Rensselaer Journal, Volume 11, Number 10, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 15 August 1901 — THE IVORY QUEEN. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

THE IVORY QUEEN.

By HOBMAN HURST,

[Copyright. 1899, by American Press Association.] [CONT’NUED.J Darrent. much to the amazement of Dobson, turned on his electric lamp and made for an old writing desk ip the corner. There was no need for force. Every drawer had been feft open, and a pile of burped paper in the grate showed that Mr. Silas Gosnell had had a good clear out and had destroyed everything be did not require before he shook the dust of Norcombe from his feet. A sheet or two of plain note paper lay in one of the drawers, a sheet or two with the watermark of a five star diamond, and Darrent placed them carefully in his pocketbook. “I think this is for “you, sir,” Dobson exclaimed, handing Darrent a note he had picked up from the table, and Darrent as he read the superscriptipn felt a horrible desire to kick some one, or, for the matter of that, even himself, failing a bette target. “To the smart ( ?) detective in charge

“I think this is for you, sir," Dobson exclaimed, handing Darrent a note. of the Norcombe murder case. " With a 'cuise he tore open the envelope and p <ed the contents, written in the same sprawling hand as his note of the afternoon: Co the American Lecoq: Really, sir, I fancy you’re hid a nice long sleep. Wake up and own yourself a fool. 1, Silas Gosnell, killed—not murdered, but killed— Josiah Marsden. He had been kind enough to pay me an annuity, and I went, as usual, to collect my allowance on the night of the murder. The old man was madder than efrer, talked about blackmail and all that sort of thing, worked himself up into*, the fury of a maniac and suddenly went bang for me with the poker. I reeled back, and my hand touched a knife. I wish it hadn’t, but it did. It was his life or mine. I preferred his. As to that paper, you’ve all been tricked. I wrote it—wrote it because that soft brained ass of a policeman, that old fool Dobson, smelled a rat. I thought the best thing was* to give hint a chance of bleeding Astray Marsden to keep him quiet. The idiot gave the whole show away. I thought when I wrote it if anything went wrong Jt might be pleaded that the old man was going to write “a stranger,” but I did not think such a brilliant young detective as yourself would take up the case and effectually condemn an innocent man. Things are too hot me. I’m off. Goodby. I am, my dear Lecoq, ever indebted to you for your blind stupidity and so sign myself, always gratefully yours, Silas Gosnell. Darrent ground his teeth together in rage. He had been fooled from start to finish in this great case—he, Herbert Darrent, the famous detective, the American Lecoq. Bah! Completely fooled by an Englishman who despised him so heartily that he had even left him a mocking letter admitting everything on the eve of his flight I ’ “He’s in New York by this time, possibly on his way to England, but I’ll have him yet if the thing is possible!” Darrent cried, striking his knee in his vexation. Hurrying to the nearest telegraph office, Darrent sent a careful description of Silas Gosnell to the chief of police of New York and then started for New York himself, firmly resolved to follow Gosnell to the ends of the earth if necessary. Up to this point in the case he had been anything but a bloodhound of the law, although various people had referred to him as such, but now the appellation described him perfectly. Disappointment, chagrin, wounded vanity, bad given him a feverish interest in the chase of the Norcombe murderer that he had not felt before. At Buffalo he was notified by the chief cf detectives of New York that an Englishman exactly answering his telegraphed description had sailed a week before on the liner Strelesia. He learned nothing further upon his arrival in New York and was about to sail for England—was on the dock, in fact—when he heard a newsboy shouting? “Extra, extra! Terrible loss of life! Liner Strelesia sunk! Two hundred and fifty drowned I” “Total wreck of the Strelesia,” he read, in glowing headlines. “Fearful loss of life.” And then: “A boat was picked up in mid-Atlantic by the Majestic, having on board five of the crew of the missing steamship Strelesia, these being the only survivors of the ill fated vessel. ’ ’ Then followed some brief personal

narratives ana the list of passengers, among which was the name of Silas Gosnell The sea had avenged the murder of Josiah Marsden. Silas Gosnell had gone before a higher court, a greater Judge. It was useless to proceed further. Consequently Darrent returned to Chicago, where he found another note awaiting him, another of Gosnell’* mocking epistles: Dear M. Lecoq-Why don’t yo» have * look at Silas Gosnell’s house by the river I “Well, there’s one thing in favor of the poor wretch,” Darrent soliloquized as he placed it with the others in his pocketbook—“he didn’t intend to let in innocent man suffer for his crime.” Little remains to be told. Shortly after Darrent’s return to Chicago the governor of Illinois pardoned Astray Marsden, and Astray soon found himself the possessor of a snug fortune—the fortune that had been his uncle’s. Not long thereafter there was a happy wedding at Norcombe, and one of the guests was Herbert Darrent, the American Lecoq, who had not long before braided a hangman’s noose for the bridegroom. But all this was forgotten. “Let bygones be bygones,” said Astray Marsden as he heartily grasped the detective’s hand. “I am glad you are so forgiving,” was Mr. Darrent’s reply, “and, while this case has been a great disappointment to me professionally, I freely forgive you, Astray, for not being guilty of the murder of your uncle. We all make mistakes, and thus far this case is my very worst. In the future I ehall be more suspicious of circumstantial evidence. Here’s to the health of the happy pair I May long life and happiness be theirs I" THE END.