Democratic Sentinel, Volume 14, Number 42, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 14 November 1890 — BERENICE ST. CYR. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

BERENICE ST. CYR.

A Story of Love, Intrigue, and Grime. • -

BY DWIGHT BALDWIN.

CHAPTER XVIII. A FILE OF NEWSPAPERS.

HEN our hero revived again he found that the dwarf was bathing his face in cold water and applying ammonia to his nostrils. “Don’t take them away!" cried he, as Moore was in the act of removing the papers from the bed upon which they lay scattered about. “I must. They’ll throw you off your

base again, I’m afraid. ” “Oh, no!" “What frightened you?" Cole was about to make an evasive reply, when the thought occurred to him that he might make an ally of the deranged, though dangerous man, who had not only spared his life but had been, no doubt, at very great pains to start him on the road toward health and strength. “You saw from the card," returned he, “that I was working on the St. Cyr case. ” “Yes." “That led me to the house of this Max Morris.” “Ha! I see!" “Before that I met the daughter of the murdered man." “Berenice?" “Exactly." “And you fell in love with her. Don’t deny. It’s a family failing. I did it myself once, and was never the same man since.” “I see. Well, you are right, and that largely accounts for my interest in the matter. Judge of my feelings, then, when I saw that she was dead!” “I’m sorry for it, Milty.” “It was she that I lowered from the window in Morris’ house." “Then he and Sears have made away with her.” “Undoubtedly.” “And you’d like to be revenged?” ' “It’s all that’s left me now,” “I’ll help you. The scoundrels! Trying to get me to kill a blood relation! I’ll help you, and you’ll find I’m of more use than I look. ” Whereupon the dwarf bustled back to the stove, leaving our hero to examine the papers at his leisure. To his intense astonishment, Cole found that ten days ha t elapsed since he had received the injuries which so nearly resulted in his death. These, coupled with the worry and excitement which for more than’ twentyfour hours had proceeded their infliction, had proved too much for human nature to endure, and brain fever had resulted. With absorbing interest and as much composure and resignation as he could command, the invalid devoured so much of the file of papers as related to the St. Cyr case, taking them in the order of their appearance. Much that he read was, as he well knew, the invention of the reporter who wrote it, while almost everything was sadly jumbled up and distorted. He learned that the guilt of himself was undisputed, that he was being eagerly sought after by the police, and that no one else was suspected, though he was known to have had an accomplice. Detective Hyland had survived the bullet wound; in fact, it was not nearly so severe as was at first supposed, but remained in a half dazed, passive condition from which it seemed impossible to arouse him. Physically he was almost well, bnt the hospital physicians held* out ho hopes of his ultimate mental recovery. The house where Hyland had been shot was believed to have been fitted up and occupied by Cole Winters. Numerous disguises, to ether with some burglars’ tools and stolen property found there, had served to still more firmly establish the guilt of the reader. As to Berenice SSt.Cyr, q.ur hero read of her through eyes wet with tears. The accounts stated that she had received a note on the evening after her father’s death from Cole Winters, informing her that he was lung at the point of death, and asking her to come to him. She had maintained the innocence of the young man, and had impulsively complied. She had been driven away in a hack, and did not return. All efforts to find the hackman had failed, and she was believed to have been abducted by the desperate criminal, Cole Winters. The note, said by experts to be in the handwriting of the young man, she had left behind her. It was then in the hands of the police, and made another link in the already strong chain of evidence that was expected to hang 1 our hero. The paper of next to the latest issue contained the article whose sensational head-lines had completely upset the reader. It appeared that the body of a woman found floating in the Chicago River had been shown to be that of the missing heiress. The identification had been complete, though it rested mainly on the cloak and hat found on the body, as to the identity of which there was no shadow of donbt. . With an awful sinking of the heart

Cole learned, also, that he was bow accused of the murder of the daughter as well as that of the father. Exactly what his motive had been in the commission of this last crime, no one seemed able to de tine, but the authorities were said to be confident that he was the guilty party. The paper of that morning told of the immense funeral of the unfortunate young lady, at which the elite of Chicago were present. With a groan of anguish the unhappy invalid learned that, in the absence of blood relatives, Almon Sears, spoken of as a young man whom Mr. St. Cyr had educated and to whom he was much attached, had appeared as chief mourner. “The double-dyed villain!” cried Cole, fairly tearing the paper in his uncontrollable anger and intense disgust. Further down in the column he read that Paul St. Cyr had died intestate, leaving, by the operation of the law, his entire estate to his daughter. Now a young lawyer had came forward and probated a will executed by the heiress, bequeathing and devising all that she might die possessed of “to Almon Sears, of Chicago." “That was the paper he forced her to sign,” commented Cole, bitterly. The young lawyer and a private banker named Max Morris, the article went on to state, were the witnesses. The will had been admitted to probate and letters testimentary issued to Sears, the appointed executor. Whatever doubt of the death of his beloved Berenice love and hope had caused to linger in the breast of Cole Winters vanished as he read about the alleged wilt , “I have never beard or read of anything so infamous!” said he, when he had mastered the entire account. “But I will tear the mask from his false, cruel face, deprive him of the fortune, and send him and his diabolical accomplices to the gallows! I will, as true as my name is Cole Winters!” “Thunder!" Jerry Moore dropped the dish of food he had prepared to the floor and sprang to the bedside. “It’s nothing," said Cole, who at once realized the mistake he bad made. “Got ’em again, have you? I thought those papers would beat the idea out of you, but it don’t seem to.” “Were you ever a newspaper reporter?” “I should hope not! I’ve done some pretty mean things for Morris and others, but I managed to keep out of that!" "Well, literary work develops the imagination. When I’m working or thinking on a case, I assume—in my mind, understand—the identity of the injured party. ” “And that makes you think harder, and wickeder?” “Exactly.” “And vou don't think you’re this Cole Winters?” “Not at all. Don’t I know that I’m Milton Moore, your nephew.” "Good!” shouted the dwarf, seizing his baud. “You’re idea’s a good one, and I’m going to 1 try it on myself some time. You can call yourself what you please after this; I understand you now. We’ll work up this matter together, and I guess the boys’ll And Jerry and Miliy Moore a pretty lively pair!”

CHAPTER XIX. * VALUABLE AID. This isn’t visitors’ day. ” “I’m very anxious to see ” “Can’t do it. You Vill have to come to-morrow.” “But my business can’t wait until tomorrow.” The scene was the office of the Cook County Hospital, at Chicago, the time, four days after the events narrated in the previous chapter. The colloquv was carried on between the severe-looking official in charge and a well-dressed young gentleman, wearing a black mustache, small side whiskers and a pair of gold-rimmed spect icles. “Whom do you wish to see?" asked the man in charge, after having noted the gentlemanly appear .nee of his interlocutor. “Matthew Hyland." “The detective?" “Yes, sir.” “You can’t do it." "And why not, sir? It’s a matter of considerable importance.” “Don’t you read the papers?” “Sometimes." “Don’t you know that he’s in the insane ward where nobody se 3 s him except the doctors and attendants?" . “I heard something of the kind." “Then why do you come here?" “To see' Mr. Hyland.” “Yo can’t do it. It would do you no good anyway. He hasn’t spoken a word since he was brought here two weeks ago.” “I know it. His wife thinks that if I were to see him in private it might have the effect of recalling him to himself. ” The young man concluded by handing the other a letter. “She does say that," responded the official, when he had perused it. “Well, you c in go up and state the matter to the physician in charge. ” Five minutes later the Doctor, a pleas-ant-faced gentleman, was reading the note of Mrs. Hylahd in which she requested that the bearer might be permitted to see her husband privately. “It’s an unusual request," commented the medical man as he twirled the p iper in his hand. “Do you know him personally?” “Yes, sir.” “Intimately?” “Not very; but I know of matters which his wife is certain will interest him and, as she hopes, rouse him from the lethergy into which he has fallen.” “I've known a surprise to have that effect. Well, you can see him. He’s quite well, physically, now, and not at all violent. Indeed, in ordinary cases he would not be retained here.” “Good evening, Hyland.” Thus the visitor greeted the detective as he entered the small office to which the demented man had been previously conducted. The only answer was a vacant stare. The caller looked about to determine that they were surely alone, and stepped closer to the detective, who had sunk heavily to a chair. “Don’t you remember me?” he asked. Still no response. “Look at me now!" Simultaneously spectacles, mustache, and side-whiskers disanpeared from the face of the visitor, and the face of our hero. Cole Winters, piesented itself. “Here he is! here he is!” , Mat H\land h-d broken his long silence. He uttered the words in a loud, penetr iting tone. There was a sound of skurrying footsteps in the apartment beyond, and a moment later the door was thrown open and the attendant appeared. Thanks to his nimble fingers, Cole had been able to readjust his artificial embellishments in time Io escape detection. However, as he looked at Hyland and noted in his eyes a look of intelligence that had been lacking a moment before, he feared'hat the detective might speak and revea* bis identity. “What’r wrong?" asked the attendant “Nothii g.. !’»• gotten him to speak,

and believe he will eome to himself completely before long.” He made a quick gesture, which the other understood, and at once quitted the room. “Do you know me, Hyland?” asked Cole, as the door dosed. The other stared, but less vacantly than at first, and this time he shook his head. “I came on a professional matter, ” continued our hero. The other nodded as if he understood the meaning if the remark. “Where are the St. Cyr bonds?” Cole asked this in what may be called a stage whisper, to which, by his manner, he lent as great an air of mystery as possible. The effect upon the deranged man was wonderful. “That’s it! that’s it!" he kept repeating. “Then you know?" “I know-nothing." “But you said——" “What bonds?” “The St. Cyr bonds." “Oh! I’ve been trying—trying " “But you know where you put them?" “Yes, yes, I’ll go with you. Where’s my hat?" “You know me now, don’t you, Hyland?" “Who are you?” “Cole Winters." “Never heard of you." ’ “But the bonds. You—- “ I’ll get them! I must get them! I can see them now!” “Where?" “In a building, Never mind, I’ll show you. Order a hack. I’ll tell nim where to drive. Mr. St. Cyr." ‘But will they let you leave here?” asked Cole, who saw confronting him the greatest difficulty yet. “Why not?" ’ “You have been sick." “That’s so, and they watch me like I was a crook with a jimmy. You go out and I'll be there soon enough.” “Don’t say where you’re going?" “Don’t try to give pointers to me, boy. I know my business! Go and do youi part of it!* Cole doubted whether the impression made upon the still disordered mind of the detective was strong enough to endure, and cause him to find his way out of the hospital, but he had no other course to adopt but rely on the chances of his doing so. Accordingly, he quietly quitted the place and entered a close carriage in which he had been driven from the center of the city, a d stance of two miles and more. The means for purchasing his new outfit rfnd prosecuting his schemes for his own vindication, and the punishment of the murderers of Paul St. Cyr and hie f»ir daughter, had been supplied by “Uncle Jerry,” as he still continued to call the rather wicked old lunatic, through whose fancied relationship he had escaped death. His object in visiting Hrland had not been primarily the discovery of the hiding ph.ee of the missing bonds, but the restoration to his right mind of the brave officer, without whose aid he saw plainly that he was not likely to succeed in establishing his innocence. In accordance with his directions the hackmsn drove his horses slowly up and down Harrison street, in front of the large county building. Some time passed and the shadows of evening were beginning to gather beside lofty buildings and in narrow passageways. Our hero had about abandoned hope, and was thinking of some other way of securing the co-operation of Hyland, when, suddenly, he heard a noise, and saw the detective running toward the vehicle. An instant later he had thrown open the door, the officer had entered, and the carriage was being driven rapidly away. “To the South Side," said Hyland, laconically. When that splendid driveway, Michigan avenue, was reached, he gave more specific directions and indicated a building on a business street on'y two blocks from the house where he had received his wound, a fortnight before. Arriving there, they at once quitted the conveyance and ascended to the third floor which seemed to be routed out for living apartments. The detective produced a key, with with which he opened a door and ushered his companion into a small room, fitted up for a sleeping apartment. This was a room which the detective had rented for years. Ostensibly he slept there, though he seldom used it, except as a convenient place for disguising himself. Hyland lit the gas, and turned toward the bed. z. , At that instant a pair of eyes gleamed down upon the detective and his expectant companion from a dirt-begrimed transom above a door communicating with an adjoining apartment. They were the same evit orbs that had glared through the libraiy window of the St. Cyr mansion in Calumet avenue the night of the great tire in the Exposition Building. [TO BE CONTINUED. I