"But, I say," said the fellow, now thoroughly alarmed, "there is a big mistake here. I've been lying to you; I'm not the woman's husband, and my name is not Mitchel."

"That won't do, my man. I had you pointed out to me by Sefton, the detective here."

"But he is the very man that hired me to pass off as Mitchel to you."

Mr. Barnes chuckled as he found his ruse successful. He had suspected all along that the New Orleans detective was trying to lead him off on a wrong scent, and now thought he saw a chance to turn the tables upon him and get some valuable information.

"That is a very thin story," said he, "but if you will tell me all you know, perhaps I may believe you."

"You bet I'll give you the whole story straight, to get out of this scrape. In the first place, my name is Arthur Chambers. I was up in the world once, had money, and was respectable. But drink changed all that. Now anybody can buy me for a few dollars, and that is what Sefton did. He came to me about a week ago, and told me that a detective was down here from up north nosing around for this Mitchel. He said it was important to an employer of his up in New York to have this detective balked; that he was hired to do it, and to make him lose time; that time, in some way, was an important item."

"You say," interrupted Mr. Barnes, "that Sefton told you he was hired by some one in New York to throw me off the scent?"

"That's what he said," replied Chambers. Mr. Barnes easily guessed who was employing Sefton, and once more he paid the tribute of admiration for the caution and ingenious scheming of Mr. Mitchel.

"Go on," said the detective.

"There an't much more to tell. Sefton hired me to play off that I was Mitchel, and he gave me a cock-and-bull yarn to feed you with about a woman named Rose Mitchel."

"What was that story?"

"Say, look here," said Chambers, his confidence and cunning returning as he felt himself out of danger of arrest, "you don't want that fairy tale. You would rather have the true story, wouldn't you?"

"Certainly."

"Well, I'm an old-timer, I am. There an't much that's happened in the Crescent that I couldn't remember, if I was paid for it."

"See here, my man, you are not dealing with Sefton now. You tell me what I want to know, and if I find it is true, I'll pay you for it. But if you play any tricks, I'll make it warm for you."

"That's all right. Suppose I begin by telling you that this Rose Mitchel, that you say was murdered, was known down here chiefly as Rose Montalbon. 'La Montalbon,' she was generally called."

"La Montalbon?" repeated Mr. Barnes. "Then, was she an actress?"

"Actress? Well, I guess she was, considerable. But not on the stage. No, she kept a gambling-den on Royal Street. Fitted up like a palace too, and many a young fool has lost his last dime in that house."

"But what about Mitchel? Do you know whether he was connected with her in any way?"

"I can't give you that dead straight. There was some mystery there. I used to go to the Royal Street place, and I knew Mitchel in a sort of way. He was always hanging around there. Then there was a while that he didn't show up, and then he turned up again and was introduced as La Montalbon's husband. There was a story going that he had married another girl and deserted her. A young Creole I think, though I never heard her name."

"Did you know anything about a child, a girl?"

"That was another queer part of it. There was a girl, little Rosy. Some said it was the Creole's, but La Montalbon always claimed it was hers."

"What became of Mitchel?"

"About a year after he passed as La Montalbon's husband he skipped out – vanished. Several years after that there was another sensation. The child was kidnapped. La Montalbon offered big rewards to recover her, but she never did. Then about three years ago her place began to run down; she lost money, and finally she too disappeared."

"If this story is true it may be quite important. Do you think you could identify this man Mitchel?"

"Well, I don't know for certain. But see here, come to think of it, there were two Mitchels, and both named Leroy too."

"Are you sure of that?"

"Pretty sure. They were cousins. The other fellow was younger. I didn't know him myself. He was a Young-Men's-Christian-Association sort of a boy, and not quite in my line. But I sort of remember hearing that he was in love with the Creole girl. But say, I'll tell you who can give it to you straight as a shingle."

"Ah, who is that?"

"An old man named Neuilly. He knew all about the Creole, and so must know about the Mitchels. I think he was in La Montalbon's power. She knew something about him and blackmailed him, as she did lots of others. Now that she is dead, you might make him open his mouth."

"Very good. Get me his address, and then see what you can find out about the other Leroy Mitchel, the good boy. Discover what became of him and I'll pay you well. Meanwhile don't let Sefton know that you are not carrying out his scheme."

"Say, pard, I tumble to you now. You suspected Sefton and you played your cards to draw me out. Well, you did it neat, and now I'm with you. Good-day. When I see you again I'll have some news for you."

The following day Mr. Barnes called at the bachelor home of Mr. Neuilly. The handsome old man received him in stately fashion and courteously asked the detective to explain his mission.

For a moment Mr. Barnes did not know how to proceed; he at last said:

"Mr. Neuilly, I have come to ask your aid in the cause of justice. I have hesitated to do this, not wishing to disturb you. That I do so now is due to the fact that every other resource has been tried and has failed me."

"Proceed, sir," said the host, with a courteous bow.

"I am seeking certain information about a woman who was known as La Montalbon, and – " An instantaneous change came over the face of Mr. Neuilly. His hospitable smile of welcome vanished. He rose erect and stiffly said:

"I know nothing of that woman, and must wish you a very good morning," with which he deliberately began to walk from the room. Mr. Barnes for a moment was nonplussed, but saw that he must act quickly or lose all chance of gaining any information from this man.

"One moment, Mr. Neuilly," he said; "you certainly would not refuse to help me convict her murderer." As he expected, the last word brought him back.

"Murderer? Did you mean to intimate that she has been murdered?" Saying this he stopped for a second, and then slowly returned and sat down again.

"Rose Montalbon was murdered in New York some months ago. I believe that I am on the track of the guilty man. Will you aid me?"

"That depends upon circumstances. You say the woman is dead. That alters my position in this matter very much. I had reasons, good ones to me, for refusing to converse with you on this subject. But if the woman is dead, the objections vanish." Mr. Barnes thought he understood. Here was one of those who had been ruled by fear, as Chambers had said.

"What I want from you, Mr. Neuilly, is very simple. You either can or you cannot give me the information that I wish. Did you know a man named Leroy Mitchel who was at one time this woman's husband?"

"I knew him very well. He was a scoundrel of the deepest dye, for all that he had the manners of the polished gentleman."

"Do you know what became of him?"

"No; he left this city suddenly and has never returned."

"Did you know little Rose Mitchel?"

"Many a time has she sat upon my knee. This man was her father. He wronged one of the sweetest little girls that ever lived."

"You knew this girl? Knew her name?"

"I did."

"What was it?"

"That is a secret I have guarded for too many years to be willing to yield it now to a stranger. You must show me good reasons for giving it to you before I tell it."

"I will explain. This man Mitchel is now in New York. He is about to marry a sweet, good woman. Yet I think that he murdered Rose Montalbon, or Mitchel, to get her out of his way. I think that she was blackmailing him. Besides, he has his child with him."

Mr. Neuilly started up and paced the room for some time, much agitated. Finally he stopped and said:

"You say he has the child with him?"

"Yes. Here is her likeness." He handed Mr. Neuilly the photograph made by Lucette.

Mr. Neuilly looked at it, muttered "very like! very like!" then remained silent for some moments; finally he said:

"And you think he murdered this woman, Montalbon?"

"I do."

"It would be terrible to hang that child's father. What dishonor! What dishonor! But Justice is Justice!" He seemed to be talking rather to himself than to Mr. Barnes. Suddenly he turned and said:

"I cannot tell you the name for which you ask. But I will go with you to New York, and if this story of yours is true, I will move heaven and earth to see justice done. That villain must not ruin another young life."

"Good," exclaimed the detective, delighted with the result of his visit.

"One more point, Mr. Neuilly. What do you know of the existence of another Mr. Leroy Mitchel?"

"I never met him, though I knew of him. There was a mystery about that, which I never could unravel. I think that he loved this same girl. At any rate shortly after she died, he lost his reason, and is now in an insane asylum. Of course he cannot help us."

Mr. Barnes, after arranging where to meet Mr. Neuilly, returned to the St. Charles to make his own preparations for going north. Up in his room he found Chambers awaiting him.

"Well," said the detective, "what have you learned?"

"Nothing that will please you, I am sorry to say. Only I have found the other Mitchel. He is a lunatic, in an asylum out in the suburbs. But the fellow up north is your man sure. This one, they say, went crazy because his sweetheart gave him the mitten."

"Did you find out the woman's name?"

"I could not do that. It seems as carefully hidden as though it was a state secret. That gives you an insight into what the Creole pride is."

"Very well. I think you have worked for me faithfully. Here is a hundred dollar bill. Will that satisfy you?"

"Perfectly. I wish you luck."

An hour later a telegram was handed to Mr. Barnes, which read:

"Have found the child.

(Signed) Lucette."

In the afternoon Mr. Barnes started for New York accompanied by Mr. Neuilly. That same night Mr. Robert Leroy Mitchel received a telegram which read:

"Barnes off for New York. Has old Neuilly with him. If the last named knows anything, you must be careful.

(Signed) Sefton."

After reading this, Mr. Mitchel completed his toilet, used the despatch to light a cigarette, and then took his fiancée to the opera.

CHAPTER XIV.
AN INTERRUPTED WEDDING

During the time spent by Mr. Barnes in the South, his spies in New York discovered little, or nothing, against the persons whom they had been charged to watch. Indeed from the standpoint of a detective, the actions of all had been most uninteresting. The usual round of social affairs, the customary number of theatre or opera parties, the regular afternoon teas, in fact the ordinary routine life of the man or woman of fashion, was all that could be observed. Yet of course these weeks did not pass without any occurrence of note. The chief one perhaps, was the naming of the day, upon which the wedding of Mr. Mitchel and Miss Remsen was to occur. This was May 5th, the very day upon which Mr. Barnes would reach New York with Mr. Neuilly.

Thus, fate seemed hurrying on a climax which was to occur on the wedding day. In New Orleans a detective was seeking evidence upon which he hoped to convict a man of the heinous crime of murder, whilst in New York a beautiful woman was bestowing her faith upon this same man, and with the assistance of many fingers, preparing to bedeck herself in bridal finery for his delectation. Meanwhile, the man himself acted most unconcernedly. He seemed to consider himself beyond the risk of danger, and he accepted his happiness as does one who had honorably earned it.

Of much interest to us, in the light of fast approaching events, was the curious conduct of Dora Remsen during this period. It will be remembered that Mr. Randolph had lost an opportunity of declaring himself, and that he warned the young lady against Mr. Thauret as one not to be trusted. This kind of advice, it is to be presumed, is offered by the one giving it, with some idea, however distant, that it may be accepted. Yet the histories of many lives would show that only a small percentage of similar advice has ever been received with acquiescence. Indeed, it might also be said that many persons have been hurried into each other's arms by the interference of wiseacres, when perhaps, if left to themselves, they would have drifted apart. At least so it seemed in this case. Mr. Thauret had become not only a constant visitor at the home of the Remsens', but he seemed a welcome one. He certainly was a most entertaining man, and his manners utterly unapproachable. He had travelled, and not only had seen the world, but had observed it, which is another thing. The result of this was that he had a fund of narrative always at his disposal, and his conversation was so attractive that he easily monopolized the attention of a coterie at any social gathering. Mr. Randolph noted with growing uneasiness that Dora was always one of the group who listened to these tales. What disturbed him most, was that after the greatest amount of time spent and wasted, in seeking some flagrant defect in the man's character, he was at last compelled to acknowledge to himself that he had nothing against Mr. Thauret, except a prejudice. But that prejudice was as great, if not greater, than ever. He determined at length to speak to Mr. Mitchel about it, and did so one afternoon when the rooms were crowded, his rival being as usual the centre of an attentive group.

"Mitchel," he began, "how the deuce did that fellow Thauret get into this family?"

"Dora met him somewhere, I believe. Why?"

"Why? Can you ask that?"

"Can I? Why certainly I can. I did ask you, – Why?"

"I declare, Mitchel, you are either as blind as a bat, or else you have eyes only for Miss Emily. Don't you see the danger that the younger sister is in, associating with that man?"

"Well now, Randolph, to be candid, I must admit I do not see the danger. What is it?"

"Why, suppose – suppose she fell in love with him? Suppose she married him!"

"Well, what then?"

"What then? You would provoke a saint. You talk as coolly about that child's throwing herself away on a – a nobody – as though we were discussing a shot at billiards."

"Randolph, my friend, let me give you a bit of advice. When a man wishes to marry a girl, there are two important rules which he must observe, and both of them I believe you have neglected."

"What do you mean?"

"Before I explain, let me ask you a question. Am I right in supposing that you wish to marry Dora yourself?"

"Well, that is rather pointed. However, I will admit the truth. I would be happy to have her love."

"Very well. I will tell you those two rules. The first is, 'Never speak ill of your rival.' The second is, 'Don't be too late asking for the young lady.'"

Randolph looked at Mr. Mitchel a moment intently, then offered his hand, which was grasped warmly. He said simply "I thank you," and walked over to the group where Dora was. After awhile, taking advantage of an opportune lull, he leaned over her and said in an undertone:

"May I have a few words of conversation with you?"

She looked up at him, evidently surprised at his tone, and asked:

"Is it important?"

"Very," he replied succinctly, and excusing herself to the company she permitted him to lead her into the next room, where she sat beside him on the sofa, to which he invited her with a motion. After a brief silence, during which each thought intently, he began:

"Miss Dora, I wish you to listen to me, if you please, to the end. I think you know that I love you." He paused just a moment, whilst she trembled slightly, blushed, and drooped her head. He continued: "I have never told you this before in words, I know, but you are a woman, and must have read my heart long ago. You are all so clever at that sort of thing. I am only a man, and I have not been able to read yours at all. I really do not know whether you care for me or not. Once I thought that you did, but of late – but no matter, I will not go into that. In brief, then, I have only to say that it would make me supremely happy to know that you would some day be my wife. In exchange, I offer you a lifelong devotion. And now – I think – that is all I have to say. Dora – little sweetheart – do you, could you trust yourself to me?"

He had gently taken her hand whilst he spoke, and the fact that she had neither resisted nor withdrawn it had encouraged him to the more affectionate terms which he used at the end of his love speech. She hesitated awhile, then gently disengaging her hand, and looking at him with just a suspicion of a tear in her eye, she said almost in a whisper:

"Do you care very much?"

"Very much! I cannot tell you how much." He tried to recapture her hand, but she eluded him. Again she asked a question:

"Money is not an object to you, in this?"

"Miss Remsen, you insult me."

"No, no!" she said quickly, "you misunderstand. I did not mean my money. I can't explain, yet you must answer my question. Would you mind if – oh, how shall I say it? Suppose I did something that cost you a lot of money – "

"Oh! I see," exclaimed Mr. Randolph, brightening up. "You mean you are extravagant. Don't let that bother you a minute. You may cost me as much money as you can possibly spend. I will never complain."

She seemed much relieved, but she did not speak at once. Her eyes wandered away from him, and following her gaze he saw them reach and rest upon Mr. Thauret. A jealous pang darted through his heart. He was about to speak when she turned to him and said with suppressed emotion:

"I hope you will not be angry with me, and that you will not think evil of me. There is something I cannot explain, yet which, if I could, you would not object to. But until I can tell you about it – I cannot – I cannot – give you an answer. Would you – would you be willing to wait?" There was a tone of entreaty in her voice.

"How long?" asked Mr. Randolph, still irritated, and wondering if the something which she could not tell was in any way connected with Mr. Thauret.

"Would you mind – if I asked you to wait till – well, say the New Year?"

"That is a long time, but if it is your will, I must."

"Oh, thank you!" That was all she said; but there was a hint of rapture in her speech, there were tears in her eyes, and for one brief ecstatic moment he thought that there was love in her heart, and that that love was for him. With an impulse that he could not control, and which she did not check, he drew her to him, and softly touched her lips with his own. He felt satisfied, though she left him immediately and went at once to Mr. Thauret, who greeted her with evident warmth. There is something, magnetism if you please, but a something that binds two true lovers' hearts so that an impulse in the one excites an answering sensation in the other. The oddest fact in this connection is, that though one may fancy himself deeply in love, he is not, till he has received one of these instantaneous messages which Cupid ticks over Love's telegraph. After that he is enslaved. His better judgment is gone. He will argue in the lonely hours of the night that he has made a mistake, that the woman is not destined to make him happy, that she has this, that, or the other fault, but it counts for nothing, save that he suffers. That one stab has slain his manhood, and he cannot control his actions. As soon as he meets the woman again, act as she may, his love is aflame once more. She may ill-treat him, she may ignore him, it matters not; she attracts him.

Thus it was with poor Mr. Randolph. Throughout the many weeks that followed he suffered much. He called his love all the unpleasant things that jealousy could suggest. But invariably the recollection of that one moment, when she had seemed in that indistinct, indescribable way to have yielded her whole self, her whole soul to him, would flash across his mind, and at once his reason was silenced, and he would say:

"She could not have done that if she were false. She loves me, but there is something that I do not understand which makes her treat me so. She told me so, and said that when she could tell it to me, I should not mind. Well, I must be patient and wait. I must trust her; she must be, she is, true!" And then gradually all the old doubts would creep over him again, and the suffering would be as poignant as before.

It was about a month after the conversation related, when a somewhat similar one occurred between the same young lady and Mr. Thauret. He had called one afternoon, when Dora was alone, and so had the field to himself. He spoke to her of all those things which he had found most interesting to her, and she was enjoying his society very much, when suddenly, as twilight approached and the room grew slightly darkened, he began to touch upon a more tender theme. He spoke of himself, of the wandering life that he had led, of the fact that he was alone in the world, without a living relative. He mentioned, as though it were of no importance, that he was of noble blood. Then he drew a touching picture of a man who, whilst really of a most affectionate nature, was compelled to live a loveless life, because there was none to whom he could turn for that sort of comfort. Then he asked her gently, very gently, whether she had ever thought upon the subject herself, and whether she had felt a yearning for the companionship of one who would be all in all to her. His pleading was very pretty to listen to, and she heard him as though much impressed but her reply was not exactly what he evidently hoped it would have been.

"Oh, yes," said she, "I have thought of all that in a vague sort of way. But, you see, I have been in love with my beautiful Queen, for so long that I cannot imagine a life without her. And yet" – there was a tremor in her voice – "I am going to lose her soon. She will go away for awhile, and then I fancy I shall feel that loneliness of which you speak. So, if you want to hear my real ideas upon that subject you must wait till after the wedding." She said this last with a tone of deep meaning, and Mr. Thauret seemed to accept her remark as a hint, for he changed the subject. Shortly afterwards he went away. As he walked down the avenue, there was almost a triumphant smile upon his face. This, however, was not reported to Mr. Barnes, for the spy was behind and could not see his face.

It was only a few nights after this that Mr. Mitchel was walking home from the club, accompanied by Mr. Thauret, when the latter turned the conversation upon the Miss Remsens.

"They certainly are charming girls," said he, "but one would need to be rich to afford the luxury of marrying one of them. I suppose they have nothing until the death of the mother."

Mr. Mitchel thought that he understood the object of the question, and for reasons of his own was glad to reply to it.

"O, not at all," said he. "The father left each of them a handsome sum, fifty thousand in fact, which they are to receive as soon as married. The bulk of the money, of course, went to the widow, but her interest is only for life, and then it is to be equally divided between the girls. I think it is somewhere near half a million."

"You are a fortunate fellow. I wish I had your luck."

"My dear Thauret, can a man of your intelligence believe in such a stupid thing as luck? It no more exists than its antithesis, ill luck. Every man succeeds or not, according to his own skill in guiding his life. Now you envy me my marriage to Emily, when certainly her sister Dora is just as charming, and richer, too."

"Miss Dora is charming, true; but that does not make me a successful suitor. But what do you mean by saying that she is richer?"

"Why, you see, her sister is devoted to her, and has promised her a gift of ten thousand dollars the day she marries, upon one condition."

"And that condition is?"

"That the husband shall be satisfactory to her."

There was a silence for several minutes, finally broken by Mr. Thauret:

"Well, in the light of your approaching marriage, which will make you the only man in the family, I presume your influence would count. If I should wish to marry Miss Dora, I suppose you would favor my suit?"

"That is not a new idea to me, I assure you. All I need say is that when you gain Dora's consent, you shall have mine."

"Thank you." Mr. Thauret said this with suppressed emotion, and after that neither man spoke until they said good-night at Mr. Mitchel's hotel. Mr. Thauret, upon reaching his own room, smoked a cigar, and blew little ringlets over his head, thus occupying himself till long after midnight. He seemed to be building castles, and from the satisfied expression on his face, they must have been grand ones.

Thus matters stood when the day dawned upon which the marriage was to occur. Everything was bustle and confusion at the home of the Remsens. The bridesmaids arrived early, helped to deck the bride, and then stood around in delighted admiration. Dora was in ecstasies. Two magnificent bouquets had been sent to her, one entirely of carnation pinks, from Mr. Randolph, and the other a fine assortment of cut-flowers, amongst which were three beautiful Calla lilies, tied with long white satin ribbons. These were the gift of Mr. Thauret. She stood admiring the flowers for a few moments, then tenderly untied the pinks, and, taking a few of each color, made a small bouquet, which she pinned just at the opening of her dress near the throat. Thus they were near enough to exhale a fragrance of which she would be continually conscious. Just before leaving the house, however, she took the Callas and carried them with her in her gloved hand.

Before the day was over a little tragedy occurred, of which she was not only innocent, but unconscious. In the throng entering the church her pinks were swept from her breast, and in her excitement she did not observe her loss. Mr. Randolph, however, the groom's best man, noted carefully that she carried flowers, and that they were not his. Subsequently she, in reply to a question from him, admitted who had sent them, and though he made no remark, he slept little that night. Thus easily men suffer.

Emily was dressed – but there, why should I attempt to describe what only a Worth could have furnished, and only wealth could afford? If you can imagine the most beautiful shade and quality of pearl-colored silk, and add to that the finest of lace, and to that the most marvellous profusion of tiny ribbon bows, then, as I hinted, recall that the genius of Worth designed the garment, perhaps you will imagine all that I could tell you. At least I may say that as the bride entered the church on the arm of that magnificent man, Mr. Van Rawlston, who, as her father's dearest friend, had been invited to take his place, every woman present took one lingering look at the woman and her gown, and then turned to her neighbor to express her admiration. Moreover, I will say that the sum of all that praise was not enough fully to describe Emily Remsen, who looked every inch "a royal queen," as Dora delightedly told every one for years afterward.

But after the bridal party had passed, people naturally looked for the groom, and they wondered not to see him. Whispering occurred, and inquiries were made without satisfactory response. Some thought that there had been a mistake, and that the signal had been given to the bride and her friends too soon. It was an awkward situation, because of course, once having reached the altar, they could not turn and leave the church again. Consequently they simply stood and waited. Every one at length grew so nervous, that save for the organ, there gradually stole over the whole edifice a solemn silence. People were awed, and fearing at last as the minutes passed and still the groom did not appear, that something dreadful either had or was about to occur, they almost held their breaths. A few intimate friends went out on tip-toe, but the door leading to the vestry-room was guarded by a man in livery, who would say nothing but that no one could be admitted.

Meanwhile an exciting scene, though a brief one, was being enacted behind that door. Just as the two parties were about to start on their way to the altar, a carriage had driven up furiously, and from it had alighted Mr. Barnes. He quickly entered the building, and went straightway into the vestry-room, brushing aside the man at the door. Once in the presence of the groom and his gentlemen attendants, he astonished them by saying:

"Thank God, I am not too late."

"Are you quite sure?" said Mr. Mitchel, with provoking calmness.

"I have come here to stop this wedding," said the detective, a little excited.

"You mean, to delay it. That you are doing now, as I should be on my way to the altar to join my bride."

"I tell you, I come to stop this wedding altogether, and – "

"One moment, Mr. Barnes. There is no time to lose, and I do not wish you to speak too openly. Let me talk for you. You have reasons, which I can guess, for wishing me not to be married. Am I right?"

"I have said as much."

"If I can prove to you that you gain nothing by hindering this ceremony, will you allow it to proceed, and then act as you may please afterward, instead of now?"

"Of course, but that is impossible."

"Nothing is impossible, Mr. Barnes; read that if you please."