CHAPTER XVI
AN ACCOMPLICE FOUND
No sooner had John Wade parted from our hero than he saw approaching him a dark, sinister-looking man, whom he had known years before.
“Good-morning, Mr. Wade,” said the newcomer.
“Good-morning, Mr. Graves. Are you busy just now?”
“No, sir; I am out of employment. I have been unfortunate.”
“Then I will give you a job. Do you see that boy?” said John Wade, rapidly.
“Yes, I see him.”
“I want you to follow him. Find out where he lives, and let me know this evening. Do you understand?”
“I understand. You may rely upon me, sir,” answered Nathan Graves; and quickening his pace, he soon came within a hundred feet of our hero.
After fulfilling his errand, Frank walked downtown again, but did not succeed in obtaining any further employment. Wherever he went, he was followed by Graves. Unconsciously, he exhausted the patience of that gentleman, who got heartily tired of his tramp about the streets. But the longest day will come to an end, and at last he had the satisfaction of tracking Frank to his humble lodging. Then, and not till then, he felt justified in leaving him.
Nathan Graves sought the residence of John Wade. He rang the bell as the clock struck eight.
“Well, what success?” asked Wade, when they met.
“I have tracked the boy. What more can I do for you?” asked Graves.
“I want to get him away from the city. The fact is—I may as well tell you—my uncle has taken a great fancy to the boy, and might be induced to adopt him, and cut me off from my rightful inheritance. The boy is an artful young rascal, and has been doing all he could to get into the good graces of my uncle, who is old and weak-minded.”
It was nine o’clock when Nathan Graves left the house, John Wade himself accompanying him to the door.
“How soon do you think you can carry out my instructions?” asked Wade.
“To-morrow, if possible.”
“The sooner the better.”
“It is lucky I fell in with him,” said Nathan Graves to himself, with satisfaction, as he slowly walked down Fifth Avenue. “It’s a queer business, but that’s none of my business. The main thing for me to consider is that it brings money to my purse, and of that I have need enough.”
Graves left the house richer by a hundred dollars than he entered it.
It was eleven o’clock on the forenoon of the next day when Frank walked up Canal Street toward Broadway. He had been down to the wharves since early in the morning, seeking for employment. He had offered his services to many, but as yet had been unable to secure a job.
As he was walking along a man addressed him:
“Will you be kind enough to direct me to Broadway?”
It was Nathan Graves, with whom Frank was destined to have some unpleasant experiences.
“Straight ahead,” answered Frank. “I am going there, and will show you, if you like.”
“Thank you, I wish you would. I live only fifteen or twenty miles distant,” said Graves, “but I don’t often come to the city, and am not much acquainted. I keep a dry-goods store, but my partner generally comes here to buy goods. By the way, perhaps you can help me about the errand that calls me here today.”
“I will, sir, if I can,” said Frank, politely.
“My youngest clerk has just left me, and I want to find a successor—a boy about your age, say. Do you know any one who would like such a position?”
“I am out of employment myself just now. Do you think I will suit?”
“I think you will,” said Mr. Graves.
“You won’t object to go into the country?”
“No, sir.”
“I will give you five dollars a week and your board for the present. If you suit me, your pay will be raised at the end of six months. Will that be satisfactory?” asked his companion.
“Quite so, sir. When do you wish me to come?”
“Can you go out with me this afternoon?”
“Yes, sir. I only want to go home and pack up my trunk.”
“To save time, I will go with you, and we will start as soon as possible.”
Nathan Graves accompanied Frank to his room, where his scanty wardrobe was soon packed. A hack was called, and they were speedily on their way to the Cortland Street ferry.
They crossed the ferry, and Mr. Graves purchased two tickets to Elizabeth. He bought a paper, and occupied himself in reading. Frank felt that fortune had begun to shine upon him once more. By and by, he could send for Grace, and get her boarded near him. As soon as his wages were raised, he determined to do this. While engaged in these pleasant speculations, they reached the station.
“We get out here,” said Mr. Graves.
“Is your store in this place?” asked Frank.
“No; it is in the next town.”
Nathan Graves looked about him for a conveyance. He finally drove a bargain with a man driving a shabby-looking vehicle, and the two took their seats.
They were driven about six miles through a flat, unpicturesque country, when they reached a branch road leading away from the main one.
It was a narrow road, and apparently not much frequented. Frank could see no houses on either side.
“Is your store on this road?” he asked.
“Oh, no; but I am not going to the store yet. We will go to my house, and leave your trunk.”
At length the wagon stopped, by Graves’ orders, in front of a gate hanging loosely by one hinge.
“We’ll get out here,” said Graves.
Frank looked with some curiosity, and some disappointment, at his future home. It was a square, unpainted house, discolored by time, and looked far from attractive. There were no outward signs of occupation, and everything about it appeared to have fallen into decay. Not far off was a barn, looking even more dilapidated than the house.
At the front door, instead of knocking—there was no bell—Graves drew a rusty key from his pocket and inserted it in the lock. They found themselves in a small entry, uncarpeted and dingy.
“We’ll go upstairs,” said Graves.
Arrived on the landing, he threw open a door, and ushered in our hero.
“This will be your room,” he said.
Frank looked around in dismay.
It was a large, square room, uncarpeted, and containing only a bed, two chairs and a washstand, all of the cheapest and rudest manufacture.
“I hope you will soon feel at home here,” said Graves. “I’ll go down and see if I can find something to eat.”
He went out, locking the door behind him
“What does this mean?” thought Frank, with a strange sensation.
CHAPTER XVII
FRANK AND HIS JAILER
It was twenty minutes before Frank, waiting impatiently, heard the steps of his late companion ascending the stairs.
But the door was not unlocked. Instead, a slide was revealed, about eight inches square, through which his late traveling companion pushed a plate of cold meat and bread.
“Here’s something to eat,” he said; “take it.”
“Why do you lock me in?” demanded our hero.
“You can get along without knowing, I suppose,” said the other, with a sneer.
“I don’t mean to,” said Frank, firmly. “I demand an explanation. How long do you intend to keep me here?”
“I am sorry I can’t gratify your curiosity, but I don’t know myself.”
“Perhaps you think that I am rich, but I am not. I have no money. You can’t get anything out of me,” said Frank.
“That may be so, but I shall keep you.”
“I suppose that was all a lie about your keeping store?”
“It was a pretty little story, told for your amusement, my dear boy,” said Graves. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come without it.”
“You are a villain!” said Frank.
“Look here, boy,” said Graves, in a different tone, his face darkening, “you had better not talk in that way. I advise you to eat your dinner and be quiet. Some supper will be brought to you before night.”
So saying, he abruptly closed the slide, and descended the stairs, leaving Frank to his reflections, which it may be supposed, were not of the pleasantest character.
Frank did not allow his unpleasant situation to take away his appetite, and though he was fully determined to make the earliest possible attempt to escape, he was sensible enough first to eat the food which his jailer had brought him.
His lunch dispatched, he began at once to revolve plans of escape.
There were three windows in the room, two on the front of the house, the other at the side.
He tried one after another, but the result was the same. All were so fastened that it was quite impossible to raise them.
Feeling that he could probably escape through one of the windows when he pleased, though at the cost of considerable trouble, Frank did not trouble himself much, or allow himself to feel unhappy. He decided to continue his explorations.
In the corner of the room was a door, probably admitting to a closet.
“I suppose it is locked,” thought Frank, but on trying it, he found that such was not the case. He looked curiously about him, but found little to repay him. His attention was drawn, however to several dark-colored masks lying upon a shelf.
He also discovered a small hole in the wall of the size of a marble. Actuated by curiosity, he applied his eye to the opening, and peeped into what was probably the adjoining room. It was furnished in very much the same way as the one in which he was confined, but at present it was untenanted. Having seen what little there was to be seen, Frank withdrew from his post of observation and returned to his room.
It was several hours later when he again heard steps ascending the stairs, and the slide in the door was moved.
He looked toward it, but the face that he saw was not that of Nathan Graves.
It was the face of a woman.
CHAPTER XVIII
“OVER THE HILL TO THE POORHOUSE”
We are compelled for a time to leave our hero in the hands of his enemies, and return to the town of Crawford, where an event has occurred which influences seriously the happiness and position of his sister, Grace.
Ever since Frank left the town, Grace had been a welcome member of Mr. Pomeroy’s family, receiving the kindest treatment from all, so that she had come to feel very much at home.
So they lived happily together, till one disastrous night a fire broke out, which consumed the house, and they were forced to snatch their clothes and escape, saving nothing else.
Mr. Pomeroy’s house was insured for two-thirds of its value, and he proposed to rebuild immediately, but it would be three months at least before the new house would be completed. In the interim, he succeeded in hiring a couple of rooms for his family, but their narrow accommodations would oblige them to dispense with their boarder. Sorry as Mr. and Mrs. Pomeroy were to part with her, it was obvious that Grace must find another home.
“We must let Frank know,” said Mr. Pomeroy, and having occasion to go up to the city at once to see about insurance, he went to the store of Gilbert & Mack, and inquired for Prank.
“Fowler? What was he?” was asked.
“A cash-boy.”
“Oh, he is no longer here. Mr. Gilbert discharged him.”
“Do you know why he was discharged?” asked Mr. Pomeroy, pained and startled.
“No; but there stands Mr. Gilbert. He can tell you.”
Mr. Pomeroy introduced himself to the head of the firm and repeated his inquiry.
“If you are a friend of the lad,” said Mr. Gilbert, “you will be sorry to learn that he was charged with dishonesty. It was a very respectable lady who made the charge. It is only fair to say that the boy denied it, and that, personally, we found him faithful and trusty. But as the dullness of trade compelled us to discharge some of our cash-boys, we naturally discharged him among the number, without, however, judging his case.”
“Then, sir, you have treated the boy very unfairly. On the strength of a charge not proved, you have dismissed him, though personally you had noticed nothing out of the way in him, and rendered it impossible for him to obtain another place.”
“There is something in what you say, I admit. Perhaps I was too hasty. If you will send the boy to me, I will take him back on probation.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Mr. Pomeroy, gratefully “I will send him here.”
But this Mr. Pomeroy was unable to do. He did not know of Frank’s new address, and though he was still in the city, he failed to find him.
He returned to Crawford and communicated the unsatisfactory intelligence. He tried to obtain a new boarding place for Grace, but no one was willing to take her at two dollars a week, especially when Mr. Pomeroy was compelled to admit that Frank was now out of employment, and it was doubtful if he would be able to keep up the payment.
Tom Pinkerton managed to learn that Grace was now without a home, and mentioned it to his father.
“Won’t she have to go to the poorhouse now, father?” he asked eagerly.
“Yes,” said Deacon Pinkerton. “There is no other place for her that I can see.”
“Ah, I’m glad,” said Tom, maliciously. “Won’t that upstart’s pride be taken down? He was too proud to go to the poorhouse, where he belonged, but he can’t help his sister’s going there. If he isn’t a pauper himself, he’ll be the brother of a pauper, and that’s the next thing to it.”
“That is true,” said the deacon. “He was very impudent in return for my kindness. Still, I am sorry for him.”
I am afraid the deacon’s sorrow was not very deep, for he certainly looked unusually cheerful when he harnessed up his horse and drove around to the temporary home of the Pomeroys.
“Good-morning, Mr. Pomeroy,” he said, seeing the latter in the yard. “You’ve met with a severe loss.”
“Yes, deacon; it is a severe loss to a poor man like me.”
“To be sure. Well, I’ve called around to relieve you of a part of your cares. I am going to take Grace Fowler to the poorhouse.”
“Couldn’t you get her a place with a private family to help about the house in return for her board, while she goes to school?”
“There’s nobody wants a young girl like her,” said the deacon.
“Her brother would pay part of her board—that is, when he has a place.”
“Hasn’t he got a place?” asked the deacon, pricking up his ears. “I heard he was in a store in New York.”
“He lost his place,” said Mr. Pomeroy, reluctantly, “partly because of the dullness of general trade.”
“Then he can’t maintain his sister. She will have to go to the poorhouse. Will you ask her to get ready, and I’ll take her right over to the poorhouse.”
There was no alternative. Mr. Pomeroy went into the house, and broke the sad news to his wife and Grace.
“Never mind,” she said, with attempted cheerfulness, though her lips quivered, “I shan’t have to stay there long. Frank will be sure to send for me very shortly.”
“It’s too bad, Grace,” said Sam, looking red about the eyes; “it’s too bad that you should have to go to the poorhouse.”
“Come and see me, Sam,” said Grace.
“Yes, I will, Grace. I’ll come often, too. You shan’t stay there long.”
“Good-by,” said Grace, faltering. “You have all been very kind to me.”
“Good-by, my dear child,” said Mrs. Pomeroy.
“Who knows but you can return to us when the new house is done?”
So poor Grace went out from her pleasant home to find the deacon, grim-faced and stern, waiting for her.
“Jump in, little girl,” he said. “You’ve kept me waiting for you a long time, and my time is valuable.”
The distance to the poorhouse was about a mile and a half. For the first half mile Deacon Pinkerton kept silence. Then he began to speak, in a tone of cold condescension, as if it were a favor for such a superior being to address an insignificant child, about to become a pauper.
“Little girl, have you heard from your brother lately?”
“Not very lately, sir.”
“What is he doing?”
“He is in a store.”
“I apprehend you are mistaken. He has lost his place. He has been turned away,” said the deacon, with satisfaction.
“Frank turned away! Oh, sir, you must be mistaken.”
“Mr. Pomeroy told me. He found out yesterday when he went to the city.”
Poor Grace! she could not longer doubt now, and her brother’s misfortune saddened her even more than her own.
“Probably you will soon see your brother.”
“Oh, do you think so, sir?” asked Grace, joyfully.
“Yes,” answered the deacon, grimly. “He will find himself in danger of starvation in the city, and he’ll creep back, only too glad to obtain a nice, comfortable home in the poorhouse.”
But Grace knew her brother better than that. She knew his courage, his self-reliance and his independent spirit, and she was sure the deacon was mistaken.
The home for which Grace was expected to be so grateful was now in sight. It was a dark, neglected looking house, situated in the midst of barren fields, and had a lonely and desolate aspect. It was superintended by Mr. and Mrs. Chase, distant relations of Deacon Pinkerton.
Mr. Chase was an inoffensive man, but Mrs. Chase had a violent temper. She was at work in the kitchen when Deacon Pinkerton drove up. Hearing the sound of wheels, she came to the door.
“Mrs. Chase,” said the deacon, “I’ve brought you a little girl, to be placed under your care.”
“What’s her name?” inquired the lady.
“Grace Fowler.”
“Grace, humph! Why didn’t she have a decent name?”
“You can call her anything you like,” said the deacon.
“Little girl, you must behave well,” said Deacon Pinkerton, by way of parting admonition. “The town expects it. I expect it. You must never cease to be grateful for the good home which it provides you free of expense.”
Grace did not reply. Looking in the face of her future task-mistress was scarcely calculated to awaken a very deep feeling of gratitude.
“Now,” said Mrs. Chase, addressing her new boarder, “just take off your things, Betsy, and make yourself useful.”
“My name isn’t Betsy, ma’am.”
“It isn’t, isn’t it?”
“No; it is Grace.”
“You don’t say so! I’ll tell you one thing, I shan’t allow anybody to contradict me here, and your name’s got to be Betsy while you’re in this house. Now take off your things and hang them up on that peg. I’m going to set you right to work.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Grace, alarmed.
“There’s some dishes I want washed, Betsy, and I won’t have you loitering over your work, neither.”
“Very well, ma’am.”
Such was the new home for which poor Grace was expected to be grateful.
CHAPTER XIX
WHAT FRANK HEARD THROUGH THE CREVICE
Frank looked with some surprise at the woman who was looking through the slide of his door. He had expected to see Nathan Graves. She also regarded him with interest.
“I have brought you some supper,” she said.
Frank reached out and drew in a small waiter, containing a cup of tea and a plate of toast.
“Thank you,” he said. “Where is the man who brought me here?”
“He has gone out.”
“Do you know why he keeps me here in confinement?”
“No,” said the woman, hastily. “I know nothing. I see much, but I know nothing.”
“Are many prisoners brought here as I have been?” asked our hero, in spite of the woman’s refusal to speak.
“No.”
“I can’t understand what object they can have in detaining me. If I were rich, I might guess, but I am poor. I am compelled to work for my daily bread, and have been out of a place for two weeks.”
“I don’t understand,” she said, in a low voice, rather to herself than to him. “But I cannot wait. I must not stand here. I will come up in fifteen minutes, and if you wish another cup of tea, or some toast, I will bring them.”
His confinement did not affect his appetite, for he enjoyed his tea and toast; and when, as she had promised, the woman came up, he told her he would like another cup of tea, and some more toast.
“Will you answer one question?” asked our hero.
“I don’t know,” answered the woman in a flurried tone.
“You look like a good woman. Why do you stay in such a house as this?”
“I will tell you, though I should do better to be silent. But you won’t betray me?”
“On no account.”
“I was poor, starving, when I had an application to come here. The man who engaged me told me that it was to be a housekeeper, and I had no suspicion of the character of the house—that it was a den of—”
She stopped short, but Frank understood what she would have said.
“When I discovered the character of the house, I would have left but for two reasons. First, I had no other home; next, I had become acquainted with the secrets of the house, and they would have feared that I would reveal them. I should incur great risk. So I stayed.”
Here there was a sound below. The woman started.
“Some one has come,” she said. “I must go down I will come up as soon as I can with the rest of your supper.”
“Thank you. You need not hurry.”
Our hero was left to ponder over what he had heard. There was evidently a mystery connected with this lonely house a mystery which he very much desired to solve. But there was one chance. Through the aperture in the closet he might both see and hear something, provided any should meet there that evening.
The remainder of his supper was brought him by the same woman, but she was in haste, and he obtained no opportunity of exchanging another word with her.
Frank did not learn who it was that had arrived. Listening intently, he thought he heard some sounds in the next room. Opening the closet door, and applying his eye to the aperture, he saw two men seated in the room, one of whom was the man who had brought him there.
He applied his ear to the opening, and heard the following conversation:
“I hear you’ve brought a boy here, Nathan,” said the other, who was a stout, low-browed man, with an evil look.
“Yes,” said Graves, with a smile; “I am going to board him here a while.”
“What’s it all about? What are you going to gain by it?”
“I’ll tell you all I know. I’ve known something of the family for a long time. John Wade employed me long ago. The old millionaire had a son who went abroad and died there. His cousin, John Wade, brought home his son—a mere baby—the old man’s grandson, of course, and sole heir, or likely to be, to the old man’s wealth, if he had lived. In that case, John Wade would have been left out in the cold, or put off with a small bequest.”
“Yes. Did the boy live?”
“No; he died, very conveniently for John Wade, and thus removed the only obstacle from his path.”
“Very convenient. Do you think there was any foul play?”
“There may have been.”
“But I should think the old man would have suspected.”
“He was away at the time. When he returned to the city, he heard from his nephew that the boy was dead. It was a great blow to him, of course. Now, I’ll tell you what,” said Graves, sinking his voice so that Frank found it difficult to hear, “I’ll tell you what I’ve thought at times.”
“I think the grandson may have been spirited off somewhere. Nothing more easy, you know. Murder is a risky operation, and John Wade is respectable, and wouldn’t want to run the risk of a halter.”
“You may be right. You don’t connect this story of yours with the boy you’ve brought here, do you?”
“I do,” answered Graves, emphatically. “I shouldn’t be surprised if this was the very boy!”
“What makes you think so?”
“First, because there’s some resemblance between the boy and the old man’s son, as I remember him. Next, it would explain John Wade’s anxiety to get rid of him. It’s my belief that John Wade has recognized in this boy the baby he got rid of fourteen years ago, and is afraid his uncle will make the same discovery.”
Frank left the crevice through which he had received so much information in a whirl of new and bewildering thoughts.
“Was it possible,” he asked himself, “that he could be the grandson of Mr. Wharton, his kind benefactor?”