 
 They soon reached the stable. Then Dolores had no 
 longer any doubts. 
 
 She knew that she "was with the man who, if he recognized 
 her, would be justified in strangling her. Most thankful 
 was she that she w as disguised as a man. She would dis¬ 
 guise her voice as well, and then she might be secure from 
 detection. 
 
 She preceded Buckingham up the ladder, and they seated 
 themselves upon the hay in darkness. 
 
 “ We must be cautious,” whispered the young man. “ We 
 are in danger of discovery, but there are no dogs. Now let 
 me tell you why 1 am here. I have been greatly wronged 
 by one w ho lives here, and consequently I am watching 
 developments ; for it is in the power of that person to wrong 
 me still further, even to the greatest extent. 
 
 “ Now', if you will kindly inform me w hat you have seen, 
 I will reward you; for 1 presume you are in need.’* 
 
 “ I will tell you all 1 have witnessed,” said the old woman, 
 in a low r tone. “ I was here last night also. 1 w^as asleep 
 
 on this hay when the noise made by sonfc f one going down 
 the ladder awakened me. Was it you i " 
 
 “ Probably so,” returned Buckingham; u for I was bore, 
 but hearing an ambulance stop at the front gate 1 went to 
 see who had arrived. ” 
 
 “ Did you see the ambulance last night, or just before 
 day ? ” inquired Dolores. 
 
 “ In the night,” was the reply. “ Did you ? 
 
 “ No.” 
 
 a Well, I did; and they carried a small bed upon which 
 w’as some one, but whether alive or dead I could not say. 
 
 Dolores uttered a low cr\ of amazement. 
 
 “ Now, what I wish to know is,” the young man went on, 
 “ what it was that those same men carried aw T ay with them 
 to-night. They came by appointment with the woman who 
 resides here, for I heard words which caused me to watch 
 
 for them.” 
 
 “ They arrived some hours ago. They brought a beam 
 burden, and carried another away.” 
 
 Thus whispered Dolores. 
 
 “ Could you distinguish what these burdens were like ? 
 be asked quickly. 
 
 “ They brought a long box, large enough to contain the 
 l )0 dy of a man. What they took away was a small non boa- 
 s j ( .ad, upon which was a mattress and the body ol a man. l 
 Jr, not know whether ho was alive or dead. 
 
 0 
 
122 
 
 TO ME IT MORE THAN SEEMS. 
 
 “ My God !” exclaimed Buckingham. “ He was dead ! I 
 know it, and I am doomed — yes, doomed to an ignominious 
 death! ” 
 
 He fell upon the hay. 
 
 Dolores laid her hand upon his shoulder as she wins 
 pered: 
 
 “ Listen to me ! I’ll solve the riddle. ” 
 
 “ There is no riddle,” he returned, “ it is plain as 
 day. ” 
 
 He seemed either not to realize or not to care that he was 
 placing himself in the power of a stranger. It was such a 
 relief to he with any one, that he could not hut feel kindly 
 toward this person, whose face he had not seen; and he 
 felt no suspicions as to being betrayed, although he must 
 have reasoned that this homeless person knew of what had 
 transpired, and must suspect his connection with it- 
 
 Dolores was much agitated. 
 
 She had fathomed the plot of Bertha the Merciless. 
 
 The disguised old woman explained. 
 
 “ You tell me that you saw the bed and man taken into 
 the house last night, and that it was these same men who 
 brought them ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, I saw it, just as I have stated.” 
 
 “And I,” she said, “saw that same bed and clothing 
 taken away to-niglit. ” 
 
 “ Yes, ” agreed Buckingham : “ and the same man upon 
 the bed.” 
 
 “ lam confident,” said Dolores, “ it was not.” 
 
 u What do you mean ? ” demanded the young man, 
 springing up from where he lay. 
 
 “ 1 mean,” asserted his strange companion, “that the 
 man who was carried oft' on that bed to-night is not the 
 same who was brought in upon it. 
 
 u I fic brst man was alive, and still lives. The last was 
 dead when brought here, and, of course, was dead when 
 taken away. ” 
 
 “ You are crazy! ” said Buckingham. ,<•. 
 
 “ Did I not tell you of a long box which was taken into 
 that house to-night? ” 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 u 
 
 \\ ell, that box was not empty. It was a heavy loaded 
 is much so as the box and body. ” 
 
 “ Explain further, will you I ” 
 
 ’It is as plain as Lie sun. They brought a live man on 
 
 a bed. \ cry well. Will you tell me who you believe him 
 to have been ? ” 
 
 Yes, 1 will confide in you ; for I feel that no harm will 
 come, of it. J am confident that it was one Benedict Barn' 
 
TO ME IT MORE THAN SEEMS. 
 
 123 
 
 ftrd, and that lio \v as taken from the hospital on a for°*ed 
 order, purporting to have come from the physician who had 
 him m charge. 
 
 “ I read all about it in yesterday’s paper, which 1 man¬ 
 aged to procure. Now proceed.” 
 
 Dolores had seen no newspaper, yet she had decided in 
 her mind that such was the case ; she knowing nothing of 
 the difficulties that attended such an attempt. 
 
 “ Well,” she continued, “ this Ben Barnard was brought 
 into that house before daylight this morning. To-night a 
 dead man was brought in also. Tie was carried in the box 
 I have mentioned, and was taken out dressed in young Barn¬ 
 ard’s clothes, laid upon the hospital bed, and borne 
 away. 
 
 “ Benedict Barnard is still living, and is in that house at 
 this moment! ” 
 
 “I see it all,” said Buckingham, presently; “it must 
 have been as you suggest. But what could it have been 
 done for? I see no object in all that trouble and risk. 
 Surely the dead man will not pass for Ben Barnard who was 
 stabbed? ” 
 
 “ It appears to me that they have in some way procured 
 a corpse that resembles him, or they would not have gone 
 through so much trouble.” 
 
 “ But what can they intend to do with it ? Can you 
 imagine? Oh, it is absurd, after all. Why, they are laying 
 themselves open to arrest. What is their object ? ” 
 
 “ To leave bed and body in some place where they will be 
 discovered by the police — thus proving that the man who 
 stabbed Ben Barnard is really a murderer .” 
 
 “Great heavens! I see it all now. But it is impos¬ 
 sible! The cheat will be detected. That dead man cannot 
 be mistaken for Benedict Barnard.” 
 
 “ I hope not,” said Dolores. 
 
 “ Heaven bless you for that! ” cried out the young man, 
 fervently. “ I believe you are my iriend, although «i 
 stranger, and whoso face I never before beheld. 
 
 “ I am as innocent of the stabbing of Ben Barnard as \ou 
 
 are, but there is damning proof against me. 
 
 Little did Buckingham think that the one who sat beside 
 him was more guilty than he —that the hand he just tnen 
 pressed so warmly was the one that plunged the daggei 
 into the breast *of him who was known as Benedict 
 
 Barnard! 
 
124 
 
 SUFFERING THE SLINGS AND ARROWS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXYII. 
 
 u SUFFERING THE SLINGS AND ARROWS.” 
 
 Dolores, in her disguise, sat upon the hay beside Buck¬ 
 ingham for a few minutes longer, waiting for the young 
 man to speak, but he remained silent. She was ill at ease, 
 for she feared her companion would recognize her did she 
 remain until daylight. 
 
 The old creature was positive that she now saw through 
 the plot of Bertha Broguand. But she determined to defeat 
 her and save Buckingham, although the latter might be 
 captured and imprisoned before she could do anything to 
 prove his innocence. 
 
 She had formed her own opinion as to all that had been 
 going on in the house of her foe, but she must do more than 
 that — she must investigate and be able to know positively 
 all that had transpired. 
 
 From the knowledge she had gained outside, this would 
 not be very difficult. * In addition to the pity and sympathy 
 which Dolores felt toward Buckingham on account of his 
 wrongs from having been deprived of home and friends, 
 and even name, and the remorse which was hers for having 
 aided Bertha in her inhuman act, she had a sincere feeling 
 of regard for the young man; and especially was this the 
 case since he had confided in her, a perfect stranger. 
 
 If she had dared, she would have informed him of his 
 parentage. 
 
 But she feared his anger. 
 
 He would insist upon knowing who she was that she was 
 so well informed as to his affairs. 
 
 He must certainly know that Bertha Broguand was not 
 his mother, but he could hardly have any idea who his 
 parents really were. 
 
 Dolores promised herself tlie pleasure of telling him. She 
 would concoct a tale in which she would be silent as to her 
 own guilt in blighting his life. 
 
 Having thus made up her mind, the old woman resolved 
 to leave the barn for the purpose of avoiding the inspection 
 of her features by Buckingham when it grew lighter, and to 
 gain information in the streets. 
 
 a I am &°iug out,” she said, placing her hand upon the 
 young man’s arm. “ I am greatly interested in what we 
 lm\o witnessed to-night, and in you. 1 wish to serve you 
 <ili 1 can. Ml meet you here to-morrow night, but you must 
 be careful or the police v ill find you. 
 
 “ As Ben Barnard will now be believed to be dead, mur- 
 
SUFFERING THE SLFNGS AST) ARROWS. 
 
 T25 
 
 dered, and you his slayer, the search will be more eager 
 than ever. ” 
 
 “ How much have T told you/ 7 he gasped. 
 
 “ You have said but little, and 1 infer considerable more, 
 but you are safe as far as 1 am concerned. I’ll get all the 
 information you need. 1 don’t believe you harmed young 
 Barnard, and 1 will do what I can toward proving your 
 innocence." 
 
 “ It will be impossible. I am doomed ! But, in heaven’s 
 sake, who are you? ” 
 
 “ I am one who has suffered much, one who came near 
 being slain by an assassin’s knife. My life has been a fail' 
 ure, but I’ll do one good deed before 1 die.” 
 
 lt You are kind — very kind. If you wish to assist me, 
 bring me the information to-morrow night in regard to the 
 bed and body. If I am not behind prison bars, I will be 
 here. 1 know you will not betray me.” 
 
 The old hag crawled toward the ladder, strangely excited. 
 She had thought some of going at once and giving hersell 
 up as the real assassin; but to serve Buckingham now, she 
 must have liberty. It was not on this charge merely that 
 he was in danger. Bertha Broguand would spare no pains 
 to destroy him, if that failed, and others ot the Barnaul 
 
 family. , , . ,. 
 
 She believed that the time had come when she must dis¬ 
 burden her mind of the secret so long held; and the sooner 
 this was done the better for Robert Barnard. Bettei that 
 he should know now than when too late—when Bucking¬ 
 ham stood convicted of murder and her confession would 
 
 bo taken as the insane fancies of a crank. 
 
 ■ It was to be borne in mind at all times that Bertha Bro- 
 guand, if Ben lived, was liable to remove him , thus placing 
 it beyond the power of others to prove that be was no 
 dead —that it was not liis body that had been left on the 
 hospital hed, which Dolores felt must have already ee 
 discovered. 
 
 The old woman hastily arranged her toilet in such a way 
 as to give her a more respectable appearance. In the mg 
 no one would have taken her to he ol the gentler si ■ • 1 
 
 had a quick step naturally, and an energetic 
 
 On she went to the Barnard mansion, where she had bom 
 before as a fortune-teller, and to leave awarnmg foi R e 
 Barnard. This she had done with a view of extorting money 
 from him for her services as a spy, and to defeat the pbb 
 of Bertha. But now no thought ot gold was in hr lu . , 
 
 only a desire to see justice done, to remsta i Hunrivimz 
 In the home of which sho had been instrumental in depriv mg 
 
 him. 
 
 lfl 
 
SUFFERING THE SLINGS AND ARROWS. 
 
 Dolores had been greatly changed by the events of the 
 past two nights 
 
 Soon she reached the fence that inclosed the grounds of 
 Robert Barnard. 
 
 She had, during her previous visit, taken notice of the 
 construction of the house. 
 
 She knew the identical two windows of the library in 
 which were the desk and safe, and where she had left the 
 first warning, which had informed Barnard that his enemy 
 lived, and that better, far better, had it been for him to 
 have remained in the home he had established far away than 
 return, as he had done, to constant worry and peril. 
 
 Dolores noted, as she stole through the shrubbery, that 
 fhe front chamber was lighted, as was also the library. 
 
 It w r as probable that the master of the mansion was not 
 able to sleep, and little wonder after w^hat he must have 
 heard. 
 
 What could he think of the mysterious removal of Bene¬ 
 dict from the hospital ? 
 
 One of the library windows was wide open. This was 
 strange at such a late hour. 
 
 It obliged the old woman to climb up the trellis-work at 
 some distance from the house, in the darkness, and then 
 creep along the roof of the veranda close to the wall of the 
 house. 
 
 This she did without the slightest noise. 
 
 On one side of the window were a few vines of honey¬ 
 suckle. 
 
 These favored her, and she peered through the foliage. 
 
 Robert Barnard w r as seated facing the window, his eyes 
 fixed upon it with a longing look, as if expecting, or hoping, 
 to behold some wished'for vision. 
 
 What could this mean, the disguised woman asked 
 herself. 
 
 She feared to show herself at once, for in her masculine 
 attire he would believe her to be a burglar, and would cry 
 out for help. 
 
 She therefore drew out a blank card from her pocket and 
 wrote with a pencil in rude, but large characters: 
 
 “ Gold may save from death. 
 
 “Dolores.” 
 
 She gave the card a peculiar whirl and it circled through 
 the air into the room and dropped at the verv feet of Robert 
 Barnard. 
 
 She saw him catch it up quickly, as if he had been 
 expecting it. 
 
 This greatly surprised her. 
 
 She had feared that ho would raise an alarm* 
 
NOBLER IN THE MIND TO SUFFER. 
 
 127 
 
 H© held read the mysterious message and then staggered 
 to his feet, crying out, hut not loudly ; 
 
 “ Thank God, she lives! She comes when I was nravina 
 to see her — or him! ” h 
 
 Dolores felt that she was welcome, but she was none the 
 less astonished. 
 
 She stepped in at the window, 
 
 Robert Barnard drew back affrighted and clutched his 
 revolver. 
 
 “ Hold!” cried out the intruder, “ I am Dolores in 
 disguise ! 9f 
 
 Robert Barnard scanned closely the face before him and 
 then caught her by the hand. 
 
 It was the hand that had ministered to his baby boy It 
 had been instrumental also, in depriving him of that son. 
 
 But this last he knew not. 
 
 CHAPTER XXYI1I. 
 
 \ • 
 
 “nobler in the mind to suffer.” 
 
 After Dolores had left the loft Buckingham became 
 intolerably lonely. 
 
 The air in the barn was unpleasant from the old hay, 
 which seemed crime-poisoned. 
 
 Ho felt that he must get out into the open air, and that 
 once there, that he must walk on and on or he would 
 become insane. He must get away from that place even if 
 every step was attended with the greatest danger. Yet, as 
 he reasoned that no one had seen him dressed in the clothes 
 he then wore, and especially as ho had on a false beard, it 
 did seem that he might be safe from recognition. There¬ 
 fore intending to return before morning, he nervously 
 climbed down the ladder, went out of the stable and gazed 
 with a shudder at the house within which he had lived for 
 years. 
 
 All was darkness in and about it; a darkness that seemed 
 
 symbolical. 
 
 Buckingham scaled the fence and strode down the street. 
 
 Instinctively he followed a course that would take him 
 past the Barnard mansion. 
 
 As he reached the fence in front of the gardens, he 
 paused to glance upward at the illuminated windows. 
 
 Was it possible, ho thought, that that house was his 
 rightful home — that Bianca was his 6ister, and that his 
 father and mother were beneath that roof7 
 
 Had it not been for the awful position in which he was 
 
 A Woman's Rf—** 0 * 
 
1^8 NOBLER IN THE MIND TO SUFFER. 
 
 now placed, through no fault or guilt of his, he could not 
 have resisted his burning desire to rush into the house and 
 demand of Robert Barnard that he tell him how much he 
 knew or suspected. 
 
 He knew that he was not the son of Bertha Broguand. 
 
 His heart had long since told him this and recent occur¬ 
 rences left no doubts in regard to it. Still, had he any 
 rational grounds for believing himself to be the son of 
 Robert Barnard f 
 
 Yes, he decided; more than one. 
 
 The enmity of Bertha toward Barnard, the fainting of 
 the latter when he first saw him, and his resemblance to 
 Bianca — these were three strong reasons; but he felt that 
 he would die rather than seek to fathom the mystery while 
 the fate of a murderer hung over him. 
 
 More like a madman than a sane being Buckingham 
 strode on past the mansion, denying himself the pleasure of 
 again looking up at the lighted windows; and this pre¬ 
 vented him from seeing Dolores—wiiorn he would not, 
 however, have known as his strange friend—enter at the 
 open window of the library. 
 
 Had he seen this seeming man thus enter the house, there 
 is little doubt that, bearing the robbery in mind, he would 
 have rushed at once into the garden, scaled the veranda 
 and dashed into the library to prevent a crime, and that 
 regardless of the peril to himself. 
 
 Had this occurred, it would have changed the course of 
 events greatly. Buckingham would have been secreted, 
 and, through Dolores, the plot of Bertha Broguand would 
 have been not only frustrated, but the unprincipled woman 
 would have been herself given up to justice, as so much 
 could have been proved against her. 
 
 But it had been ordered otherwise. 
 
 On the young man went, his head bent forward, knowing 
 only that he was going in the direction of the river. In a 
 little time he found himself on the street that ran along the 
 east side of Jackson Square. 
 
 He saw the huge light at the entrance to police head¬ 
 quarters, but he felt secure. His disguise, and the darkness, 
 made him sanguine. 
 
 He crossed the street, entered the park, and threw him¬ 
 self upon the sward, as on the previous night. 
 
 He laid his forehead upon the cool grass, and breathed in 
 the fragrance of the orange blooms and magnolias, softly 
 stirred by a riverward vesper. 
 
 All this was refreshing, and Buckingham wished that he 
 
 could enjoy it forever with those whom he might call hi* 
 own. 
 
NOBLER IN THE MIND TO SUFFER. 
 
 m 
 
 Strange fancies oppressed him. His head would droop 
 and he would come near falling asleep, only to he again 
 awfully oppressed and tortured in a nightmare-like man¬ 
 ner. 
 
 Much of this the young man might have escaped, had lie 
 taken these fancies as warnings and returned to his 
 
 covert. , . , , , 
 
 But this was not to be, and Buckingham lingered be¬ 
 neath the dark shades of the oleanders, frequently, in his 
 nervousness, rolling on the sward, and changing his posi¬ 
 tion. „ , , . 
 
 It was after one of these changes, when he was lying 
 
 with his face toward the river and the more brightly lighted 
 portion of the park, that he became conscious of a strange 
 something which was outlined between him and the lights 
 
 ^For a full minute he gazed. Then his breath came and 
 went in spasmodic gasps; his eyes bulged outward in hm - 
 ror, and his hair seemed to stand out from his head, vlnk 
 
 he was chilled to the very marrow. 
 
 He was, for the first time, almost paralyzed. 
 
 Was this another fancy of his disordered brain . Could t 
 
 be an optical delusion i 
 
 Then he strove to gain his feet, but he found that to b, 
 
 impossible, . - , 
 
 He had not the strength of an infant. 
 
 He strove to cry aloud, but the effort to do so v a 
 
 16 This proved that what he had seen had driven all pru¬ 
 dence, all consideration of danger, from hit. wind. 
 
 What did Buckingham see f 
 
 It was a small iron bedstead,upon which were amattross 
 and bedding, and beneath the latter the torn ‘ ctl 
 whose face was clearly outlined m profile, 
 like that of Benedict Barnard . ma 
 
 fie began to sec that ^ believed that a 
 
 strange companion had been procured by 
 
 SSL KSnd^eXt !fe might 
 search and the capture and subsequent han^n g 
 
 ^There it was—that horrible thing — within ten or fifteen 
 
 fC No man was ever, probably, so near Insanity and yet retain 
 
 ,ighming through his denioi aiizt 
 
130 
 
 NOBLER IN THE MIND TO SUFFER* 
 
 Then he strained every nerve m one grand effort and sprang 
 to his feet. 
 
 Death was in the very air he breathed ! 
 
 The fragrance of tropical blossoms was blended with the 
 sickening scent of blood. 
 
 He stole one look at the face of the corpse, and then 
 bounded to the gate. 
 
 Headlong he rushed, but as he was within three feet of 
 the entrance to the park, a shrill whistle sounded in front 
 of him that seemed to tear through his brain like a red-hot 
 dart of steel. 
 
 The next moment he beheld a burly policeman at the 
 gate; and he shot out an unearthly cry of hopeless despair, 
 as he realized that he had rushed blindly into the net of 
 Bertha Broguand, even assisting her unconsciously in the 
 working out of her most devilish plot. 
 
 Then all became a blank to our unfortunate young friend ; 
 for he was struck a heavy blow by the officer with his club, 
 and fell limp and bleeding upon the pave. 
 
 The next moment the park })oliceman ran across from the 
 base of the statue of Jackson, club in hand; but he stopped 
 quickly, with an ejaculation of astonishment not devoid of 
 fright, as ho perceived the cot and the corpse thereon, there 
 in the public park. 
 
 He then blew his whistle, and the “ extras ” came, from 
 headquarters at a run. 
 
 Soon a dozen or more policemen all stood dumbfounded, 
 gazing at the strange scene — a man, sleeping, as they sup¬ 
 posed, on an iron bedstead in the open air. 
 
 But lanterns Hashed, revealing the fact that it was a 
 corpse, and the name of the hospital was upon the sheets. 
 
 All instantly recalled the affray of the previous night, and 
 the removal by fraud of the victim, bed and all, from the 
 hospital. 
 
 Here, then, was the victim of the knife of young Broguand, 
 whose name was in every mouth in the city. The sense ¬ 
 less man, who now lay upon the pavement in irons, was 
 recognized as the assassin for whom search had been made 
 for two nights and a day. 
 
 Ho had been, it seemed, a desperate criminal, but he was 
 helpless now. 
 
 A short trial and a strong rope were what now awaited 
 him. 
 
 Thus thought and spoke the police, yet none of them could 
 understand the case. 
 
 Very strange and mysterious had been the whole business 
 throughout, and the most remarkable feature of the case 
 was this placing of the body in the. park, near police head- 
 
taking arms against a sea of troubles 131 
 
 quarters, seemingly on purpose to be discovered, and qmckly. 
 But the most strange and unaccountable of all was the pres¬ 
 ence of the murderer near his victim, and that at a point 
 which prudence would have made him give a wide berth. 
 
 Had he come to the police bringing his victim and the 
 bed on a wheelbarrow, running the same in at the door, 
 the astonishment of the officers could net have been 
 
 ^The^bed and its occupant were taken into the station, 
 and poor Buckingham also, he being locked in a cell and a 
 
 nhvsician summoned to attend him. 
 
 Never, it is likely, had there been a chain of events so 
 astoundingly strange < ud perplexing connected with a single 
 crime in the Crescent City. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 « TAKING ARMS AGAINST A SEA OF TROUBLES.” 
 
 Tite day following the accident to Mrs. Barnaul that 
 lady was almost herself again, though still obliged to remain 
 
 in bed, and Bianca remained by her side reading ' 
 
 But they were not allowed, as may he supposed, the 1 . 1 
 
 tnnitv of reading the papers of the day. 
 
 Neither of the ladies noticed the absence of Benedict, 
 be urn quite accustomed to his remaining from home when t 
 suited h mto do so, but they could not help perceiving that 
 Mr Barnard was unusually pale and haggard, besides being 
 
 remarkably taciturn. - . linv ; mi . i )00n greatly 
 
 They attributed this, however, to his having been g-e.it j 
 
 worried, and having been deprive*, o s• ^P* ^ appear - 
 
 The one thing that had puzzled Bianca was tne app© 
 
 ance of Buckingham Broguaml. occasion 1 ? 
 
 What could have Drought him on■ eiU ^ met or gml 
 
 She felt sure that ho anil hei fa >' < d tliat t ho 
 
 each other previous to that utgj her wl8 that which 
 
 barso'«“ tled CO hcr parent 
 
 rcc-'.mid ? GV Why 'h!ul Mt Barnard fainted at the sight ol 
 
 V 'Till, why had the young man, when he first came, worn 
 the uniform of a policeman . 
 
 Here was another mystery. , w eeT) i n g secluded 
 
 Thus tho day passed 1 tobort 1^if e felt neglected 
 
 In liis library so much of the d. \ • daughter made 
 
 and the daughter more worried, but the ua g 
 
[32 TAKING ARMS AGAINST A SEA OF TROUBLES. 
 
 every exease for her father, seeing plainly that he was any¬ 
 thing but well, 
 
 Robert Barnard was haunted all day by the face he had 
 seen on the veranda. 
 
 He fully believed that young Broguaiul was his son, and 
 that the young man himself knew it. That son was now a 
 fugitive from justice — the assassin of one who had usurped 
 his place. 
 
 From the view he had had of his face Robert Barnard 
 could not believe that the man who had returned his gold 
 and bonds was a criminal, although there could be no doubt 
 that he had been reared under demoralizing circumstances. 
 He would have given much to have had another look at 
 him. He would give everything to save his life, to shield 
 him from disgrace. 
 
 Such was the distressed and perplexed man’s state of 
 mind on this subject that he resolved to sit in his library all 
 night with the window open,’ in hope that the same vision 
 might again confront him — that he might behold the face 
 of the one who he felt to be the son that was stolen from 
 him. 
 
 There he sat as he had resolved, each hour seeming a 
 day, while he kept his lone vigil. 
 
 We can imagine how his heart must have bounded'when 
 the card upon which old Dolores had written fell at his 
 feet. 
 
 He believed that he was now to meet his son — that his 
 watchfulness and self-denial were to be rewarded. 
 
 Great was his disappointment as he read the card, but it 
 was only for an instant, for he realized that the only person 
 in the world who could help him was then near at hand. It 
 was almost as good as to behold his son. 
 
 u I am Dolores in disguise ! ” 
 
 Then their hands had met. 
 
 But the old woman speedily withdrew hers and pointed to 
 the door, saying: 
 
 “ Lock it! We must have no intruders. ” 
 u inhere is no danger of any,” said Mr. Barnard, yet he 
 locked the door at once. 
 
 When he turned, Dolores had removed her hat, and her 
 long gray hair fell over her shoulders. The gaslight fell upon 
 
 her face. Robert Barnard was satisfied as to her iden¬ 
 tity. 
 
 The old creole nurse stood before him. 
 
 Both were greatly excited. 
 
 “ I am alive, you see, Mr. Barnard,” she began, “ and I 
 have come to undo a great wrong, if possible. When you 
 
TAKING ARMS AGAINST A SEA OF TROUBLES- 133 
 
 know everything you will feel like using your revolver upon 
 me, but 1 deserve it. 
 
 “ I have always repented of what T did, however. 
 Remorse has aged me. Yet when I first learned that you 
 were in New Orleans I resolved that you should pay well for 
 any information I might give you. But it is different now. 
 
 I ask nothing but to be believed,” 
 
 Robert Barnard leaned against a table for support, 
 
 “ You have come, then, Dolores,” he said, hoarsely, “ to 
 tell me that I have reared the worthless son of Bertha Bro* 
 guand as my own flesh and blood, and that she, *he fiend, 
 has had my boy from his infancy to pollute ana degrade 
 him — to rear him to a life of crime! 
 
 44 But she could not. 1 defy her to degrade one of my 
 blood!” 
 
 u It is true, every word that you have spoken, but how 
 do you know it ? ” 
 
 u It is explained in a few words,” said Mr. Barnard. 44 I 
 have seen my son, and to see him is but to recognize him as 
 such. ” 
 
 44 And you have spoken to him f Does he know’ all ? ” 
 
 44 I have not, but my heart told me that he is mine. He 
 is the image of my daughter. You changed the babes, 
 Dolores — bribed by that fiend Bertha. Own to this; help 
 me to regain my boy, and I’ll forgive you! ” 
 
 “ I did change the infants — may that day be cursed in 
 the calendar, as it is in my memory! But what brought 
 your son here ? I must know all, and then 1 shall tell all 
 
 that I know. . _ . . 
 
 44 We must work quickly, or Bertha will succeed in nor 
 
 latest plot But to prove that 1 have been at work, * will 
 say that I believe your son must have come to restore that 
 which had been stolen from you by the woman w ho lcaiec 
 
 him as her own.” , . 
 
 44 That was indeed his purpose, but how came you to 
 
 know it?” , ... . irirl 
 
 “ Never mind! I know much more that will startle ana 
 
 infuriate you. You are aware ot what your son is 
 
 accused ? ” 
 
 “ Yes; and i have read in the papers all about his escape, 
 I have for years suspected that the boy whom 1 ha'<' 'o. ' 
 
 was no son of mine. I have even been tortured by' seeing 
 in him a resemblance to IJertha Hroguaud. May sne sutioi 
 
 aH “‘ But she is totally hardened. She has neither heart nor 
 
 She is suffering now” said Dolores, ‘‘iisimi^us^w 
 
 capable of suffering. But let me toil v 
 
134 TAKING ARMS AGAINST A SEA OF TROUBLES, 
 
 felled that policeman in the alley I removed the irons 
 from Buckingham, I knew that he was innocent of the 
 crime imputed to him- and I intend to prove his inno¬ 
 cence.” 
 
 “ May heaven bless you, Dolores! You have done me a 
 great wrong, but I forgive you, for you are striving to undo 
 it.” 
 
 “ We must talk to the point, Robert Barnard 1 am but 
 working to relieve my conscience. You know that Ben, in 
 his wounded state, was smuggled away from the hospi • 
 tal ? ” 
 
 “ Yes; and that is inexplicable.” 
 
 “ It should not be. Bertha Broguand had him removed. 
 She has now her son with her, but she had a terrible object 
 aside from that.” 
 
 “ I see it suggested that the removal was effected by 
 Buckingham. ” 
 
 “ That is a lie. Before this time the officers will have 
 known it was such. Benedict Barnard, so-called, is now 
 in some police station, I am confident. He lies upon the 
 same bed on which he left the hospital, but he is now 
 dead! ” 
 
 “Dead! Then my poor boy is doomed. But Til trace 
 him out and carry him away. It shall be as you wrote 
 upon that card: 
 
 “ 1 Gold will prevent death ! 7 ” 
 
 “ If you would defeat Bertha Broguand you must avoid 
 excitement. If you will swear not to divulge it, I will 
 relieve your mind. 77 
 
 Robert Barnard assented. 
 
 “ I can lead you to your son, I left him not an hour 
 ago. 77 
 
 Then the old nurse related everythirg connected with the 
 strange occurrences at the house of Airs. Broguand, satisfy¬ 
 ing Mr. Barnard that she knew whereof she spoke. 
 
 His eagerness was now great to go and meet Buckingham 
 and bring him home; then to secrete and guard him. 
 
 Dolores promised to be at the fence beyond the gate, and 
 there meet him. 
 
 She left as she had come, and soon after Robert Barnard 
 stole softly down-stairs, revolver in hand. He took with 
 him, also, a considerable sum of money, which he intended 
 giving Dolores. 
 
 His feelings can be but faintly imagined. His fondest 
 hopes were about, as he believed, to be realized ; but the 
 path before his son was still a dark and dangerous one. He 
 realized it all, for the old woman had told him even of the 
 substitution of the corpse for the wounded man! 
 
SHARPER THAN A SERPENT’S TOOTH. 
 
 135 
 
 Mr. Barnard left tlio house without his daughter knowing 
 it, her mother being asleep, and, meeting Dolores, the two 
 went rapidly to the home of Bertha Broguand. They 
 reached the fence in the rear of the gardens, climbed over, 
 and gained the loft. Dolores called softly to Buckingham' 
 but no answer was returned. 
 
 She then searched on every side, but with no favorable 
 result. 
 
 Buckingham was gone! 
 
 _Ie was at that moment lying in irons in a cell, the sup¬ 
 posed corpse of the man he was believed to have murdered 
 within a few feet of him. 
 
 Dolores was too experienced a detective to despair. 
 
 With gold to aid her, she went into the streets to trace 
 up the young man, and learn all she could in regard to the 
 probable discovery of the bed and body, while, almost mad¬ 
 dened from his disappointment, Robert Barnard returned to 
 his house. 
 
 It had taken all the old woman’s powers of persuasion to 
 prevent him from rushing into the abode of his female foe, 
 and searching every nook and corner of it for her wounded 
 
 son. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 “ SHARPER THAN A SERPENT’S TOOTTI . 99 
 
 With an expression of fiendish triumph upon her sallow 
 face Bertha Broguand returned, after dismissing the two 
 men with the dead body. Sho had succeeded, so far, 
 beyond her hopes, but she had now to “ rest upon her oars. - 
 Not until she was satisfied that this last plot would be a 
 success did she project another in her vengeful mind. 
 
 This was as fiendish in conception as the other, it uas 
 no less than the abduction of Bianca Barnard. ,. 
 
 It remained to be seen what impression the revelation 
 of this devilish plot would have upon Ben when he shoulo 
 recover. His wound was now, so the medical man asseito 1, 
 
 in a very favorable condition. 
 
 His mother felt no anxiety as to the seci et c m 
 being discovered by the police, as none but the phys . 
 and tho two hired miscreants knew ol its exis on . 
 
 The latter hopeful pair were too much ah o ]to t h 
 
 safety, and she made sure of tho doctoi. . i =' P 
 
 the same way, for Bertha had become c "??nh ^h e Momed 
 that had been committed by linn, and which 
 
 him she could prove. 
 
L36 
 
 SHARPER TH^N A SERPENT’S TOOTH. 
 
 There was but one person whom she really feared, and 
 that was Dolores. 
 
 So unlooked for and mysterious had been the appearance 
 of the old woman, as from the dead, together with the sig¬ 
 nificant warnings she had left, that Bertha believed she not 
 only meant to reveal everything to Kobert Barnard, but to 
 murder her as well. 
 
 Thus it was that she never could feel certain that Dolores 
 could not m some way find out the existence of the apart¬ 
 ment in which Benedict was concealed. 
 
 She had seen by the papers that the Barnard plunder had 
 been restored. She knew that Buckingham had done this, 
 and her hatred was, if possible, more murderous than ever. 
 This act indicated that Buckingham had begun at least to 
 suspect that he was the son of Kobert Barnard, and she 
 fairly fumed in her rage. 
 
 Sire was also furious at finding that he was still at large, 
 but she felt that the police would exert themselves more 
 than on most x>revious occasions, for the whole city was up 
 in arms against him, and it would be a miracle if he escaped 
 arrest. 
 
 Should he not be arrested soon, and should a large reward 
 be olfered for him, then she would be afraid that her house 
 would receive a more thorough search, which might possibly 
 result in the finding of Ben. 
 
 This would ruin her indeed. v 
 
 In that event she would have no further opportunity to 
 avenge herself upon Kobert Barnard. 
 
 Thus it will be seen that Bertha had been anxious for the 
 return of the two ruffians, that she might know they had 
 escaped arrest. 
 
 In this respect she had been gladdened by their appear¬ 
 ance, when she heard their report, and then paid them the 
 balance which she had promised them. 
 
 But her joy was great when she learned, m the morning, 
 of the finding of the body in Jackson Square, and the 
 capture of the assassin so near his victim. 
 
 She no longer feared a visit from the police. All was 
 well thus far. 
 
 Buckingham would most certainly hang. 
 
 1 hus relieved, she paid more attention to her patient. 
 
 .W hen the latter advanced to a more rational frame of 
 
 mind he had, as we may w r ell believe, ample food for 
 thought. 7 F 
 
 He was in a strange place, on a pallet, in a windowless 
 room with bare walls, and almost without furniture. 
 
 He had always been accustomed to luxurious surround- 
 
SHARPER THAN A SERPENT'S TOOTH. 
 
 137 
 
 frigs, and this hovel, as he termed it in iiis thoughts, was 
 repulsive to him. 
 
 Then he had heard sufficient, in the frequent soliloquies 
 of this woman who attended him, to satisfy him that she 
 believed him to be her son, and he began, as soon as he was 
 able to feel much emotion, to detest the sight of her. 
 
 Ben was not entirely bad. He was not totally depraved, 
 by a great deal. 
 
 Ho could not believe, and ho was far from having any 
 wish to do so, that he was other than the son of Robert Barn¬ 
 ard. Indeed, it was to him the most preposterous idea to 
 think otherwise, even for a moment. 
 
 It appeared that this woman had contrived to have him 
 removed from the hospital in order that she might carry out 
 a plot of vengeance against his old friend, Buckingham Bro- 
 guand; and, not only so, but that she had been known as 
 Buckingham’s mother 
 
 His thoughts then reverted to the old hag whom ho had 
 twice met, and ho now remembered distinctly being stabbed 
 by her. Gradually he began to see the method in this 
 woman’s apparently mad doings. 
 
 Ben had not the slightest enmity toward Buckingham. 
 On the contrary, be felt sympathy for him since lie knew o! 
 the infamous plot this woman had hatched and executed to 
 convict him of murder. He was dumbfounded at the strange 
 situation. 
 
 That this Mrs. Broguand had schemed against the'life of 
 the very man whom she had reared as her s n was astound¬ 
 ing, and, when he had put everything together, he became 
 pretty well convinced that she would not thus Iiave plotted 
 unless she had known Buckingham to be the son of Robert 
 Barnard. 
 
 In that case he, Benedict, must be indeed her son. But 
 Ben resolved that he would not own such a she-demon as 
 his mother, even though she should prove her relationship 
 beyond the shadow of a doubt. 
 
 The young man was very weak, and a good deal upset 
 mentally, but bo bad sense sufficient to feign sleep whenever 
 Mrs. Broguand entered the apartment. lie was in this ^ay 
 enabled to gain much information in regard to matters that 
 were of interest to him, through the habit Bertha had of 
 pacing the room and indulging in soliloquy. 
 
 In this way lie learned of the arrest of Ins old'associate 
 and friend for the murder of himself, and that an inquest 
 had been held over his own dead bodv. 
 
 This was far from being agreeable to Bon. 
 
 He did not relish—small blame to him — the idea of 
 becoming dead to the world while he yet lived — to have 
 
138 
 
 THE WINTER OF THEIR DISCONTENT 
 
 his obituary published and to be laid in the tomb by proxy 
 — thus to live, without name, or friends, or aught else. The 
 prospect was not encouraging. 
 
 Naturally vain and arrogant, the young man was greatly 
 infuriated at the turn affairs had taken, and it caused him 
 to almost doubt his own senses, to almost believe that he 
 was in reality dead. At all events, he could not help think 
 ing that he might as well be dead as in the condition in 
 which he was. 
 
 But he was powerless to change it, at least for the present, 
 and he was cunning enough not to attempt it. Neither did 
 he betray the fact that he understood anything that was 
 going on around him. 
 
 All this time the wretched woman, in ignorance of the fact 
 that he heard and understood her, walked up and down, 
 discoursing to herself on the dark retrospect, and the equally 
 somber prospect she had marked out. 
 
 Having her son under her roof, and sure that her plot 
 would be the means of sending Buckingham to the gallows, 
 Bertha Broguand resolved that she would set herself toward 
 perfecting another diabolical scheme, by way of heaping 
 more anguish upon Robert Barnard and iiis wife. 
 
 This was to engage the two murderous miscreants who 
 had served her so well of late to abduct Bianca Barnard, 
 and bring the young girl to her house. 
 
 She would then have deprived the Barnards of both their 
 children. 
 
 Buckingham would be hanged, and Bianca would be wed¬ 
 ded to Ben—the nameless, the disgraced. 
 
 This would, indeed, be revenge! 
 
 To her now exultant mind nothing stood in the way of 
 this. Compared with what she had accomplished, the carry- 
 mg out of this latest plot would be easy. 
 
 But Bertha the merciless, the vindictive, was destined to 
 be defeated in her fiendish plots, and principally through 
 the person she most feared — the old creole nurse, Dolores. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 “ THE WINTER OF THEIR DISCONTENT . 77 
 
 Most hopeless and miserable was Robert Barnard when 
 he returned home, after going with Dolores, as they both 
 had believed, to meet Buckingham. Yet he felt relieved in 
 one way. His son, for such he now believed him to be 
 beyond all doubt, must have made his escape from the 
 city. 
 
THE WINTER OF THEIR DISCONTENT. 
 
 139 
 
 He had called down blessings upon the head of Dolores, 
 and had bade her, at parting, to procure suitable clothing, 
 and to visit him, as he wished her to be present when he 
 informed his wife and daughter of the strange developments 
 in their family history. He banished from his mind all 
 anger toward the old nurse, for having been Influenced to 
 that atrocious act, her repentance and evident sincere regard 
 for his son tending toward this state of mind. 
 
 Indeed, ho felt drawn toward any who might have 
 befriended his wronged and unfortunate boy. 
 
 He knew that Buckingham, unless he had fled the city, 
 was in great peril; that ho would be arrested as a murderer, 
 through the infamous plot of Bertha Broguand — but he had 
 great confidence in Dolores, and thought not of acting in 
 any way contrary to her proposed manner of proceeding; 
 though he was as yet ignorant as to what that might be. 
 
 But he was destined to be greatly tried in this connection, 
 for he had but just quietly entered his homo by the aid of 
 his pass-key, and gained his library, when a hasty pull at 
 the door-bell caused him to start as if he had been shot. 
 
 He quickly descended the stairs and opened the door,'when 
 he saw a sergeant of police. In a tone of caution Mr. Barn¬ 
 ard said: 
 
 “ Please speak guardedly. My wife is ill, and is just now 
 sleeping. ” 
 
 “ Certainly,” said the officer, in a whisper , “ I regret the 
 necessity of this late call, but the dead body of your son has 
 been found on Jackson Square, upon the same bed on which 
 he was taken from the hospital. The assassin, 1 may also 
 state, has been secured. 
 
 Robert Barnard turned pale as death. 
 
 “ Yes,” continued the man; “ ho is in irons at head¬ 
 quarters. But, Mr. Barnard, let me assist you to your room. 
 I fear all this has been too much for you.” 
 
 The sergeant stepped inside to act as ho had proposed, 
 but Mr. Barnard quietly dismissed him, and just then Bianca 
 came hastily down the stairs. 
 
 “Oh. papa,” she exclaimed; “what is it now? They 
 will kill you with all these reports. Do come up to mother, 
 for that bell awakened her.” 
 
 The appearance of the maiden’s father greatly disturbed 
 her. By an effort he was sustaining himself upon his feet, 
 although he trembled greatly. Assisted by Bianca ho now 
 staggered up the stairs. 
 
 Mrs. Barnard was sitting up in bed, the picture of appro- 
 hension and concern. 
 
 “ What has happened ? ” she asked, anxiously. 
 
14U 
 
 THE WINTER OF ,1'HEIR DISCONTENT. 
 
 “ A policeman was at the door/’ said Bianca. “ He must 
 have brought news about Ben. ” 
 
 Mr. Barnard was silent for some moments. 
 
 “ Why should I bo distressed in regard to Benedict ? ” he 
 asked, at length. “ Has he ever been other than a sore trial 
 to us all? Has he ever been like a son ? No! And lam 
 thankful to say now he is not our son ! ” 
 
 The shock to Mrs. Barnard it was evident was no slight 
 one , but a strange, glad light shone in the eyes of Bianca. 
 
 u There has been much to torture me of late,” Robert 
 Barnard went on; “ in fact, our names have been in every 
 mouth in the city for the last twenty-four hours. First, my 
 dear, your accident; then, my safe was robbed, making us 
 paupers. Let not that affect you, however, for the plunder 
 was returned, which was most remarkable, Then, the 
 next news that 1 had was that Ben had been stabbed, and 
 that the dagger found in his breast was engraved with the 
 name i Broguand ! ’ ” 
 
 Both the wife and daughter gazed at him spell-bound, 
 horrified 
 
 But he had more yet to reveal. 
 
 «/ 
 
 He must inform them of everything. 
 
 They must share Ills misery. 
 
 But then, the son whom he had found was innocent. 
 Dolores had asserted this, and it should be proved. 
 
 u The accused person,” he continued, “ was arrested, but 
 escaped in the uniform of the policeman who had him in 
 charge. ” 
 
 Bianca grasped the bed for support. 
 
 Hei father went on 
 
 “ Strange to say, he came this wuy w T hen escaping, and I 
 clutched him at the gate to bring him, for I had just discov¬ 
 ered the robbery of the safe, but just then I caught sight ot 
 his face, and 1 fainted.” 
 
 There was a faint cry here from Bianca. 
 
 u Some time passed and I was in the library wLen the 
 same man threw the missing gold and papers — our entire 
 fortune — in at the window. I was so dumbfounded I could 
 not speak. The sight of his face paralyzed me. 
 
 “ Wife, that young man w r as the very image of Bianca, and 
 he is our son! ” 
 
 “ My God! ” exclaimed Mrs. Barnard. 
 
 “ Yes; our son, stolen from us when an infant by Bertha 
 Broguand, wdio put her own child in its place in the 
 cradle! ” 
 
 “ And 1 have met him, papa,” said the young girl, “ and 
 I could not understand why he impressed me so strangely, 
 but I see it all now. ” 
 
 * 
 
THE TV INTER OF THEIR DISCONTENT. 
 
 141 
 
 For some time silence reigned in that chamber 
 Then Mr. Barnard recalled the interview he had just had 
 with the police sergeant, and again he spoke. 
 
 “ But it may be that he has been given back only to be 
 taken away from us. now can I tell you 1 Buckingham, 
 as he is called, is now in a prison cell charged with having 
 murdered him who was known as Benedict Barnard ! ” 
 
 Both the wife and sister were the pictures of anguish. 
 “But he is innocent,” said the father, confidently; “it 
 is another plot of that infamous woman. She has sworn to 
 bring our boy to the scaffold. She has Ben now, her own 
 son; but for all that he is dead to the world — for to-night 
 a corpse, in his clothes, and upon the bed, was substituted 
 for him, and placed by Bertha's agents near the police 
 station in which our poor boy is confined. ” 
 
 , Bianca sprang to her feet. 
 
 “ Bat he shall be saved! ” she exclaimed. “ lie is guilty 
 of no crime. 1 know he did not stab Ben, and poor Bon is 
 not so degraded as to say he did, even at the bidding of that 
 dreadful mother of his. I will go to my brother this very 
 night—it is my duty. Papa, you know I ought. We must 
 save him! ” 
 
 Not until Ins daughter had thus spoken did Robert Barn 
 ard recall his promise to Dolores. 
 
 Then in detail he related all that the old nurse had 
 revealed to him, and his promise as well; but Mrs. Barnard 
 insisted upon getting up and being dressed, asserting that 
 she could not remain thus while her son, from whom she 
 had been parted since his infancy, lay on the rough bench 
 of a prison cell. 
 
 Robert Barnard found that he had started emotions which 
 he could no more control than ho could the winds of 
 heaven 
 
 Soon, however, the door-bell again rang, and when he 
 opened it to his surprise and joy Dolores stood before him, 
 though ho would not have recognized her bad she not 
 thrown hack her veil and introduced herself. She was now 
 attired in a neat suit of black, and presented quite a respect¬ 
 able appearance. 
 
 And Dolores, when presented to Mrs. Barnard and Bianca 
 — who knew nothing of her connection with the kidnaping— 
 received a warmer welcome than had ever been hers before. 
 In a few words Mr. Barnard related all the services she had 
 already performed. 
 
 The old nurso reasoned with the family, and explained 
 that they must not betray an acquaintance with Bucking¬ 
 ham, and that the corpse must be buried, as that of thru- 
 son. from their bouse. Were the police to leam that Buck* 
 
142 making assurance doubly sure. 
 
 ingham was the son of the Barnards there would then be 
 seen a motive in the assassination — namely, a resolve to 
 kill the man who had so long usurped his place. 
 
 Dolores declared that she would save the young man if 
 they would be guided by her, but if the true state of affairs 
 was ascertained by Bertha Broguand— if the latter knew 
 that her plot had been discovered — she would remove her 
 wounded son, and then, if beyond their power to produce 
 him, his alleged murderer would be doomed to death. 
 
 Finally the old woman succeeded in getting the Barnard 
 family into a degree of reason, much to her own relief, and 
 filling them with hope in regard to Buckingham’s being 
 proved innocent. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 u MAKING ASSURANCE DOUBLY SURE. ” 
 
 The officer had struck Buckingham a cruel blow, but the 
 physician who had been summoned asserted that lie would 
 be all right in a few hours. 
 
 It was some time before the young man realized his posi¬ 
 tion. When at last he did lie shuddered, for that dread 
 tableau in the park, the last scene he could recall, was a 
 terrible one. 
 
 He had not the remotest idea that ho had been struck 
 down until the pain in his head caused him to raise his 
 hand, when he felt the plaster. 
 
 Why had he not remained in the loft ? 
 
 But it had been his destiny. 
 
 Directly to the spot where the miscreants had left their 
 victim, there he had wandered, without knowing or caring 
 where ho was going. There he had thrown himself upon 
 the grass to rest and cool his fevered brow, when that fear¬ 
 ful sight had met his eyes. 
 
 That his case was now hopeless he really believed. 
 
 There appeared no possible way of extricating himself 
 from hi3 terrible position. 
 
 Bertha Broguand had done her work well. 
 
 She was, in truth, merciless. 
 
 The circumstantial evidence against him was overwhelm¬ 
 ing. 
 
 But he knew now, he was persuaded, that Robert Barn¬ 
 ard was his father, and that he had a mother and sister 
 who were such in every sense of the word. He had a home 
 that ho had never known. 
 
 All this he had seen as in a dream, and then it was ban¬ 
 ished forever by dark despair. 
 
MAKING ASSURANCE DOUBLY SURE. 
 
 148 
 
 He was now in a felon’s cell, and almost every possible 
 proof against him. 
 
 He only wished that he had not showed his face to his 
 father or spoken to him, for the expression on Mr. Barn¬ 
 ard’s face told all, far plainer than v T ords could have 
 done. 
 
 Robert Barnard believed him to be his son. 
 
 This was evident, yet incomprehensible. 
 
 Buckingham believed, too, that Bianca had' betrayed no 
 common interest in him. 
 
 All this would be very agreeable, most pleasant to think 
 of, could he forget that a barrier had sprung up between 
 him and them — a barrier of disgrace and death! 
 
 But no — he would not disgrace them! 
 
 None would ever know that he was aught but the son of 
 Bertha Broguand. He had lived as such and thus he would 
 die, to prevent disgrace from falling upon those whom ho 
 might claim. 
 
 Thus ho strove to control his thoughts, which, in a mad 
 whirl, flashed through his brain, but the face of Bianca 
 and of her father so tilled with that which drew him toward 
 them — those so oft before his mind in showing to him what 
 might have been, and what he had lost — so wrought upon 
 his brain that he sprang wildly from his rude prison bed 
 and for a moment meditated seriously upon hurling himself 
 head foremost against the wall of stone. 
 
 But suddenly his eye fell upon a white paper near the 
 bottom of the door, looking as if it had dropped through 
 the grating. 
 
 He stooped aDd took it up. 
 
 . It was small and folded letter-like. 
 
 Surely it had been cast there for him by some one inter¬ 
 ested in his welfare. 
 
 A friend now would be a friend indeed. 
 
 Jlis hand trembled. He could hardly see the letters writ¬ 
 ten upon the paper, so excited w*as he, and the light from 
 the passage was so dim. 
 
 Finally he succeeded. 
 
 It read as follows : 
 
 Be not discouraged. I am working hard for you. I 
 returned to the hay-loft, guiding your father there, and he 
 was almost frantic at not finding you. AVo have heard all 
 that has taken place, hut all that is possible will bo done 
 for you. You shall yet be free. 
 
 “You 6hall yet know what homo is, and that fiend in 
 female form shall ccmo to grief. 1 know more in regard to 
 you tlian you did yourself w hen we walked toge ther. 
 
 u Destroy this, and remember that I nm working for your 
 A H oman's Revenge 10 * 
 
14-i MAKING ASSURANCE DOUBLY SURE. 
 
 liberation and the punishment of her who has been your 
 curse and mine. Mystery. 77 
 
 Buckingham’s feelings, when he had read this, were 
 beyond expression. 
 
 He seated himself upon his bed, and tearing the precious 
 epistle into small pieces, cast them beneath it. 
 
 Who could this man be whom he had found in Bertha 7 s 
 garden, and who thus adhered to him? It must be either 
 one who, on his own account, was on the trail of Bertha 
 Broguand, or one who had been employed by llobert Barn¬ 
 ard. 
 
 What a fool he had been — so he now thought for the 
 fiftieth time — not to have remained in that stable. 
 
 Could all things, indeed, be for the best? 
 
 It did seem impossible; yet but for his having been 
 arrested when he first was, he would not have seen his 
 father’s face. 
 
 And now that letter; it had probably saved him from a 
 suicide 7 s death. He had been desperate, almost insane, and 
 had meditated destroying himself when he perceived it. 
 
 But he had now to control himself, and strive not to 
 think. 
 
 Casting himself upon his cot, his face buried in his hands, 
 poor Buckingham fell into a stupor, which lasted until after 
 dawn. 
 
 The hour approached when he knew that he would be 
 conducted into the court-room, which would, of course, be 
 filled with the usual gaping crowd. 
 
 It w r ould be a terrible ordeal, but he must bear it; and he 
 could bear it, for was he not innocent ? 
 
 An inquest would first have been held and a coroner’s 
 jury would have rendered their verdict. Then must follow r 
 his preliminary examination. 
 
 Would there be any one present tvho would be interested 
 in his behalf? 
 
 It seemed hardly possible that he could be benefited by 
 the work promised by his strange correspondent at this 
 early stage of the proceedings. The latter, even if an 
 experienced detective, had much to do, and days, possibly 
 wrecks, must elapse before such evidence as he sought could 
 reasonably be expected to be forthcoming. 
 
 While thus cogitating the cell door was pushed open and 
 a gentleman was admitted. 
 
 He was a stranger, yet Buckingham felt positive he had 
 seen him previously. 
 
 The door was again closed and locked. 
 
 The two were alone. 
 
 “lama lawyer, 77 said the stranger, introducing himself; 
 
THOU CANS' T NOT SAY I DID IT! 
 
 145 
 
 11 Gleason is my name, and I have been engaged to defend 
 you. 
 
 “ I have come now to ask for every particular that you 
 are conversant with in connection with this serious affair 
 Now, will you be good enough to tell me your story, and in 
 as simple and concise a manner as you can put it? ” 
 
 This the young man did, the lawyer making notes from 
 time to time. 
 
 Buckingham, however, made no statement in regard to 
 the Barnard family, with the exception of Benedict, and 
 said nothing that would cause Mr. Gleason to think him in 
 anyway connected with them. Indeed, ho said nothing 
 except what was absolutely necessary, and boro directly 
 upon the case. 
 
 “There is to be a preliminary examination ” — so his 
 counsel remarked — “ and you must bo choice of your 
 words. Take care that you say nothing that will tend to 
 criminate yourself to any greater extent, for you have enough 
 circumstantial evidence against you to hang two men. 
 
 “ We want the grand jury to find a true bill for murder 
 against you, and then we will astonish tho natives by pro¬ 
 ducing the man, whom it is alleged you murdered, alive and 
 as well as could be expected. 
 
 “ It is the strangest case that ever was upon this docket, 
 but we’ll make it stranger still before we get through with 
 it. I may say that I am employed by Mr. Barnard — Rob¬ 
 ert Barnard — to defend you, but that part of it must 
 remain a secret. 
 
 “ You understand, then, that we are to let the thing glide 
 along at all events until the result of the inquest has been 
 made known, allowing the body to be delivered to tho sup¬ 
 posed father. Then it will be our deal, and we’ll sweep the 
 board. Keep up heart, my boy ; I’ll run you through ! ” 
 
 Buckingham was so astonished and rejoiced that he 
 knew not what reply to make, but Gleason gave him no 
 time to collect his thoughts. Without another word he 
 shook hands with his client, and then, turning abruptly, 
 struck the iron door three quick taps. 
 
 A minute later Buckingham was again alono in his cell. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 “ THOU CANS’T NOT SAY I DID IT I 99 
 
 Dolohes was far from remaining Mlo. 
 
 She it was that directed Robert Barnard to send for his 
 lawyer when a lino of action was decided upon. Private 
 
146 
 
 THOU CANS*T NOT SAY I DID It! 
 
 detectives were engaged, who were to secrete themselves 
 in the grounds of Mrs. Broguand, one of them to follow 
 every one who left the dwelling. 
 
 This resulted in the arrest of the surgeon who had 
 attended the young man, and the two miscreants who had 
 been in Bertha’s employ. The wretched woman had visited 
 the same resort to hire these villains to abduct BiancaJBarn- 
 ard. She was allowed to return home, and then the 
 keeper of the den and the pair of ruffians were at once 
 arrested and locked up. The negro dwarf was left at his 
 po st, as lie could he taken at any time. 
 
 Thus was Bertha Broguand in a net, although she knew 
 i t not. 
 
 Mrs. Barnard gained rapidly m strength. 
 
 She and her daughter were in a great flutter and eager to 
 do all in their power to assist Dolores, of whose early con¬ 
 nection with their trouble, as the tool of Bertha Broguand, 
 they knew nothing. They believed that the change of 
 infants had been effected without her knowledge, and that 
 it had been only recently she had become aware of it. 
 Robert Barnard had sought to give them this impression. 
 
 Dolores had resolved upon her course of action. She had 
 committed a crime of which she had repented, and she was 
 now striving with all her power to right the wrong she had 
 assisted in doing. 
 
 A new life seemed opening to the Barnards. Yet they 
 suffered from not being permitted to visit the long-lost one- 
 in his cell. 
 
 Every arrangement had been made for a grand move in 
 the work proposed by Dolores. 
 
 The Broguand house was closely watched, and the detect¬ 
 ives were instructed, that if necessary, they were to force an 
 entrance, arrest the negro and Bertha, and then search 
 until Ben was found. 
 
 But they were not driven to this. Mrs. Broguand was 
 soon seen to go out, when a descent was made upon the 
 house, and the dwarf captured. The latter was terribly 
 frightened, and readily told all that he had seen and 
 heard. 
 
 The exact location of the secret room was not known to 
 him, but he knew that it could be entered from the apart¬ 
 ment at the head of the stairs. 
 
 When Dolores heard this the secret door was soon pointed 
 out to the detectives, who succeeded in opening it with a 
 skeleton key. 
 
 Benedict Barnard lay upon a mattress on the floor awake 
 and greatly improved; although, had it been Mrs. Bro¬ 
 guand who entered he would have pretended otherwise. 
 
A DANIEL COME TO JUDGMENT. 
 
 147 
 
 He was thoroughly astounded at what they told linn 
 Indeed, the facts were astonishing to all. 
 
 Ben soon knew everything. He understood the whole 
 business, and was rejoiced beyond measure to get free from 
 the woman, who, he could not help thinking, must be 
 insane. 
 
 He put no credence whatever in the statements he had 
 heard her utter in her soliloquies. 
 
 He was unwilling to believe that he was her son. He 
 knew well enough, he said, that Buckingham was innocent. 
 It was an old beggar woman who had stabbed him, and 
 that he would swear to it if they gave him a chance. 
 
 It was evident that Bertha had greatly deceived herself 
 when she thought of molding her son to her will. 
 
 But not a thought did she entertain of danger.to herself, 
 now that she had succeeded in deceiving the authorities 
 and the public. The police would not think of again 
 searching her house. 
 
 But Bertha the Merciless was near the end of her wicked 
 scheming. Although totally uncouscious of it, she stood 
 upon the brink of destruction, doomed to realize that even 
 the changing of the infants had been but a curse to her. 
 inasmuch as she had deprived herself of a son and failed to 
 bring the son of her enemy to an ignominious death. 
 
 But all unconscious of peril, and filled with exultation, 
 she went to secure the aid of her former tools in abducting 
 Bianca Barnard; and while she was absent Benedict 
 Barnard—as we well still call him — was removed to the 
 Barnard mansion; the ambulance being driven through the 
 side gateway to the station, where it was guarded until 
 wanted, and Ben being made as comfortable as possible 
 within the same. 
 
 |p • > — 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 “ A DANIEL COME TO JUDGMENT . )y 
 
 The excitement in the city was intense. 
 
 Extra police were ordered to headquarters to hold the 
 crowd of excited and infuriated people in check, as it was 
 feared an attempt would be made to lynch the prisoner. 
 
 The court-room was not allowed to be too much crowded 
 by spectators. 
 
 Mr. Barnard was present, but ho would not on oath, 
 state that the corpse was that of his son. Ho admitted' 
 however, the strong resemblance. This was considered 
 extraordinary testimony. Nevertheless there could not be 
 
148 
 
 A DANIEL COME TO JUDGMENT. 
 
 the slightest doubt. The identification was complete 
 without it. 
 
 The knife was produced, witnesses were heard, and a 
 verdict was rendered to the effect that Benedict Barnard 
 came to his death by a wound inflicted by a dagger in the 
 hand of one Buckingham Broguand, 
 
 The prisoner was brought into court for the preliminary 
 examination. He was pale as death, but stood erect. This 
 was taken for the desperate bearing to be expected from a 
 villain of his stamp. 
 
 Comparative silence at length reigned. 
 
 Counselor Gleason got permission to address the court 
 after a plea of “ Not Guilty ” had been entered. Giving a 
 gesture, the two men who had been in the pay of Bertha 
 Broguand were marched in from a side door, each attended 
 by two private detectives. 
 
 “ Your Honor,” said Gleason, u I would ask the court, 
 officers, and gentlemen all to watch the conduct of these 
 two men when confronted with the corpse. ” 
 
 The next instant the prisoners found themselves beside 
 the bed on which lay the body of the man they had 
 murdered. 
 
 Both sprang back in horror. 
 
 The same moment the old beldame who had kept the den 
 in which they had lodged was pushed through the crowd on 
 the opposite side. When she beheld the dead she gave a 
 shriek, and hid her eyes in her hands. 
 
 Quickly one of the miscreants turned to an officer and 
 said: 
 
 u I’ll turn State’s evidence, boss! T see it’s all up.” 
 
 But this scene was not understood by the spectators. 
 Soon, however, there was another commotion, and in came 
 another hospital bed, upon which reclined a man—this bed 
 being borne by two detectives, while two others walked by 
 its side. This was placed near the first, and all saw the 
 close resemblance, and also that the latter was alive. 
 
 “ What is your name? ” asked Gleason, bending forward 
 toward the living man on the cot. 
 
 All was now as still as the grave. 
 
 u Benedict Barnard! ” came the reply, in a tone which 
 told of exertion to speak. 
 
 “ By whom were you stabbed two nights ago? ” 
 
 “ By an old beggar woman whom I struck. 1 had been 
 drinking.” 
 
 “ Ho you know who removed you from the hospital ? ” 
 
 “ 1 do. . It was the two men opposite. ” 
 
 “ Who is that dead man who so resembles you ? ” 
 u I do not knew.” 
 
A DANIEL COME TO JUDGMENT. 
 
 149 
 
 “ Do you know in what manner ho met his death, and 
 how he came to be passed off on the public as yourself? ” 
 
 “ Ho was murdered by those two men whom I see before 
 me, the same who took me from the hospital. It was done 
 for the purpose of causing all to believe mo dead in order 
 that Buckingham Broguand should be convicted of murder. 
 The dagger with which I was stabbed was stolen from a 
 woman who had reared Buckingham as her son. 
 
 “ I can say no more. I learned this in the place where I 
 was taken and hidden.” 
 
 The last words were spoken in a faint voice, and one of 
 the detectives gave the young man some brandy. 
 
 “ Your Honor,” said Gleason, “ I submit that wo have 
 here furnished proof sufficient to prevent any bill being 
 found against my client. 1 demand his release! ” 
 
 There was considerable applause, which was speedily 
 suppressed. 
 
 Then, as Buckingham stepped forth a free man, the 
 crowd pressed around to clasp liis hand. 
 
 All had been dumbfounded. 
 
 At once they had realized the great wrong that had been 
 done the prisoner, and they now strove to show their regrets 
 and offer their congratulations. 
 
 But Robert Barnard soon made his appearance at a side 
 door, and the lawyer fairly dragged Buckingham away 
 from the excited though friendly mob around him. 
 
 The meeting of father and son was one that cannot 
 adequately be described. 
 
 To return, however, to the court-room. The two mur¬ 
 derers and the old beldame were given over to the police 
 and locked up. All present seemed demoralized by such an 
 unexpected winding up of the most mysterious case in the 
 criminal records of the Crescent City. 
 
 Our three friends contrived to get out at the prison 
 ent rance, where a hack was awaiting them. The news had, 
 however, found its way outside and, indeed, was being 
 yelled along the street. The crowd rushed around the 
 vehicle and as Buckingham, with his father and Gleason, 
 sprang into it, the horses were removed and scores clutched 
 the pole, while others pushed, running up the street like an 
 engine to a lire. 
 
 Up they ran to St. Charles street, then turning about and 
 down again into Canal street, then through that thorough¬ 
 fare, thousands of people following, until eventually they 
 halted at the mansion of Robert Barnard at Gleason’s 
 urgent request. There the trio were permitted to escape. 
 
 Thus Buckingham reached at length, in tho character of 
 a son, his home. 
 
150 
 
 MADE GLORIOUS SUMMER. 
 
 And that house, so recently the scene of so much grief 
 and misery, was transformed into a veritable paradise to all 
 within its walls by the arrival of the lost. 
 
 Picture, dear reader, the meeting m your imagination, if 
 you can, for our pen cannot attempt the description 
 More excited still were the people on the streets after this 
 new and startling, this totally undreamed-ot ending of 
 Buckingham’s connection with the crime which had been 
 the cause of so many unexpected and strange events. 
 Indeed, the people were half wild 
 Benedict Barnard — for so he was still known — was 
 removed by the "detectives to the hospital from which he 
 had been taken. This was at the young man’s own request 
 and against the wishes of Buckingham and his father, who 
 wished Ben to be conveyed to his old Lome, there to be 
 nursed back to health. 
 
 But Ben preferred the hospital and thither he was taken; 
 Mr. Barnard giving instructions that they were to give him 
 every possible attention and furnish him with everything 
 that he might require. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 4 ' MADE GLORIOUS SUMMER. ” 
 
 Dolores was not present at the inquest. She knew all 
 would be well there and she proposed keeping a watch on 
 Bertha Broguand. 
 
 She had placed a bottle of drugged brandy on the sill of 
 the kitchen window when the dwarf had been absent and 
 he had discovered the same and had also partaken of its 
 contents, thinking his mistress had put it there and Imd 
 foi gotten it. 
 
 This had the desired result and Dolores, after Ben had 
 been removed, had ordered two of the detectives to carry 
 the negro up-stairs into the now vacant secret chamber. 
 This done she had dismissed them bidding them keep watch 
 for the return of Mrs. Broguand. 
 
 Dolores had instructed the men to place the dwarf upon 
 the bed. She had then marked, in red, the outline of a 
 coflin upon his brow, covered up liis sleeping form and left 
 him. 
 
 After thus preparing for the return the old creole woman 
 stole from the house, leaving everything as it had been 
 previously. 
 
 Not long was she doomed to wait. 
 
 Ere long Bertha appeared and entered the house. The 
 watchers listened intently but no sound came from within. 
 
MADE GLORIOUS SUMMER. 
 
 151 
 
 Becoming alarmed two detectives with Dolores started 
 toward the rear door, but they were brought to a sudden 
 halt by a most terrific shriek. They rushed inside and up 
 the stairs to the secret apartment. 
 
 There Bertha Broguand, with a blood-stained knife in 
 her hand, lay in a corner of the room, seemingly dead, 
 while rolling and struggling in an eilbrt to get upon his feet 
 was the negro dwarf. 
 
 . The three stood appalled! 
 
 Here was another tragic event. 
 
 And, even as they gazed spell-bound, the negro fell to 
 the floor a corpse! 
 
 Bertha Broguand was at once conveyed to the police 
 station and there restored to consciousness. Then she 
 heard all that had so recently taken place. 
 
 “Buckingham is free. lie was guiltless. You have 
 much to answer for, Bertha Broguand 
 
 Thus spoke the Chief of Police. 
 
 With one wild cry the miserable woman, as she was being 
 conveyed to a cell thrust a vial to her mouth and swallowed 
 its contents. She was found dead soon after. 
 
 Thus perished Bertha the Merciless, the revenge-mad¬ 
 dened, and the world was so much the better for her 
 death! 
 
 Robert Barnard furnished Benedict with a considerable 
 sum of money, telliug him that, in some new part of the 
 country, with a new name — for he had no right to that 
 which he bore — and by leading an honorable life he could 
 be both happy and respected. 
 
 The change of infants by his vengeful mother was 
 explained and fully proved, and Ben could but see that his 
 heretofore supposed father was acting in a very kind and 
 honorable manner toward him. 
 
 In his weak and wounded state none of the characteris- 
 • tics of his wretched mother were manifested; but it 
 remained to be seen whether lie would, after recovery, carry 
 out the good intentions expressed by him. 
 
 As it was he saw no other way open for him than to do as 
 suggested by the man who had reared him as a son, as well 
 as by Buckingham, whose place he had usurped for more 
 than a score of years. So he gladly accepted, for he had no 
 desire to meet again the woman who lie was forced to believe 
 was his mother. He left New Orleans as soon as he was 
 able to do so, in ignorance of Mie fate of his wicked mother, 
 and sought a home and a future in the wild West. 
 
 The old woman who had kept the den in which the 
 strange imd been slain to fill the order of the merciless 
 
152 
 
 HADE GLORIOUS SUMMER. 
 
 Bertha, was accepted as State’s evidence, and both the 
 assassins received life sentences. 
 
 The unfortunate dwarf was buried, and papers were found 
 in the Broguand dwelling, among which was Bertha’s will. 
 
 In this she left her property, real and personal, in Cuba 
 and in New Orleans, to her son, who had been reared by 
 Robert Barnard as his own, and who was known as Benedict 
 Barnard. Thus was Ben better equipped to battle with the 
 Tvorld— receiving this, which was considerable, in addition 
 to the small fortune bestowed upon him by Mr. Barnard. 
 
 The people of New Orleans were again thrown into great 
 excitement when the papers published an account, furnished 
 by Robert Barnard, of the change of infants, and the conse¬ 
 quences that ensued. 
 
 By a special act of the Legislature Buckingham retained 
 that portion of his name at his own request; and Bucking¬ 
 ham Barnard was one of the happiest and most respected 
 men in the Crescent City after he became established in his 
 own house, with all the home surroundings he had heretofore 
 lacked. 
 
 But let us not forget Dolores. 
 
 The old creole nurse never had cause to repent that she 
 had resolved on amendment of life and restitution. The 
 remainder of her days would not, thanks to the Barnards, 
 be clouded with want; and her one endeavor seemed ever 
 after to undo whatever evil she had been instrumental in 
 bringing upon others, and to make all who were more needy 
 than herself the better for having known her. 
 
 Thus, leaving all whom we have followed during the 
 strange occurrences of a brief but most eventful period — 
 leaving all happy who deserved happiness, and the Barnard 
 family especially—wo close, trusting that you, dear reader, 
 will agree with us that the old adage, “ It is never too late 
 to mend,” was most strongly illustrated in the life of 
 Dolores the nurse, who became known to us as Dolores the 
 Detective. 
 
 THE EHD. 
 
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