An Oregon Girl: A Tale of American Life in the New West

CHAPTER XX

On a low point of land formed by a bend in the Willamette, a couple of boys were playing at what is termed “skipping.” The exercise consisted in throwing a stone so as to make it skim along the surface of the water in a series of long skips, the greater number of skips attesting the skill of the thrower. The surface of the river was very smooth and placid, which was a factor in tempting the boys to the exercise. They had been at it for some time and, boy-like, in their enthusiasm, had overdone it, and consequently were beginning to fag, when one of them suddenly spied an exceptionally smooth, round flat stone, suitable for the purpose, and stooped to pick it up. The other boy, a short distance behind him, seeing his opportunity, cried out in a frolicksome spirit:

“Hi! Gene! Hold, there.” And he immediately ran and, placing his two hands on the stooping boy’s back, lightly leaped over him, straddle fashion, and then himself took a stooping position further on, subject to a like performance.

At once the sport known as “leap-frog” was entered into with zest by the boys. It carried them some distance along the river shore, and they were so engrossed with the new exercise, which sustained in their case, at all events, the old adage that, “A change of occupation is a good recreation,” as to be entirely oblivious of approaching a solitary woman dressed in sober gray, sitting on a stump of driftwood near the water’s edge and gazing vacantly on the river.

One of the boys, named Gene, big-limbed, loose-jointed and clumsy, in doing his turn, and while astraddle the “frog,” lost his balance and tumbled sideways, dragging the under boy over with him. The smaller boy, named Spike, got to his feet first, and with a fire in his eye, angrily said: “Youse do it again and I’ll smash you one.”

“I couldn’t help it. It was your fault, anyway, Why didn’t you hold steady,” replied Gene.

“You big lubber; youse done it on purpose.” said Spike, rubbing his shin. “I’m not going to play any more,” and as he turned away, muttered to himself: “I’ve a notion to soak him one.”

“Oh, look!” cried Gene. “A woman’s agoing in swimming with her clothes on!” The boys at once forgot their differences, drew close together and watched her with much curiosity.

“Say, but the water is cold. I was in yesterday and couldn’t stay a minute,” said Gene. “Gee, but I got my clothes on quick! I was near froze.”

“She’s skeart already; see how she’s looking about – must-a lost somethin’.”

“Let’s ask her,” said Gene.

“Youse shut up, won’t you.”

“She’s saying something. Hear?”

“Sounds like ‘Dorothy,’” said Spike. “Look at her dig them hands in the water.”

“Say, she’s crazy, sure!” whispered Gene.

At which they drew back awe-struck, yet fascinated by the grotesque buffoonery inseparable from the insane.

“Somebody’d better go and phone the cops,” whispered Spike, excitedly. “She’ll get drowned, and then we’ll get in a bar’l of trubble.”

“I’ll go,” said Gene, half frightened, and glad of an excuse to get away from the uncanny spectacle. “Who’s got a phone near here?” he asked.

“Up at the big house, yonder. Harris’. They’s got one, but youse don’t want to leave me here alone with that crazy woman. She’s coming ashore. Kin youse hear what she’s saying?” They listened intently.

“I’m sure I saw her,” she said in tones strangely pitiful. “Her golden hair floated on the surface like a silken mesh – then sank down, down – ah, there it is again.” And she outstretched her hand and tried to grasp something.

“Gone again! Oh! I wish someone would help me get her. I am so tired and the river is so deep and cold,” and as she stepped out from the water onto the shingle, her frame shivered as with a chill. She sat on the stump of driftwood, fatigued by exertion.

“Let’s go and talk to her,” whispered Gene.

“Youse better not. Youse can’t tell what them crazy people will do sometimes. They ack queer mighty sudden.”

“Say! She wouldn’t hurt anything. Ain’t she nice looking! I’ll bet she was kind when she was all right,” said Gene.

“Talks of golden hair. Must be her baby drowned has made her crazy,” said Spike.

“I’m going to speak to her, anyway,” and so saying, Gene boldly approached her.

“Say, lady! What are you looking for?” he asked, as he timidly stood in front of her.

“Dorothy,” she softly answered, and then slowly shifted her wistful eyes from the water to the boys.

“Whose Dorothy?” asked Spike, with an air of quiet respect, as he joined Gene and stood in front of her.

“The sweetest babe in all the world. See, in this – her likeness,” and she drew from the bosom of her dress a medallion and held it for the boys to look at.

“Sure! She’s a beaut!” exclaimed Spike, admiringly.

“Say, that picture is just like you,” remarked Gene, looking over the medallion at the face before him.

“Yous dress is wet, Missus,” said Spike.

“Were you looking for your baby there?” queried Gene, nodding toward the river.

She suddenly arose to her feet and listened, meanwhile tenderly replacing the medallion in her corsage.

“I must not rest longer. The storm will soon be on us. The boat rocks.”

She paused in a listening attitude: “Her voice! I hear it again. She is calling, ‘Mamma, papa, help! Save me!’ There! There!” – and she pointed over the water. “See that golden web glistening in the sunshine. It’s her hair. She’s beckoning me! Give me the paddles! – the paddles, quick!” And then she cried out with a gasp that sounded very much like a sob: “Save Dorothy!”

CHAPTER XXI

When John Thorpe left Virginia in search of Mr. Harris, he found him in conversation with Sam, at the foot of the piazza steps. Above them, on the piazza, was seated Mrs. Harris.

“I understand,” remarked Mr. Harris to Sam, “that there was another man in the cabin, but somehow he escaped.”

“There was another man there,” replied Sam, “but he went down through a trap door in the floor, Uncle.”

“Did he drown,” questioned Mr. Harris.

“Oh, no! The logs raised the floor of the cabin about a foot above the water. He got away between them and swam ashore. We didn’t find it out until he had made good his escape.”

It was then Mr. Thorpe addressed Mr. and Mrs. Harris. It being the first opportunity presented to perform a duty, that was clearly incumbent on him, and without further hesitation, he said: “Mr. and Mrs. Harris and Sam, who heard me abuse Mr. Corway on this ground last Wednesday night, I wish now to recall what I then said. If an entire misapprehension of facts can be an excuse for the animosity with which I then spoke, I am anxious to apologize for my behavior, as circumstances have made me aware how unjust were my aspersions. I regret that Mr. Corway is not present to receive my apology and to shake hands with him, for there is not a man in Oregon for whom I have greater respect.”

Mr. Harris was unable to conceal his gratification at the sudden ending of an unpleasant dilemma, and exclaimed: “John, I heartily congratulate you on the agreeable termination of an ugly affair.”

“Dear me! I am really delighted,” added Mrs. Harris, who, having gotten up from her chair at the first few words uttered by John Thorpe, and leaning forward on the piazza railing, stared at the men below in rapt attention. And Sam joined in the general joy by exclaiming, with a broad grin and a whirl of his hat: “Whoop! Let’s celebrate the burial of the hatchet, eh, Auntie.”

“How vulgar,” quietly remarked Mrs. Harris, as she straightened up, and with severity plainly graven on her face, said: “Sam, I desire a word with you after dinner.”

“Ya-ah! May good digestion wait on appetite, eh Auntie! I guess so,” replied Sam, with a roguish twinkle of his eye and the inimitable side movement of his head.

“Dear me,” continued Mrs. Harris, “I may as well be resigned to the inevitable, for I fear the ‘Texas brand’ will never groom out.”

“I must go home,” exclaimed Mr. Thorpe. “My impatience to meet Constance is consuming me. Mrs. Harris and gentlemen, pray pardon my haste,” and, lifting his hat, he withdrew.

Then Sam related in detail the bath and discovery of Jack Shore at the jail.

“Fact, Uncle,” he continued, “a regular fiend.”

“What! Jack Shore, of the Securities Investment Association!” exclaimed Mr. Harris, with surprise.

“The same identical chap, Uncle.”

“Dear me; who was his confederate?” questioned Mrs. Harris.

“We have yet to discover, but suspect a certain person well known to you.”

“Whom do you suspect?” sharply demanded Mrs. Harris.

“A much-honored member of society,” replied Sam, with fine sarcasm.

“But we must have his name,” insisted Mrs. Harris. She was promptly supported by Mr. Harris, who said: “By all means, we must know who he is.”

“My Lord Beauchamp!” Sam answered, with emphasis.

“Dear me,” gasped Mrs. Harris. “What a shock!” and then, recovering herself, she repeated doubtfully: “Lord Beauchamp an imposter?”

“He’s a villain anyhow, Auntie!” exclaimed Sam. “The same ‘gent’ who ran me down when I was tracking the Dago up there near the City park – thought he put me out of business.”

“What proof have you that he is an imposter?” demanded Mrs. Harris, sternly.

“Yes, proof, proof! That is what we want!” exclaimed James Harris, visibly agitated.

“To satisfy himself the detective cabled our Ambassador at London to make inquiry. This morning he received a reply.” And so saying, Sam took from his pocket an envelop containing a cablegram and handed it to Mr. Harris, with the remark: “Uncle, the detective turned it over to me at noon.”

Mr. Harris took from the envelop the cablegram, and adjusting his eyeglasses, read aloud:

“There’s only one Lord Beauchamp in England’s peerage, and he, with whom I am personally acquainted, was at the embassy yesterday.”

It was signed “White.”

Then Mr. Harris looked over the paper in his hand – over the eyeglasses into nothingness, with an expression on his face of deep chagrin, and in a low voice, as though muttering to himself, indiscreetly said:

“Damn the luck! The fellow is into me for ten thousand dollars.”

The words had scarcely escaped from his lips when Mrs. Harris, her eyes staring with astonishment, sharply exclaimed:

“Ten thousand dollars! Why, James Henry, you must have been hypnotized!”

It caused Sam to smile, and remark with a look of reproach: “Auntie!”

“He came to me with a plausible story and many regrets, unexpectedly ran short of funds; produced a cablegram purporting to come from his brother, the Duke Villier, only yesterday, authorizing him to draw for two thousand pounds. To oblige him I indorsed the draft, went with him to the bank, and it was immediately honored. I will phone for a policeman at once,” and Mr. Harris turned away to put his purpose into effect, when Sam intercepted him.

“Stay, Uncle; I have taken upon myself the duty of swearing out a warrant for his arrest, and in order there shall be no possibility of his escape, I have arranged with detectives, having Jack Shore in charge, to identify and arrest him.”

“James, do not wait a moment!” impatiently exclaimed Mrs. Harris. “Have him arrested at once.”

“Auntie, he cannot escape the officers, who are concealed, waiting signal,” Sam assured her.

And then, as if fate had so ordered, the object of their anathemas – in the company of Hazel, complacently sauntered from the tennis lawn, and, rounding the angle of the house, suddenly appeared close to the group.

“It was so stupid of me. I am sure your lordship did not enjoy the game at all,” said the girl. It was at that game of tennis that Rutley found opportunity to propose marriage to Hazel, for he believed that she was so disappointed at Corway’s disappearance, and which he took care to insinuate was through cowardice, and that she was so impressed with his rank, wealth and manners, that it would be easy to persuade her; but he found the girl repelled his advances so firmly and decisively that he at once abandoned the idea of attempting to entice her to elope, and abruptly ended the game. And so, because of his love for this girl, he had delayed his purpose to escape from the city, and jeopardized his chances accordingly.

When Rutley’s eyes first rested on James Harris, he involuntarily started at the change in his looks, but though seemingly perturbed for an instant, his self-possession never really deserted him. Straight on to the broad steps he strode with a suavity of manner quite in keeping with his usual phlegmatic bearing. Whatever distrust or apprehension may have troubled his thoughts, no exterior indication was visible. His face was impassive and inscrutable as the “Sphinx.” His nerves were steel, his acting superb.

“I find in Miss Brooke an expert tennis player,” he said, addressing Mrs. Harris, who was leaning forward, her hands resting on the rail, staring at him.

“It’s an outrage, sir! A damned outrage!” explosively exclaimed Mr. Harris, who was unable to control his indignation.

Still unperturbed, Rutley turned to Mr. Harris and said: “I quite agree with you, Sir, for the scandal is deplorable, and Corway should be punished.” Turning to Mrs. Harris, he continued:

“Indeed, Mrs. Harris, you Americans seem to excel in most everything where skill and brains are essential.”

There was not a flaw or tremor in his voice to betray an uneasy mind or prescience of a coming storm. It was then, however, he realized that something was wrong, for he noticed that they were looking coldly at him. Slowly drawing himself up with a haughty bearing, he carefully adjusted the monocle in his left eye and turned slowly about as he stared at each of them, and said in slow, sharp, biting accents:

“It’s deuced – draughty – don’t – che – know!”

“Yes, quite chilly, isn’t it, old chappie! I guess so!” declared Sam, patronizingly.

“I demand, sir, the return of ten thousand dollars that you swindled me out of yesterday,” said Mr. Harris, with indignation flushing his face.

“And I demand, in the name of the law, ten thousand dollars that you stole from – a – George Golda, while in the scow-dwelling night before last,” said Sam.

Still unperturbed, Rutley merely shifted his eyes from one to the other without moving his head or a muscle of his body, much in the manner of an automaton, and answered with a drawl:

“Aw, a money swindle! And a – a – theft of money from a scow-dwelling! Really, gentlemen, this is – a – a – a – deuced good joke!” And then he laughed, laughed in a shrill, screechy falsetto key, unnatural, and chilling as an icy breath from the Arctic.

“This is no joke, sir, as you will soon realize.”

“You have been detected. Your villainy is exposed, and your damned rascality is at an end,” said the irate Mr. Harris.

“For twenty years in the pen at Salem, eh, old chappie!” said Sam, with a grin of satisfaction.

“Curse the luck,” muttered Rutley to himself. “What a fool I was not to have vanished last night. It’s deuced ugly, don’t-che know,” he continued aloud, in the same cutting accents. “Let me warn you, gentlemen, there is a limit to one’s forbearance!”

“You are a cheat, a villain, an imposter!” fumed Mr. Harris. “And there is the proof,” and he flourished the cablegram in Rutley’s face. “You are imposing on the public under the cloak of an assumed title, and unless you immediately hand over to me ten thousand dollars I shall give you into custody.”

“Of the officers of the law, eh, Auntie?” and as Sam uttered the last words, up went his right hand extended straight with the index finger pointing aloft.

It was the signal agreed upon for the officers to appear, and forthwith they emerged with Jack Shore between them, and Smith following, from a vine inclosed arbor, partially concealed by a group of trees a few rods down the hill.

Pretending not to notice the approach of the officers and their prisoner, Sam grinned at Rutley and banteringly said:

“Come now, own up, you intentionally put me ‘out of business’ with the automobile. But it was a bungled job, wasn’t it, old chappie?”

Rutley yielded not an iota of his haughty bearing. Totally unsuspecting the near approach of the officers from behind, he directed a frigid, steady, contemptuous stare at his accusers, and with an air of puzzled understanding, said:

“What is the meaning of this insult to my honor? I again warn you, gentlemen, of your liability for libel.”

“Law is a venturesome sport, my lord,” ironically exclaimed Sam. “Let me introduce Mr. George Golda” —

Rutley leisurely turned and stared at Jack.

– “Alias, Jack Shore,” continued Sam, with a laugh.

“Well, my poor man. What is your mission?” interrogated Rutley.

Jack stared steadily at Rutley, but kept silent.

“Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha,” derisively laughed Rutley. Then turning to the group, said: “What new joke is this, gentlemen?” Again he turned toward Jack in pretense of a closer scrutiny.

That Rutley was surprised was quite evident, and he stepped forward with some object in view. Mr. Harris seemed to imagine some purpose in Rutley’s movement, and stepping in front of him, said: “Hold, your little game is up!”

“I guess so,” quickly added Sam, who stood ready to assist.

Realizing he was at bay, Rutley recovered his self-possession as quickly as he had lost it.

Again he laughed in that high-pitched, screechy key of ineffable disdain. “He, he, he, he,” and turning to Mr. Harris said, sarcastically: “The idea! You, a retired merchant, a successful business man; experienced in the qualities of keen perception, of fine discrimination, of the most perfect discernment and adroitness, to support this outrage,” and he waved his hand toward Jack. And again drawing himself up erect, haughtily fixed his cold gray eyes steadily on Mr. Harris, and continued in a drawl: “It’s deuced ugly, don’t-che know; deuced ugly, by Jove.”

While Rutley had been speaking, Virginia appeared on the scene. “Ha, Virginia,” sharply called out Mrs. Harris, and she beckoned to her to hasten. “Now we shall prove his villainy.”

“Ha, ha,” sneered Rutley. “Now you shall realize how foully you have slandered me. The lady will prove that I am Lord Beauchamp.”

As Virginia approached near, Mrs. Harris being unable to contain her impatience, again addressed her: “Virginia, dear! Can you enlighten us as to that man’s identity?”

Rutley tried to catch her eye, and at last, having succeeded, lifted his eyebrows meaningly, then nearly closed his eyes as he fixed on her a stare of glittering concentration.

“Madam,” he ejaculated significantly, “beware! These gentlemen and ladies have dared to question my right to the title of Lord Beauchamp, and I have assured them that you know me, of course you do, and will tell them so.” His manner was confident and insinuating, but he had over-rated his power of hypnotic influence over the girl.

She looked at him steadily, in which freezing haughtiness, contempt and pity were commingled. Her fear of him had passed. She did not falter now.

“Yes, I know you; and you are known to all present, but, unhappily, not as thoroughly as you are known to me.”

“Who is he?” demanded Mrs. Harris.

“Beware!” cautioned Rutley, “for what you say you must prove in a court of law.”

Defiant, the girl spoke, her enunciation clear and faultless. “His name is Philip Rutley, and he is masquerading as my Lord Beauchamp for fraudulent and unlawful purposes.”

“Ha, ha, ha,” laughed Rutley, sarcastically. “Delightfully refreshing, gentlemen.”

“Oh!” came from Hazel, and then, as if doubting the announcement, exclaimed: “But the color of Rutley’s hair is on the pumpkin order.”

“When the dye is washed out it will be on the pumpkin order again,” laughed Sam.

“He of the investment company?” questioned Mrs. Harris, with a puzzled expression of countenance.

“The very same chap, Auntie,” said Sam.

“Dear me, such ingratitude!” and Mrs. Harris looked disgusted. “Why, the rascal promised never to return if we would not prosecute him.”

“He, he, he, he, how very funny,” derisively laughed Rutley, in that high-pitched, screechy falsetto key he was so well trained in, and at times he nervously stroked his Vandyke beard.

“I shall at once bring an action at law against you for malicious libel,” upon which he started to pass Mr. Harris. His purpose was understood and frustrated by Sam, who promptly seized him by the collar. “I guess not!”

“Well done, Sam!” exclaimed Mrs. Harris.

“Take your hands off!” demanded Rutley, who began to scuffle violently with Sam.

“Hold him fast, Sam,” cheerfully encouraged Mr. Harris, who rushed to Sam’s assistance, followed by Smith.

“I guess so.”

At that moment, by a dexterous movement, Rutley slipped out of his coat, swiftly turned, and exclaimed:

“Damn your eyes, take that,” and violently struck at Sam, who adroitly dodged the blow, dropped the coat and squared up to him.

“I’m your huckleberry; I guess. Good time to square that little run-down now. Come down the hill out of the sight of the ladies.”

“I’ll go wid yees,” volunteered Smith. “Sure, an’ I’ll see fair play, an’ may the divvil take me lord.”

Mr. Harris picked up Rutley’s coat and there fell out of one of the pockets two packages of banknotes. He let the coat fall and picked up the packages. Flourishing them about his head, he laughed – “Ha, ha, ha, ha.”

The detective turned to Jack and said, quietly: “You wanted the proof: there it is,” and he pointed to the money held by Mr. Harris. “He will be pinched, but Mr. Thorpe is to secure his release.”

“Why, there are twenty thousand dollars here!” exclaimed Mr. Harris, examining the packages of money.

“Now you believe me, don’t you?” said the detective to Jack.

“Yes,” replied Jack, “you were right,” and then he stepped forward alone, close to Rutley, and with a sneer on his face, confronted him. “So, my noble partner! You gave me the kiss of ‘Judas’ for ten thousand shekels, eh?”

Rutley was amazed, but maintaining his imperturbability, exclaimed: “You propound a riddle, my poor man. I don’t know you.”

“Ha, ha, ha, ha,” laughed Jack, bitterly. “The riddle should be plain with the key in your keeping. But I know you, me Lord Beauchamp, alias Philip Rutley. Now, damn you, take the medicine your treachery awards you.”

Rutley straightened up, his mortification was very great. Naturally astute, shrewd and alert, for once he had been caught napping. With distended, staring eyes, he whispered, aghast: “Jack, Jack,” and then, recovering himself, composedly said: “A – my poor fellow, you are mistaken; I don’t know you,” and then he swung himself about and laughed in that peculiar, high-pitched key – “He, he, he, he; he must be crazy.”

“Crazy, eh!” and Jack laughed low, hoarsely and derisively. “Ha, ha, ha, ha. The detective told me you had sold me for the reward offered for recovery of the child, but I would not believe him. Now! I know he told the truth. For the proof is there,” and he pointed to the money in the hands of Mr. Harris. “The proof that you betrayed your partner” —

“You lie! You lie! Damn you, you lie!” exclaimed Rutley bitterly, as he swiftly turned to Jack, and then muttered to himself: “Ye Gods, I have been trapped by a fluke.” Then, with marvellous nerve, declared: “Oh, this is preposterous; I will immediately bring some friends and prove that you malign me,” and so saying he turned to move off.

“Detective Simms, he is your man; arrest him!” said Mrs. Harris.

On seeing his chance of escape lessening every moment Rutley abandoned all idea of further defense, and made a grab for his coat.

Quick as was his action, he could not outmaneuver Sam, who promptly threw himself upon Rutley’s back, and locked his arms about him, pinioning him as in a vice. And while in that position the detective slipped on the handcuffs.

On releasing him, Sam turned with a broad grin of satisfaction to his aunt – “How is that for the Texas brand, eh, Auntie?”

He got for his answer a smile, and an exclamation that pleased him immensely. “Splendid, Sam.”

“The neatest bit of work done since his partner tried to find a soft spot on Carbit strait pavement,” added Smith, with a look of admiration.

In the meantime Mr. Harris had been examining the packages of money, turning them over and over, looking first at one and then at another. Of a sudden his face lit up with a smile, as he exclaimed: “Why, this is mine; the identical package that he obtained from the bank on my indorsement. I can swear to it. But this?” And he looked meaningly at Virginia.

“It looks like the package of notes I gave the Italian for Dorothy’s ransom,” she replied.

“He never sold me after all,” muttered Jack, who became painfully astonished on hearing Mr. Harris declare that Rutley had obtained one of the packages of money from the bank on his indorsement. And as the plan by which he was tricked into betrayal of his accomplice became evident, his chagrin deepened to grief. He turned to Rutley and said, brokenly: “Phil, I take it all back,” and then he muttered absently as he realized the futility of regret. “But it is too late – I have been tricked into a confession.”

“The jig is up,” replied Rutley. “I shall take my medicine like a man.”

“That money must remain in the custody of the police until the court decides for the owner,” said the detective.

“Certainly,” affirmed Mr. Harris, who handed him the two packages.

“This one is mine, and contains ten thousand dollars. And this contains a like amount and belongs to Miss Thorpe. I shall apply to the court for restitution tomorrow,” remarked Mr. Harris.

“Very well, sir. Now please hand me that coat and we will go,” said the detective.

Mr. Harris picked up the coat and handed it to the detective.

“Keep it, old man,” advised Rutley, with lofty disdain. “Keep it as a memento of how you were once charmed by one of England’s nobility,” he laughed derisively.

“I will have no gift from a thief,” indignantly exclaimed Mr. Harris, as he handed over the coat. “Officers, away with them.”

“Good-bye Charles, Reginald, De Coursy, West-ma-coate Cosmos, me Lord Beauchamp. Fare thee well,” said Sam, with a grin.

It was at that time that the little Scotch terrier began to sniff at Jack’s trouser legs inquisitively. The dog had wandered near him, attracted by the sound of his familiar voice, and though it evidently scented something intimate, could not recognize his former master in the changed appearance resultant on his enforced bath. And so the dog sniffed and sniffed while the glint of its upward turned eyes ominously resented any friendly overture.

Jack had noticed the dog about, and now that it was sniffing at his leg, he softly spoke to it, saying: “Good-bye, Snooks,” whereupon to his surprise the dog growled at him. Again he said, soothingly: “Good bye Snooks,” putting out his hand to fondle it, but the dog, in one of those singularly unsympathetic moods rare to its nature, would have none of him, and barked at him furiously.

It was the finishing stroke to his shame and degradation. “An outcast, a stranger, so low I have fallen that my own dog barks at me.”

“Come along,” urged the detective to Rutley and Jack. But Rutley halted and turned to Hazel, with the same marvellous air that had won for him confidence in critical moments of “my lord’s” career.

“Ta, ta, pet,” said he, in his softest blandishment to Hazel. “That was a ravishing kiss you gave me in the conservatory awhile ago. Ta, ta,” and he threw her a kiss with his free hand and followed it with a tragic scowl at Sam.

“The horrid man,” indignantly exclaimed Hazel.

“Good-bye, Virginia,” and he smiled patronizingly at her. “You ‘peached’ on your pal, but rogues do that sometimes. Tra-la.”

“Officer, away with them,” ordered Mr. Harris, with disgust.

“Get a move on, old chappie,” said Sam.

“Come along,” urged the detective.

But Rutley balked, and looking at Mrs. Harris, laughed, the same high-pitched, uncanny laugh he had used previously.

“I had almost forgotten you, Auntie,” he drawled in his most suave and engaging manner. “You know that it is bad form to take one’s leave without saying ‘adieu,’ and believe me,” and he again laughed, “I thank you for your lavish reception in honor of the fake lord.”

“Officer, away with them,” stormed Mr. Harris.

Though Rutley was forced away a step or two he still kept his eyes fixed on Mrs. Harris, and managed to hold his ground long enough to add, ironically: “Adieu, Auntie! Ta, ta!”

“March yees blackguards, march,” said Smith, pushing the men along.

“How very rude! I have never had anything so scurrilous said to me before in my life.”

“He wasn’t a real lord, Auntie. Only tried to act like one, eh, I guess so,” and Sam inwardly chuckled at the balm he offered for her discomfiture.

“Sam, you had better assist the officers to the railway station,” suggested Mr. Harris.

“Oh, quite to my fancy, Uncle!” and Sam immediately proceeded after the detectives and their prisoners.

The silence that fell on the group as they watched the prisoners move down the hill was broken by Hazel, who, turning to Mr. Harris, said: “It was clever of Sam. Indeed, Uncle, it seems to him is due the honor of breaking the spell of a pretender.”

“I am satisfied now that my lord will serve a ‘spell’ with his partner in the state penitentiary,” replied Mr. Harris.

“A fate that deservedly overtakes adventurers and imposters,” remarked Mrs. Harris.

“And a most pungent warning to the frantic race society runs to entertain titled swindlers!” added Mr. Harris, gravely.

At that moment Sam hurriedly reappeared and approached Mr. Harris, who hastened to meet him. “What is wrong, Sam?” “Has he got away?” was the anxious inquiry.

“I guess not, Uncle,” replied Sam, who seemed excited, and then nodding his head toward the river, said, in an undertone. “Something out of gear down there. A boy just told me a woman was wading in the water trying to find her drowned baby – and – and I thought” —

“What! Who do you think she can be, eh? It cannot be” – And they exchanged significant glances.

Sam tapped his head impressively. “The boy said she plunged her hands in the water, talked queer, and heard her call ‘Dorothy.’”

“If it should be her! Good God! And John must be hereabouts, too. Let us go to her at once. Quietly, make no fuss. Come along,” and Mr. Harris turned hastily.