People's Pilot, Volume 3, Number 20, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 3 November 1893 — WARING'S PERIL. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

WARING'S PERIL.

By CAPI CHARLES KING.

ICopyright, 1833. by J. B. Lippincott , Co., and published by special arrangement.] Xl.—Concluded. “How did you trace Philippes?” asked Reynolds. “Him? Oh, he was too darned musical. It was—what do you call it?— Flure de Tay that did for him. Why, he’s the fellow that raised all the money and most of the h—ll for this old man Lascelles. He’d been sharping him for years.” “Well, when can we bring this thing to a head?” asked the aide-de-camp. “Poco tiempo! by Saturday, I reckon.” But it came sooner. M aring was seated one lovely evening in a low reclining chair on Mrs. Cram's broad gallery, sipping contentedly at the fragrant tea she had handed him. The band was playing, and a number of children were chasing about in noisy glee. The men were at supper, the officers, as a rule, at mess. For several minutes the semi-restored invalid had not spoken a word. In one ■of his customary day-dreams he had been calmly gazing at the shapely white hand of his hostess, “all queenly with its weight of rings.” “Will you permit me to examine those rings a moment?” he asked. “Why, certainly. No, you sit still, Mr. Waring,” she replied, promptly rising, and, pulling them off her fingers, dropped them into his open palm. With the same dreamy expression on his clear-cut, pallid face, he turned them over and over, held them up to the light, finally selected one exquisite gem, and then, half rising, held forth the others. As she took them and still stood beside his chair as though patiently waiting, he glanced up. “Oh, beg pardon. You want this, I suppose?” and, handing her the dainty teacup, calmly slipped the ring into his waistcoat-pocket and languidly murmured: “Thanks.”

“Well, I like that.” “Yes? So do I, rather better than the others.” “May I ask what you' purpose doing with my ring?” “I was just thinking. I’ve ordered a new Amidon for Larkin, a new ninetydollar suit for Ferry, and I shall be decidedly poor this month, even if we recover Merton’s watch.” “Oh, well, if it’s only to pawn one, why not take a diamond?” “But it isn't.” “What then, pray?” “Well, again I was just thinking—whether I could find another to match this up in town, or send this one—to her.” “Mr. Waring! Really?” And now Mrs. Cram’s bright eyes are dancing with eagerness and delight. For all answer, though his own eyes begin to moisten and swim, he draws from an inner pocket a dainty letter, postmarked from a far, far city to the northeast.

“You dear fellow! How can I tell you how glad I am! I haven’t dared to ask you of her since we met at Washington, but —oh, my heart has been just full of her since—since this trouble came.” “God bless the trouble! it was that that w’on her to me at last. I have loved her ever since I first saw her — long years ago.” “Oh! oh! oh! if Ned were only here! I’m wild to tell him. I may, mayn’t I?’? “Yes. the moment he comes.” But Ned brought a crowd with him when he got back from town a littlp later. Reynolds was there, and Philippe Lascelles, and Mr. Pepper, and they had a tale to tell that must needs be condensed.

They had all been present by invitation of the civil authorities at a very dramatic affair during the late afternoon—the final lifting of the veil that hid from public view the “strange, eventful history” of the Lascelles tragedy. Cram was the spokesman by common consent. “With the exception of the Dawsons,” said he, “none of the parties implicated knew up to the hour of his or her examination that any one of the others was to appear.” Mrs. Dawson, eager to save her own pretty neck, had told her story without reservation. Daw’son knew nothing. The story had been wrung from her piecemeal, but was finally told in full, and in the presence of the officers and civilians indicated. She had married in April, "65, to the scorn of her people, a young Yankee officer attached to the commissary department. She had starved all through the war. She longed for life, luxury, comforts. She had nothing but her beauty, he nothdng but his jiay The extravagances

of a month swamped him; the drink and desperation for the next ruined him. He maintained her in luxury at the best hotel only a few weeks, then aH of his own and much of Uncle Sam's money was gone. Inspection proved him a thief and embezzler. He fled, and she was abandoned to her own resources. She had none but her beauty and a gift of penmanship which covered the many sins of her orthography. She was given a clerkship, but wanted more money, and took it, blackmailing a quartermaster. She imposed on Wiring, but he quickly found her out and absolutely refused afterwards to see her at all. She was piqued and angered, “a woman scorned,” but hot until he joined Battery “X” did opportunity present itself for revenge. She had secured a room under Mrs. Doyle’s reputable roof, to be near the barracks, where she could support herself by writing for Mrs. Doyle and blackmailing those whom she lured, and where she could watch A;wi, and, to her eager delight, she noted and prepared to make much of his attentions to Mme. Lascelles. Incidentally, too, she might inveigle the susceptible Lascelles himself. on the principle that there’s no fool like an old fool. Mrs. Doyle lent herself eagerly to the scheme. The letters began to pass to and fro again. Lascelles was fool enough to answer, and when, all on a sudden, Mrs. Doyle’s “long-missingrelative,” as she called him, turned up, a pensioner on her charity, it was through the united efforts of the two women he got a situation as cab-driver at the stable up at the eastern skirt of the town. Dawson had enlisted to keep from starving, and, though she had no use for him as a husband, he would do to fetch and carry, and he dare not disobey. Twice when Doyle was battery officer of the day did this strangely - assorted pair of women entertain Lascelles at supper and fleece him out of what

money he had. Then came Philippes with Lascelles in Mike’s cab, as luck would have it, but they could not fleece Philippes. Old Lascelles was rapidly succumbing to Nita’s fascinations when came the night of the terrible storm. Mike had got to drinking, and was laid low by the lieutenant, Mike and Bridget both vowed vengeance. But meantime Doyle himself had got wind of something that was going on, and he and his tyrant had a fearful row. He commanded her never to allow a man inside the premises when he was away, and, though brought home drunk that awful night, furiously ordered the Frenchman out, and might have assaulted them had not Bridget lassoed him with a chloroformed towel. That was the last he knew until another day. Lascelles, Philippes and she, Mrs. Dawson, had already drunk a bottle of champagne when interrupted by Doyle’s coming. Lascelles was tipsy, had snatched his pistol and fired a shot to frighten Doyle, but had only enraged him, and then he had to run for his cab. He was bundled in and Doyle disposed of. It was only three blocks down to Beau Rivage, and thither Mike drove them in all the storm. She did not know at the time of Waring’s being in the cab. In less than fifteen minutes Mike was back and called excitedly for Bridget; had a hurried consultation with her; she seized a waterproof and out with him, but darted back and took the bottle of chloroform she had used on her husband, now lying limp and senseless on a sofa below, and then she disappeared. When half an hour passed and Lascelles failed to return with them, bringing certain papers of which he’d been speaking to Philippes, the latter declared there must be something wrong, and went out to reconnoiter despite the storm. He could see nothing. It was after midnight when Mrs. Doyle came rushingin, gasping, all out of breath, “along of the storm,” she said. She had been down the levee with Mike to find a cushion and lap-robe he dropped and couldn’t afford to lose. They never could have found it at all “but for ould Lascelles lending them a lantern.” He wanted Mike to bring down two bottles of champagne he’d left here, but it was storming so that he would not venture again, and Lieut. Waring, she said, was going to spend the night with Lascelles at Beau Rivage; Mike couldn’t drive any further down towards the barracks. Lascelles sent word to Philippes that he’d bring up the papers first thing in the morning, if the storm lulled, and Philippes went out indignant at all the time lost, but Mike swore he’d not drive down again for a fortune. So the Frenchman got into the cab and went up with him to town. The moment he was gone Mrs. Doyle declared she was dead tired, used up, and drank huge goblets of the wine, until she reeled off to her room, leaving an apron behind. Then Mrs. Dawson went to her own room, after putting out the lights, and when; two days later, sh« heard the a' vful news of the murder,

knowing that Investigation would follow and she and her sins be brought to light, she fled, for she had enough oi his money in her possession, and poor demented Dawson, finding her gone, followed.

Philippes’ story corroborated this in every particular. The last he saw of the cab or of the cabman was near the house of the hook and ladder company east of the French market. The driver there said his horse was dead beat and could do no more, so Philippes went into the market, succeeded in getting another cab by paying a big price, slept at Cassidy’s, waited all the morning about Lascelles’ place, and finaUy, having to return to the northeast at once, he took the evening train on the Jackson road and never heard of the murder until ten days after. He was amazed at his arrest. And then came before his examiners a mere physical wreck—the shadow of his former self—caught at the high tide of a career of crime and debauchery, a much less bulky party than the truculent Jehu of Mme. Lascelles’ cab, yet no less important a Witness than the same driver. He was accompanied by a priest. He had been brought hither in an ambulance from the Hotel Dieu, where he had been traced several days before and found almost at death’s door. His confession was most important of all. He had struck Lieut. Waring as that officer turned away from Lascelles’ gate, intending only to down and then kick and hammer him, but he had struck with a lead-loacled rubber club, and he was horrified to see him drop like one dead. Then he lost his nerve and drove furiously back for Bridget. Together they returned and found Waring lying there as he had left him on the dripping banquette. “You've killed him, Mike. There’s only one thing to do,” she said; “take his watch and everything valuable he has, and we’ll thrdw him over on the levee.”

She herself took the knife from his overcoat pocket, lest he should recover suddenly, and then, said the driver, “even as we were bending over him there came a sudden flash of lightning, and there was Lascelles bending over us, demanding to know what it meant. Then like another flash he seemed to realize what was up, sprang back and drew pistol. He had caught us in the act. There was nothing else to do; we both sprang upon him. He fired and hit me, but only in the arm, and before he could pull trigger again we both grappled him. I seized his gun, Bridget his throat, but he screamed and fought like a tiger, then wilted all of a sudden. I was scared and helpless, but she had her wits about her and told me what to do. The lieutenant began to gasp and revive just then, so she soaked the handkerchief in chloroform and placed it over his mouth, and together we lifted him into the cab. Then we raised Lascelles and carried him in and laid him on his sofa, for he had left the door open and the lamps on the table. Bridget had been there before and knew all about the house. We set the pistol back in his hand but couldn’t make the fingers grasp it. We ransacked the desk and got what money there was, locked and bolted the doors and climbed out of the side window, under which she dropped the knife among the bushes. ‘They’ll never suspect us in the world, Mike,’ she said. ‘lt's the lieutenant’s knife that did it, and, as he was going to fight him anyhow, he’ll get the credit of it all.’ Then we drove up the levee, put Waring in Anatole's boat, sculls and all, and shoved him off. *l’ll muzzle Jim,’ she said. ‘l’ll make him believe that ’twas he that did it when he was drunk.’ She took most of the money and the watch and ring. She said she could hide them until they’d be needed. Then I drove Philippes up to town until I began to get so sick and faint I could do no more. I turned the cab loose and got away to a house where I knew they’d take care of me, and from there, when my money was gone, they sent me to the hospital, thinking I was dying. I swear to God I never meant to more than get square with the lieutenant. I never struck Lascelles at all; ’twas she who drove the knife into his heart.”

Then, exhausted, he was led into an adjoining room, and Mrs. Doyle was marched in, the picture of injured Irish innocence. For ten minutes, with wonderful effrontery and nerve, she denied all personal participation in the crime, and faced her inquisitors with brazen calm. Then the chief quietly turned and signaled. An oilicer led forward from one side the wreck of a cabman, supported by the priest; a door opened on the other, and, escorted by another policeman, Mrs. Dawson reentered, holding in her hands outstretched a gingham apron on which were two deep stains the shape and size of a long, straight-bladed, two“dged knife. It was the apron that Bridget Doyle had worn that fatal

night One quick, furtive look at that, one glance at her trembling, shaking, cowering kinsman, and, with an Irish ho’jJL of despair, a loud wail of “Mike, Mike, you’ve sworn your sister's life away!” she threw herself upon the floor, tearing madly at her hair. And so ended the mystery of Beau Rivage. There was silence a moment in Cram’s pretty parlor when the captain had finished his story. Waring was the first to speak: “There is one point I wish they’d clear up.” “What’s that?” said Cram. “W’ho’s got Merton’s watch?" “Oh, by Jove! I quite forgot It’s all right, Waring. Anatole’s place was ‘pulled’ last night, and he had her valuables all done up in a box. ‘To pay for his boat,’ said.” * * * * * • • A quarter of a century has passed away since the scarlet plumes of Light Battery “X” were last seen dancing along the levee below New Orleans. Beau Rivage, old and moss-grown at the close of the war, fell into rapid decline after the tragedy of that April night. Heavily mortgaged, the property passed into other hands, but for years never found a tenant. Far and hear the negroes spoke of the homestead as haunted, and none of their race could be induced to set foot within its gates. One night the sentry at the guardhouse saw sudden light on the westward sky, and then a column of flame. Again the fire alarm resounded among the echoing walls of the barracks; but when the soldiers reached the scone, a seething ruin was all that was left of the old southern home. Somebody sent Cram a marked copy of a New Orleans paper, and in their cozy quarters at Fort Hamilton the captain read it aloud to his devoted Nell: “The old house has been vacant, an object of almost superstitious dread to the neighborhood,” said the Times, “ever since the tragic death of Armand Lascelles in the spring of 1868. In police annals the affair was remarkable because of the extraordinary chain of circumstantial evidencewhich for u time seemed to fasten the murder upon an officer of the army then stationed at Jackson barracks, but whose innocence was triumphantly established. Mme. Lascelle®, it is understood, is now educating her daughter in Paris, whither she removed immediately after her marriage, a few months ago, to Capt. Philippe Lascelles, formerly of the confederate army, a younger brother of her first husband.” “Well,” said Cram, “I’ll have to send that to Waring. They’re in Vienna by this time, I suppose. Look here, Neli, how was it that when we fellows were fretting about Waring’s attentions to madame, you should have been so serenely superior to it all, even when, as I know, the stories reached you?” “Ah, Ned, I knew a story worth two of those. He was in love with Natalie Maitland all the time.” [the end.]

SHE DROVE THE KNIFE INTO HIS HEART.