Etext of Chicago Charlie's Diamond Dash:
Or, Trapping the Tunnel Thieves.
A Story of the White City
by A.K. Sims pseud. for John Harvey Whitson
Beadle's New York Dime Library, No. 786, 
November 15, 1893.

CHICAGO CHARLIE,
THE COLUMBIAN DETECTIVE

CHAPTER I. A MYSTERIOUS AFFAIR.

A HEAVY-FACED, beefy man, English by birth, but whose
features had such strong suggestions of the German that one
could not doubt he was an Englishman of German ancestry,
approached the door of a room, over which hung a small gilt
sign showing it to be the office of John Malcomb, broker.

He advanced hesitatingly, as if he doubted the kindliness
of his reception.

His timid knock on the door bringing no response, he rung
the bell.  Lightly at first; then so loudly that its echoes
smote through all the corridors.

No one appeared in response, and he turned away.

He was back again in a quarter-of-an-hour; only to meet
with the same experience.  John Malcomb was not in; or if
in, he had no desire to see visitors.

"The hoddest thing Hi've met with in a fortni't!" the
Englishman with the Germanic features soliloquized.  "John
Malcomb 'asn't the 'abit hof being late.  No prompter man
hin Chicago, so Hi've told 'im.  Hand 'ere 'e isn't down
yet!  Bejove!  Hi b'lieve Hi'll call ha policeman!"

Before doing so, however, he mounted to the top of a
stout step-ladder, which he found conveniently near, and, at
the imminent risk of breaking his fat neck--for the ladder
trembled and groaned under him as if in pain--he climbed to
the transom over the office door and looked in.

He climbed down again in great precipitation, and at even
greater risk, his red face turning a sickly yellow.

Picking up the high hat, which had been knocked off, he
stood for as much as ten seconds rubbing it vigorously with
a red handkerchief, not knowing what he was doing;--then he
mopped his heated face with the same handkerchief, jammed
the hat back into place, and tottered down the stairway as
fast as his ponderous legs would carry him.

He did not stay so long as before.  He was back within 
five minutes; and at his heels strode a policeman.

"What cause have you for thinking there's something
wrong?" the policeman was asking, and it was noticeable that
there was a suspicious, and even an anxious, note in the
question.

"Hi don't think ha man would tumble down has 'e seems to
'ave done, sir!  Not unless 'e 'ad the 'eart disease hor the
hapoplexy, which Hi'm afraid hof hevery minite hof my life. 
I suppose you 'aven't hany fears hof those 'orrors?"

"Not at all!" and the officer gave the Englishman a
distrustful glance--a glance that seemed causeless.

They were at the door, now; and, after trying the knob,
the policeman applied a key to the lock.

The key refused to turn; when, without more ado, he
thrust his shoulder against the door, and, with a strong
surge, forced it inward.

A startled look overspread the officer's face.

On his back, motionless and dead, with right arm
out-stretched and finger extended, lay John Malcomb, the
broker.

It needed but a glance to show that the extended finger
had endeavored to trace in blood on the wall some message or
word of information--something that should furnish a clue to
the murderer, for there could be no doubt that Malcomb had
been slain.

He had been stabbed in the back, and had used as ink the
blood which had flowed from the wound!

The Englishman seemed as much stupefied and 
horror-stricken as the officer, and stared at the tracings
on the wall with a fear-filled and watery eye.

"What do you make hof it?" he questioned, in a shaky
voice.

The officer did not immediately answer, but stooped down
and held a magnifying glass over the letters made there by
the now stiffened finger.  The letters were run together and
the words almost indecipherable.  But this he managed to
spell out, after much study.

  "MURDERED BY ---------------"

There had been an obvious attempt to write the name of
the murderer, or a portion of it; but death had touched and
palsied the finger before the task was completed, and the
only result was a network of meaningless lines and circles.

There was not a keener man on the Chicago force than
Charlie Clingstone, better known to his friends and admirers
as Chicago Charlie, yet all his keenness and experience
failed him here; and when he again looked at the Englishman,
there was not only distrust in his glance, but an indication
of deepest pain.

"Walesey, when did you see John Malcomb last?"

The inquiry so startled the man that his fat legs shook
under him.  He was not less surprised that the officer, who
was wholly unknown to him, should thus familiarly address
him.

"I believe you spoke of an appointment?" still fixing the
trembling Englishman with his keen glance.

"Not han happointment, sir!  You mishunderstood me!  
But----"

"When did you see him last?  Mind, now, if you don't tell
the truth, I'll know it sooner or later!"

"Walesey," as he had been called, lifted his hands and
protested vehemently that he had no knowledge of how the man
came by his death.

"That is not the question!"

"Well, then, sir, Hi met 'im last night."

"In this office, too!"

"'Ow did you know that?"

"John Malcomb did not always take the trouble to sweep
his office, and he employed no office boy to do it for him. 
You see that dust over there in the corner?  There's your
footprint in it, and you haven't been in that corner since
we came in together!"

"Walesey" shivered as he looked at this mute evidence.

"I'm not accusing you of anything!" and Chicago Charlie
turned from the writing to an inspection of the dead man. 
"I just want you to speak the truth, whenever I ask you a
question.  John Malcomb has been foully murdered.  Anyone
can see that; and I'm determined to find who killed him."

"I don't know ha thing habout it, 'pon honor!"

The officer gave no heed to the protest, but quietly went
on with his examination.

What had been a pool of blood was now nothing but a
suggestive stain, made black by hardened blood clots.  The
soaked coat was almost dry, showing the crime to have been
committed some hours before.  In addition, there were
indications that a ring had been taken from one of the dead
man's fingers.  But nothing had been taken from the room.

He saw that if the Englishman had been in the room at the
time, it was as an accomplice or principal, for some one
else had also been there.  And that other person was a
woman!  There were prints of small shoes, and at one place
the tips of small fingers had left their impress in the dust
on a table!

He took a tape measure from his pocket, jotted down in a
note-book the length of the shoes, the appearance of the
finger prints, and made memoranda of the other indications
in the room.

Then he threw up a window and called to a brother officer
in the street.

"You will take charge here for a few minutes, Mangle!" he
said, when that officer came into the room.  "See that
everything remains just as it is.  I shall be back in a few
minutes.  There has been murder done here, and we must get
at the bottom facts."

Having delivered these instructions, he telephoned to the
central police station, and turned toward the door.

The Englishman was still standing there, as if not
knowing what to do.

"You are at liberty, Walesey.  I think I can put my hand
on you, should you be needed.  There will be a coroner here,
though, in a little while, and I'd advise you to attend the
inquest and tell all you know, and thus free yourself from
any possible suspicion.  The fact that you were here with
Malcomb the night of his death will surely be looked into."

He passed into the corridor and ran down the broad
stairway.

He hesitated on emerging into the street, and then turned
resolutely toward John Malcomb's residence, taking a car at
the nearest corner.

It has been said that Chicago Charlie seemed much
distressed by the discovery that Malcomb had been murdered.

The look of distress deepened on his face.

There was abundant occasion for it, too.

There was not a fairer girl in Chicago (at least Chicago
Charlie thought so) than Daisy Malcomb, the daughter of the
dead broker.

More than that, the young and popular officer and the
broker's daughter were on terms of peculiar intimacy.  They
were lovers!  The fact that John Malcomb had not looked with
favor on the officer's suit, did not in anywise change these
facts.  Chicago Charlie had wooed pretty Daisy Malcomb, and
had won her heart, in spite of the objections of her father.

He smiled grimly when the thought crossed his mind that
possibly this peculiar state of affairs might bring down
suspicion on his own head.

Suddenly a white look rested on his face, and he hastily
quitted the car.  He strove to put away the thought that had
come to him.  Nevertheless, he walked back toward the
broker's office, and sought the man who had nightly charge
of the big building.

"Your room looks out on the corridor leading to Malcomb's
office," he began.  "Did you chance to be here last
evening?"

"All the evening, sir!  I was not feeling well.  I went
down to the street door once, and once I went to the floor
above."

"Did you see any woman enter Malcomb's office, or go that
way?"

"I did, sir!  Malcomb's daughter!  She went up there
about nine o'clock."

"Any other?"

"None, sir!"

"Did Malcomb leave the office when she did?"

"No, sir.  She went away alone."

"One question more: How long did she stay?"

"I cannot tell you that.  I do not remember!"

"That will do.  I may have some further questions for you
after awhile."

He was about to say more, but when he saw the man staring
at him in wonderment, he turned away and again descended to
the street.

His brain was in a whirl.  He knew, in his own mind, that
Daisy Malcomb was incapable of such a deed, and yet he saw
what the evidence might lead to!

"I must see the inspector at once!" and he groaned aloud,
"My God! it will never do for any one else to be detached
for this case!"

Then he called a cab and was driven furiously away.

CHAPTER II. CLOSETED WITH THE INSPECTOR.

BUT FOR his great desire to obtain an immediate interview
with the inspector, Chicago Charlie would probably have
hastened to the woman he loved, even though he dreaded the
effect of the necessary revelation.  John Malcomb had not
been in all respects a model man; nevertheless, his daughter
loved him, and the knowledge of his murder would come to her
as a terrible shock.

The officer's heart bled, as he thought of her and of the
mental anguish she must be called on to suffer.  The vehicle
swayed and jolted, but he did not know it; and, even though
he looked out on the houses, he did not see them.  He set
his teeth hard, and muttered:

"I will save her from even the breath of suspicion, if it
be possible!  Dear girl!  She will have enough to bear. 
That would completely crush her!"

He aroused from his meditations, when the cab stopped and
he saw that he had reached his destination.

The news of the finding of the body of John Malcomb, who
had been murdered in his own office, was already in
possession of the inspector, when Chicago Charlie entered
the inspector's room.

"Ah! you have come to make a personal report on the
Malcomb case!"

Chicago Charlie had counted much on the fact that he was
personally known to the inspector and had more than once
received recognition at the hands of his superior.  His eyes
lightened now, for the tone was kindly and even cordial.

"Sit down, and tell me all about it!" and the inspector
waved him to a seat.

It took but a few words for the young officer to acquaint
the inspector with the extent of his discoveries and
conclusions.

"And now I have a request to make!"

The inspector glanced at him keenly.

"The evidence, as I have shown, all goes to prove that
the crime was committed by a woman.  And a young woman, or
one not advanced beyond the period of middle life, for the
impress of fingers in the dust of the table showed them to
have been firm and smooth.  The fingers of an elderly lady
would have shown wrinkles or marks indicative of her age."

The inspector nodded.  He liked this exhibition of keen
insight.  Still, the puzzled look remained.

"There is one woman on whom suspicion will likely fall,
who I know is as free from this bloody stain as an angel of
paradise.  That is the dead man's daughter, Miss Daisy
Malcomb.  She was seen at the office, or going in that
direction along the corridor, about nine o'clock last night. 
I have this from the janitor.  He saw no other woman go that
way, though that proves nothing.  A dozen might have gone
without him observing them.  He confessed he did not know
when Daisy left the office: so you see he was not as alert
as he pretended to me to be."

"You had all this in reply to your questions?"

The puzzled look still remained.

There was an answer in the affirmative.

"May I ask you why you prefer to be assigned to the case?
We have many good men--men who have shown their
capabilities.  You have your own particular field.  Another
would have to be sent to take your place!"

Chicago Charlie had thought the matter all out, during
the ride in the cab, and was prepared with his reply.  He
was resolved to hold back nothing.

"It is very true.  My reasons will be plain to you, when
I say that Daisy Malcomb, the young lady who is likely to
unjustly fall under suspicion, is my promised wife!"

The inspector was amazed, and showed it.  He did not
immediately reply, but looked hard at the carpet, and chewed
at a bit of match which he fished from a vest pocket. 
Finally he spoke:

"Only that I know you so well, Mr. Clingstone, I should
instantly tell you that your request is a most preposterous
one.  The worst possible man, ordinarily, to put on a case
like this, would be the lover of the woman who is liable to
be suspected.  Naturally, he would desire to shield her, and
would be tempted to suppress anything tending to show her
guilt.  Is not that a fair inference?"

The young officer could not evade so direct a thrust.  He
flushed but not in anger.

"It is!"

"You will understand how highly I regard you, then, when
I say I will seriously consider your proposition.  You are a
man of your word.  I say this, because I shall ask a promise
of you."

"Name it!"

"Before even thinking seriously of this matter, I must
have your pledged word of honor that if anything occurs to
cause you to doubt the innocence of this young lady you will
instantly report it to me."

"You have my promise!"

Chicago Charlie gave his word freely, for he was sure
nothing of the kind, more than had already been reported,
could occur.

"Now," and the officer seemed to desire to turn from the
subject, "what do you know of this Englishman, of whom you
have spoken?  Do you think he may have been an accomplice?"

"It is possible!  I have formed no theory, yet.  I know
the fellow fairly well.  He is a wealthy chap, not the
brightest in the world, and is traveling about as fast a
gait as any one of so sluggish a disposition can.  His name
is Selwyn Fisher, though he is usually called 'Walesey,' or
'The Prince,' which he much prefers to his own name.

"He claims to have been a big man in the tight little
island beyond seas, and that he was once granted audience by
the Prince of Wales.  Hence the name was given him by his
associates.  He is a lover of fast horses, gambling, and all
the other things that usually go with them.  He spends his
money like water, and drinks like a fish.

"He confessed that he was in Malcomb's office last night;
though, in spite of the suspicion that might arise because
of it, I don't think he has the nerve for such a deed.  He
trembled this morning at the bare suggestion.  He is a man
to run away as fast as his chubby legs would carry him;--not
at all the man to wield a knife or pistol.  Of course, that
is only my opinion!"

"And your opinion is what I wanted."

Again the inspector chewed the cud of reflection, while
the young officer sat uneasily before him.

When he looked up, it was in a manner to show that the
interview was at an end.

"You will be needed at the inquest, which will be held
now in a few minutes.  After I hear what there develops, I
will consider your suggestion.  Come again this evening, and
you shall have my answer; and my reasons for it, should I
decide against you!"

Chicago Charlie thanked him for this mark of favor, and
sought a cab as soon as he was in the street, giving to the
driver the number of John Malcomb's office.

Would the inquest develop anything new?  The desire now
nearest his heart seemed to rest its fulfillment on the
result of the coroner's examination.

The following is a  Gaslight etext...

CHAPTER III. SOME STARTLING EVIDENCE.

THE FAMOUS and mysterious Borden murder case was then
attracting wide-spread attention; a case in which a young
woman was charged with having slain her parents in the most
cold blooded manner.  Column-long accounts of the trial were
being paraded daily in the papers, and Chicago Charlie could
not but recur to what he had read, as he hastened up the
street leading to the Malcomb residence.

He knew how quick is the public to seize on anything
suggestive or sensational, and the fear that suspicion might
point its dark finger at Daisy Malcomb in that terrible way,
filled him with the liveliest fears.

He was troubled, too, lest the inspector should refuse
him his request.  He knew that if another were detailed to
take hold of this already baffling case, that one of the
first things done would be the arrest of Daisy.

His pulses were bounding as he walked up the flagged path
and rung the door bell.  A servant came, to whom Clingstone
stated his desire to see the young lady of the house.

It was like receiving a blow in the face, when the
servant, who knew him well, refused him entrance, saying
that Miss Daisy had given strict orders that she was not to
be disturbed.

"Then she knows of the----"

"She knows of the death of her father, yes, sir, if that
is what you were going to say!  News of it was brought to
her some time ago.  She is in her room, now, and absolutely
refuses to see any one.

"Will you not mention my name to her?  Perhaps she 
will----"

The servant, who was of the supercilious kind, drew back
at this, and closed the door in Clingstone's face.

Charlie choked down his wrath and his great grief, and
walked thoughtfully back to the street.

He found the coroner ready for business, when he again
sought the office.  One or two unimportant witnesses had
already been examined, and the janitor was now undergoing
the process of telling all he knew, in response to
innumerable questions.

The coroner scribbled something on a blank and gave it to
an officer, when the janitor told of Daisy Malcomb's visit
to the office, and Chicago Charlie groaningly recognized the
disagreeable fact that she was to be summoned as a witness.

The body of John Malcomb had been removed, but the
suggestive blood stains were still visible. 

Clingstone, sitting where he could accomplish it without
much observation, pushed a rug across the blood marks with
his foot.

Selwyn Fisher, looking shakier and paler than ever, was
next asked to make a formal statement of what he knew.

There was only one point in the Englishman's testimony
that surprised the pained officer, and that may be given in
Fisher's words:

  "Yes, sir; I was 'ere hin the office with John Malcomb
last night, hand we 'ad a little game hof cards together;
not for much money, you hunderstand, but just to pass haway
the time, sir!  And Malcomb finally got hangry with me, hand
hordered me to leave the room!"

The coroner metaphorically pricked up his ears.

"How was that?"

"Well you see, sir, Hi'd been ha bantering 'im habout
that girl hof 'is, hand ha tellin' im that she was the
prettiest female hin the city, sir; hand finally Hi hoffered
to lay 'im a wager.

"Hi hoffered to pay 'im twenty thousand dollars, sir,
hagainst the 'and hof the girl!  Hand 'e got mad hat that,
sir, hand told me to leave the place, sir, hor 'e'd shoot my
blawsted 'ead off!  Hof course Hi couldn't stand that kind
of talk from ha friend, don't you know, so I hups and takes
my 'at hand leaves!"

Chicago Charlie wished at the moment that he might have
his fingers around the throat of the Britisher, and the
glare in his eyes would have been observable had any one
been looking at him.  All attention, however, was centered
on the Englishman.

"And you two were alone in the office?"

"We were, sir!"

"About what time last evening was that?"

"Habout nine o'clock, sir; for when Hi got down honto the
street, hit was two minutes hafter, has shown by my watch!"

The look of suspicion with which Chicago Charlie had
before regarded Fisher deepened again in his eyes.

He was not allowed much time to reflect on the remarkable
testimony of Fisher, when all eyes were directed to the
door, and he beheld Daisy Malcomb enter, heavily veiled, and
walking with an uncertain and quivering step.  He saw that
her form was convulsed by the agony she was silently
enduring, and his great love made him wish that he might
hurry to her assistance.  But prudence held him in his seat.

If he was to have the management of this special
detective work, he realized that he must be cautious how he
permitted the public to see what was passing in his mind. 
He must not let his feelings sway him, for he knew not but
that some detective officer was in the room, sent by the
inspector for the purpose of watching his conduct during the
trial.

Yet it was hard on him to permit another to place for
Daisy a chair and assist her to it.

The coroner, probably willing to spare her all he could,
called her name immediately, and administered the usual
oath.

Then came the customary questions, varied to suit each
individual.

"You visited your father in his office last evening, did
you not?" queried the coroner.

A number of seconds, during which she was evidently
trying to obtain control of her voice, elapsed before she
spoke--seconds that seemed interminably long to the
breathless, listening crowd.

Many spectators had gathered, for the news of the murder
had already been bruited abroad; spectators from every walk
of life, almost, but chiefly belonging to the idle and half
vicious classes.  And these craned their necks and stared at
the veil which hid from view the features of the trembling
girl.

Chicago Charlie, with heart bleeding for her, wondered if
any there thought of the Borden murder case, so strongly
impressed at that moment on his mind; and, thus wondering,
he prayed that, if such thoughts existed, they might not
prejudice the public mind against her.

"I did not, sir!"

The silence became more profound, as these words fell
from the lips of Daisy Malcomb.

Recalling the evidence given by the janitor, the coroner
could scarcely credit his hearing.

So he framed the question anew:

"Were you not up there last evening?"

"Yes, sir; but I did not see my father!"

A deep sigh welled from the throng.  The sensation was
likely to be spoiled, after all!

"Who did you meet, if any one?"

"No one.  I was up here, first, in the afternoon, when my
father told me to return for him at eight.  It was about
nine, though, when I came, and he had already gone."

"And you saw no one?"

"No, sir!"

"You did not see that man over there?" indicating the
Englishman.

She lifted her veil, showing a dark, handsome face, and
glanced at Fisher, but still replied:

"I saw no one!"

Chicago Charlie could see that the exposed face was
pained and drawn, as was to be expected.

"Nine o'clock, did you say?"

"Yes, sir.  I looked at my watch, to see how much I was
behind time, and it was three or four minutes before nine
o'clock."

"And no one was in the office?"

"I think not.  The office was dark, and I did not enter!"

Every one thought of the testimony given by the
Englishman concerning the time, and several curious glances
were bestowed on him.

After a few further questions, Daisy was permitted to
depart.

Chicago Charlie did not attempt to follow, feeling sure
he would be the next witness--as he was.

He told how Fisher had summoned him from the street; of
what they had discovered, and going into the minutest
details, at the coroner's request.

Again Fisher was called to the stand.

"Why did you wish to see John Malcomb this morning?" was
the sharp inquiry.

The Englishman trembled.

"Because hof that quarrel, sir, hif hit may be called ha
quarrel.  We 'ad halways been the best hof friends, hand Hi
couldn't bear that we should be enemies, at this late day!" 
The explanation seemed sufficient.

Then a witness was called whose testimony was to startle
Chicago Charlie out of what little composure he had left. 
This witness was the police officer he had summoned to take
charge of the room during his absence.

He came forward and produced a bloody knife, which he
held up for the coroner's inspection.

"You may state where you obtained that knife, Mr.
Mangle!"

"Yes, sir.  I found it lying in the corner over there,
just before you reached the office; and when you came in you
will remember that I showed it to you."

Chicago Charlie looked at the corner indicated, and saw
that some papers were lying in it, under which the knife
might have lain concealed.  But he did not think it had thus
escaped his notice, for he felt he had made a close search
of the premises.  The thought that it had been placed there
since, for a purpose, came to him like a flash.

He looked again at the knife, which the coroner was
passing around for the inspection of the jurymen; and a cold
sweat broke out on his forehead.

He recognized the knife.  It was a small knife, but with
a long, slender and keen blade.  It was a knife he had given
to Daisy Malcomb not a month before!

He turned aside his face for fear some one would observe
the anguish there depicted.

He had seen that the knife-blade and handle were smeared
with blood.  Had that knife taken the life of John Malcomb? 
He would not believe it.  At least he refused to listen to
the suggestion that the owner of the knife had dealt the
fatal blow.  That was too preposterous, too horrible, for
belief.  No one but an insane man would harbor it for a
minute.

The terror that possessed him during the next few minutes
can scarcely be realized.  He felt that he ought, as an
officer of the law, to tell what he knew concerning the
weapon.  Yet he shook, clinging almost blindly to his chair,
in the great fear that he might be called up and asked some
further questions.

He could not reveal that!  It would be supreme folly, he
thought, to give out that information, until he had made an
investigation.

His feeling of gratitude was intense, when he observed he
was not to be called.  The policeman had turned the knife
over to the coroner, and the jurymen were deliberating.

How he listened for the result of their discussion!

It came at last: A general verdict of murder, by some
person or persons unknown.

Daisy was safe for the present; and the great work of
Chicago Charlie's life had commenced; for he was resolved to
run down this mystery, even if he had to resign his position
to enable him to do it.

Henceforth, he was Chicago Charlie, the detective, and he
was destined to prove he was not unworthy of that title.

CHAPTER IV. "WHO WAS SHE?"

AS SOON as he felt at liberty to leave the room, Chicago
Charlie slipped out, and hastened once more to the Malcomb
residence.

It was a pleasantly-situated house, with neatly-kept
walks and trees, and the sun that morning was flooding it
with light.  Yet there was about it an air of marked and
suggestive stillness.  The presence of death brooded there,
which not even the flooding sunshine could drive away.

There was crape on the door, and a glance at the curtains
of the windows of one of the lower rooms told that the body
of John Malcomb was reposing within, robed for the grave. 
Chicago Charlie would have known this, without any such
evidence, for the carriage of an undertaker was drawn up at
the curb.

His pull at the bell was answered by the servant who had
previously sent him away.

Resolved not to be balked this time, the young detective
pushed past the man and into the house.

"You will take this card to Miss Daisy Malcomb!" he
commanded, frowning at the man, who had followed.  "I am
sure she will see me!  If not, tell her it is important!"

The man looked doubtfully at the card, hesitating as if
he thought of refusing, then disappeared with it, leaving
Chicago Charlie to await his return.

He was back, though, in a remarkably short time, and led
the way to a little room on the second floor, where the
detective found the girl, sitting disconsolately at a
window, a servant having just left her side.

Taking this as a good omen, Chicago Charlie advanced
unhesitatingly.

She arose, sobbingly, to greet him.

Without a word he drew her away from the window, and
folded her in his arms, as if he would by that act shield
her from all harm.

"My dear Daisy!  How you must suffer!  I came two hours
or more ago, but you would not see me; and now I have come
again.  You will let me assist you? comfort you? do
something for you?"

There was entreaty in the tones.

"I did not know you had called!" she asserted, a light
flash of pleasure suffusing her pallid cheeks, where were
many traces of tears.  "I supposed the servant would admit
you, even though I had given orders that I was not to be
disturbed!"

His arms tightened about her.  Then he conducted her to a
chair and drew one close up at her side, kissing her as he
did so.

She began to sob, showing all the bitterness of her fresh
grief.

"It is terrible!" he confessed.  "But you must endeavor
to remain calm!"

"The manner of his death is what hurts so!" she averred,
between the shaking sobs.  "That my father should be killed
in that cruel manner!  It is dreadful!  Dreadful!  And he
was so kind to me, and so good; and he loved me so!  Oh!  I
don't know what I shall do!  I feel at times as if I was
losing my mind!"

The anguish on the young officer's face was painful to
see.  Yet, before this outburst of grief, he was silent. 
Words failed him.  He knew not what to do or say;-realizing
how weak and impotent are mere words at such a time.

"You must not distress yourself so!" he pleaded.  "I know
it is dreadful!  But tears can do no good, now!"

He took her trembling hands in his, and was startled at
their feverishness.

"You are making yourself ill!" he urged.  "Perhaps you
need a physician more than anything else.  Your palms are
burning hot!"

"No!  No!  I am not sick!"

But when she looked up, he observed that while her cheeks
were pale, her eyes were feverishly bright.

"What did they learn at the--the trial?" she questioned.

It was the point to which he would have directed speech,
had he known how.

"I wanted to talk to you about that!" he averred.  "I
think I will be assigned to look into this case, for I have
resolved to ferret it out and find the--the murderer!  I
have already applied to the inspector for the assignment."

Her glance showed her gratitude.

"The man must be found and punished!" she declared, with
unexpected sternness.  "I can never rest until that is
accomplished."

"Nor I!" his pulse quickening.  "But the murderer was not
a man.  The crime was by a woman!"

"By a woman?"

Her voice shook with horror.

"Surely you must be mistaken!  That seems incredible!  No
woman could be guilty of such a thing!"

"I have good reasons for thinking otherwise!" and he
clasped the hands yet more firmly.  "I distinctly saw a
woman's tracks in the dust on the floor, and the print of a
woman's fingers on the table at which your father must have
been sitting when the fatal blow was given.  I am sure the
murderer was a woman.  You say you were not in the office
last night; those tracks and marks were made last night; and
some woman made them.  If I could lay my hands on her, I am
sure I should have the guilty one!"

She shuddered, involuntarily.

Chicago Charlie was thinking of the knife, but he thought
it best to withhold that information for the time.

"How can you tell when the marks were made?" she queried,
her curiosity quickened.

"By their general appearance!  If very old--much more
than twelve hours old--they would not have been so distinct. 
Yet they were not sufficiently fresh and clear to have been
made this morning.  It is not likely any one would venture
on a deed of that kind in broad daylight.  Therefore, they
must have been made last night!"

He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment.

"What I wanted to ask you is this: Has any strange woman
called on you lately, or been in the house?"

She started as if stung.

"Why, it could not be!  Yes, a woman was here last
evening!  Her coming was what kept me from visiting the
office promptly, as I promised father I would!"

Chicago Charlie's breath came quick and fast, like that
of a hound scenting a trail.

"Who was that woman?"

"I cannot tell you who she was!  She was dark--very 
dark--and wore a heavy veil.  Her eyes were as black as
night, and so was her hair.  She wanted me to let her tell
my fortune, and--I foolishly consented.  You do not think
that she--that that could have brought about--that my delay
here could have caused father's death?"

Her eyes were filled with remorse and horror.

Even faster came the detective's breath and louder
thumped his heart.  Here was information worth having!  He
felt sure that this dark-eyed fortune-teller had not come
there simply to tell fortunes.  She had come to get a weapon
with which to commit that foul crime;--a weapon from
Malcomb's own house, so that the crime might be laid at the
door of another!  At the door of Malcomb's daughter!  The
mystery of the Borden murder had evidently not only
suggested itself to him; it had suggested itself to this
murderess, who had acted on it.

In vain he sought to recall the face of some well-known
adventuress or desperate woman who might have committed
the crime.

"Describe her minutely!" he requested.

"I do not know that I can, any more than I have already."

"Was she young or old?"

"Young!  I should say not more than twenty.  Surely a
girl of that age could not do that!"

"Handsome?"

"Rather pretty.  Her cheeks and lips were red and plump,
and she had a good form."

"How was she dressed?"

"In an ordinary dark dress.  I did not notice her
clothing closely, for she had on a dark shawl."

"I will find her," he declared, "if she remains in the
city!  And I don't think she can escape me, even should she
leave.  She is the woman that killed your father.  I feel
sure of it!"

Having obtained this information, he was anxious to hurry
at once with it to the inspector.  The description tallied
with the footprints and marks found in the office, and he
did not doubt that the inspector would see that this was the
murderess, and not Malcomb's daughter.  It explained
everything.  The finding of the bloody knife, and all.  Yet
he could not refrain from secretly cursing himself for
overlooking so important a thing in his search as that
knife!

Notwithstanding his desire to hasten away, he lingered
for many long minutes, and had the satisfaction, as he left
the residence, of knowing that Miss Daisy Malcomb was in
much better frame of mind than when he came.  And, most
important of all, he had gained the clue needed to begin his
work.

CHAPTER V. A REMARKABLE FORTUNE-TELLER

WITH A feeling that was not quite reluctance, yet was akin
to it, Daisy Malcomb walked out through the shaded path,
leading from her home into the street.

Three days had elapsed;--days that had been filled with
grief.  And, though the sunshine fell as pleasantly on this
day as on that other when Chicago Charlie pushed past the
servant into the house, the shadow which then hung over the
residence had not departed.  Nor would it for many, many
days to come. 

The last sad services to the dead had been rendered, and
the murdered man was now sleeping in Chicago's beautiful
city of the dead;--sleeping quite as quietly there as if he
had died in the ordinary manner and with the ordinary
surroundings.

The papers had teemed with exaggerated accounts of the
tragedy, and the many theories they put forth were certainly
remarkable for ingenuity.  Yet the detective, reading all of
them carefully, felt sure none of then hit anywhere near the
mark.

Chicago Charlie had been assigned to the difficult task
of laying bare the mystery of the murder, the task he had so
desired and so earnestly solicited.  And it was at his
earnest request that Daisy Malcomb was now setting forth on
an errand that possessed all the characteristics of novelty.

Seemingly all the world had come up to Chicago to see the
great Fair; and if not to see the Fair, then to profit by
those who had come for that purpose.  And of the latter
class there were so many that the great lakeside city fairly
swarmed. 

Among others, was a band of Gypsies, who had pitched
their camp on some vacant lots near the grounds of the
Columbian Exposition, and within easy reach of it.  They had
been compelled to pay pretty dearly for the privilege, a
thing to which they were much averse, but they probably
reasoned that the golden harvest they would reap in
consequence would more than justify this extravagance.

Chicago Charlie, in his search for the dark-eyed 
fortune-teller, had located these Gypsies, and had gone
among them in various disguises; and, though he saw many
young Gypsy women, he could not say that any of them fully
answered the description of the young fortune-teller who had
visited Daisy Malcomb on the night of the murder.

Hence, he desired that Daisy herself should go to the
Gypsy camp, and personally inspect the younger women there,
in the hope that she might be able to identify the one
sought.

The fact that the woman who had called on Daisy that
night had been dark, and professedly a fortune-teller, made
him think she might be found among this band of roving
Romanies.

As shown in the interview between the lovers, Daisy
Malcomb was quite as anxious as Chicago Charlie to have the
murderess ferreted out and brought to justice.  She had
never seen the knife that Mangle had exhibited at the
inquest; and, though it was now in possession of her lover,
the latter never mentioned it to her.  What she had seen in
the papers concerning it, gave her no suspicion that the
knife there spoken of was the one which had once been her
own.

Even though thus anxious to bring the guilty one to
justice, Daisy had not been able as yet to convince herself
that the deed had been committed by a woman, though she
thought it possible a woman might have had knowledge of it,
and might even have abetted it.  But that woman's hand had
driven the weapon she would not believe, for the paths which
her feet had followed had never brought her in contact with
a creature bearing the semblance of a woman who could be so
hardened as to strike that murderous blow.

However, at the bidding of her lover, she had put aside
her grief for a time; put aside her shrinking weakness; put
aside the thought that her act, under the circumstances,
might be unbecoming; and taking an Elevated train, was soon
whirling in the direction of Jackson Park.

She separated herself from the vast crowds that were
pouring toward the gates opening on the great show, on
alighting; and, turning into a side street, hurried quickly
on toward the Gypsy camp, anxious to escape the public gaze,
and fearful lest she should be recognized.

Her heart gave a weakening, tremulous bound, when the
dirty white tents of the Gypsies loomed on her vision; but
she went on, nevertheless, and was soon near enough to
observe the lounging forms of two or three unwholesome
looking, Gypsy men, who appeared to have nothing particular
to do in this world, save to lie idly on the grass, smoke
stinking black pipes, and stare at the sky.

The music of the cowboy band floated to her from Buffalo
Bill's mammoth "Wild West" exhibition, the notes drowned
occasionally by the rumble and grumble of heavily laden
trains.

The Gypsy men scarcely looked at her as she walked past
them and toward the nearest tent.  There were only three or
four women to be seen, but two of these could be called
young.  Neither of them was the fortune-teller who had
called on her.

Entering the tent, or rather hesitating in the entrance,
she saw before her a withered crone, with skin like brown
leather, who came promptly forward, and, in a wheedling
voice, desired her to come in.

Daisy accepted this invitation, though the rough chair
offered was not of the cleanest.

"Now, what can I do for you, my dear?" the woman asked. 
"I see you have come to get your fortune told.  It ought to
be a good fortune, for you're a purty girl.  And you've a
handsome lover, too, I don't doubt.  I'm Gypsy Nell, and
I've told fortunes--true fortunes--since I was that high!"
indicating a distance of two feet from the ground.

There was something so keen and bright in this old
woman's eyes, that Daisy almost shrunk from her.  The
crone's glance seemed to pierce her through and through, as
if seeking out her innermost secrets.

"Are there no other women here?" Daisy palpitatingly
asked.

Gypsy Nell frowned slightly.

"Only those girls out there.  They can't tell fortunes,
though they pretend that they can.  Let me tell your
fortune, lady!"

She took Daisy's hand and peered at it, wrinkling her
brows as if in thought.  The girl did not draw her hand
away, for there was in the old woman's manner something
commanding and imperious.

"You are a good girl, as I said--a good girl; but, ah! I
cannot speak so well of your father.  He was a hard man;
hard on the poor.  Yes, and he was a gambler, a speculator,
and what these Americans call a wrecker!"

Daisy would have drawn the hand away, now, only that the
old crone detained it.

"You must not speak that way of my father!" the girl
panted, unable to restrain her indignant tears.

"Yes, I know.  He is dead!  And your grief is yet strong. 
Let me see!  There is a bloody shadow on the hand.  Just
there!  Do you not see it?

"Your father did not die as he should have died.  He was
murdered.  Ay!  I see, now.  He was stabbed or cut, and so
died.  It is hard, lady!  Very hard!  Pardon me, for giving
you pain.  I will tell no more, if it thus distresses you."

Daisy was not only astonished by what she had heard, but
her curiosity was piqued by the woman's accent.  She had
expected to hear something foreign.  Yet this Gypsy woman
spoke English almost as well as she herself spoke it. 
Whereas, the woman who had visited her that fatal night,
spoke it very poorly.

Daisy, having heard this much of the so-called "fortune,"
was extremely anxious that the Gypsy woman should go on, and
so expressed herself.

"Very well, lady!  But if I say things to make you feel
bad, you must not be angry as awhile ago.  It is my business
to tell what I see, not what people would like to have me
tell them.  What good is a fortune, if we do not speak
true?"

"Do you mean to say that you see all those things in the
palm of my hand?" Daisy demanded, incredulously.

"I see shadows and lines in the hand, and when I see
them, I cannot tell you how, but their meaning comes up
before me.  As you see things, lady, when you read a book. 
You are educated and can read the book, which to me would be
only crazy dots and figures.  Yet it tells you what is there
put down.  So, in this fortune telling business.  You read
the book, and I read the hand!"

"Go on!" said the girl, resigning herself without further
question.  "What else can you see there?"

"The bloody cloud has got clearer and I see figures of
people moving about in it.  There is a man who I'm certain
is your father. 

"How do I know?" as if to ward off another inquiry.  "I
cannot tell how I know; only I feel it to be so.  He is in a
small room--a room that has books and papers in it.  A light
is turned low on the table.  It may be he is asleep, for his
head is bent down on his arm."

A twinge of pain shot through Daisy's heart.  Had her
father fallen asleep while waiting for her and been thus
murdered?

"Ah!" and the old woman drew in her breath eagerly.  "A
man has come into the room.  He has crept in through the
door.  He has a knife.  He looks at the man by the table. 
He creeps forward as a cat.  He strikes.  He stabs the man
in the back!"

Her voice had grown to a low and impressive whisper. 
Daisy snatched away the hand with a little shriek.  So
vividly had the picture been painted, and in so dramatic a
manner, that she could almost fancy she had seen what had
been described.

The crone had looked at her compassionately, even
tenderly.

"It was terrible, lady!  Was it not?"

Daisy's lips were white and mute, and the pupils of her
eyes dilated with the excitement.

"Tell the rest of it!" she resolutely ordered, thrusting
the palm once more into the skinny grasp.  "Tell me all you
see!  Everything!  Are you sure it was a man who struck the
blow?"

For the time a thoroughly superstitious feeling had
possession of her, and she could not rid herself of the
belief that this old, witch-like creature had some magical
power by which events of the past were revealed.

"You are sure it was a man?" shakily. 

"Quite sure, my dear!" and the Gypsy stared at her in
amazement.

"The man is gone now and the room is dark, and the other
man--your father--lies on his back on the floor!"

She had turned again to an inspection of the palm, but
she continued to cast on Daisy those questioning glances,
which, could Daisy have observed them, would have been the
source of much conjecture.

"What kind of a man was he?" Daisy urged.  "How did he
look?"

The detective instinct, that was so strong a trait in the
character of her lover, was being aroused in her.

"A heavy-faced man.  A man of much size.  A beer drinker,
with a chuffy, puffy face."

Daisy recognized the description immediately as that of
Selwyn Fisher.  She remembered him as she sat in the room at
the time of the inquest, and Chicago Charlie had described
him minutely more than once since.

"His name?" she panted.

"I cannot tell his name.  There is nothing about a man to
tell you what his name may be.  I can only tell how he
looks!"

"C'mon!"

"I cannot tell more about that!  The bloody cloud is
past.  Now a lighter cloud overspreads your hand, beginning
here.  That is the region of the heart, my dear; so I know
that what I shall see now will be of your lover."

Daisy sat spell-bound under the old woman's influence.

"A tall, handsome young man, my dear.  A policeman, I
think, by his uniform."

Wonder trod on the heels of wonder.  Daisy could scarcely
credit her ears.  What remarkable power did not this old
woman possess?

"He is chasing the fat man; and he is sure to catch him,
for the fat man cannot run so fast.  He has found out that
the fat man killed the man in the room, and for your sake he
is trying to catch him.  Ah! he has him now.  He drags him
down, and then pulls him away with him.

"There is a lighter cloud; a cloud with rosy edges.  It
is what we call the wedding cloud, my dear.  The darkness of
the past is gone.  I see you standing up in a great church
with the young man, and the preacher is blessing you.  It is
a good fortune, for it ends well!"

She dropped the hand, as if to indicate that she was
done, and Daisy looked up at her as if coming out of a
trance.  What she had heard seemed to the girl parts of a
dream, though she knew she had not been dreaming.

"And that is all?"

"Is it not enough?  Is it not worth the fee?  Who could
have a better fortune for fifty cents?"

She laughed in a harsh, disagreeable way, that grated on
the girl's over-strung nerves.

"It is enough!  If I could only believe it all!"

The old woman frowned, as she had once done at the
beginning. 

"Believing it or not believing it, does not make it true
or untrue.  It was written in your hand.  I have learned
never to doubt what I see there."

Daisy took the fee from her purse, and passed it over.

"Thank you," and the crone courtesied.  "Not many get so
good a fortune for the money.  Not many hands show so happy
a future.  You have a good face, and I hope that all your
dreams may come true.

"I had my dreams, once.  Ah! well.  That was long ago.  I
have quit dreaming, except for other people, who pay me for
it.  But dreams are good for a girl."

She courtesied again and turned away; leaving Daisy alone
in the shabby tent.

Daisy looked at her watch, and was surprised that so much
time had elapsed.  She had been there more than an hour, and
it had scarcely seemed five minutes.  There were voices
about her, which she had not before heard.  She saw that a
number of Gypsies had returned, and that there were several
girls among them.

She scanned these closely, noting their features, dress,
and manners.  None of them suggested the dark faced woman
who had called on her on that ever-to-be-remembered night. 
They were different in many ways.  Some of them were as
dark, and had eyes and hair as black, but their manners and
speech were of a different order.

The faces were all strange, and when she had satisfied
herself that the woman she had come seeking was not of the
number, she left the tent and walked back toward the crowded
streets, her mind filled with the wonderful things that had
dropped from the lips of the old woman.

CHAPTER VI. THE DANCING GIRL FROM CAIRO.

"THERE IS information of importance back of that!" Chicago
Charlie exclaimed, when he heard Daisy's account of the
result of her visit to the Gypsy camp.  "That old woman
knows a good deal more than she told; we have struck the
main trail!"

He leaned toward the girl, and his earnestness betrayed
itself in his quick speech.

It was the evening of the same day, and he had called on
Daisy Malcomb to receive her report, and for the further
reason that he was always glad of an excuse to court her
presence.

Chicago Charlie was rapidly getting his plans in order,
and they were, he felt, sufficiently broad and comprehensive
to accomplish the desired result: i.e. the capture of the
murderer of John Malcomb.  A capable shadower had been put
on the track of the Englishman, Walesey, and certain
interesting facts had already been discovered concerning
him.

"What sort of information?" Daisy asked.

"Well, I think it's safe to assume that that old woman
knows a great deal more than she told you.  Of course, she
has no such ability to read the future and pry into secrets
as she claims."

"Of course!" Daisy assented, though she could not quite
rid herself of the feeling that the crone was really gifted
with prophetic power.

She had held back from her lover the account of the
policeman, and the future predicted for him; all excepting
that portion relating to his chase of the fat murderer.

Even as he spoke, Chicago Charlie was doing some rapid
thinking.  He was endeavoring to account for the knowledge
which the Gypsy appeared to possess.

"These Gypsies have been about town a good deal lately,"
he said at length, "begging, and probably stealing.  This
fortune-teller may even have visited this house.  All the
world knows of the crime against your father, for it has
been published broadcast.  Does it not seem likely that she
may have seen you here, or that you may have been pointed
out to her somewhere?  Knowing who you were and recognizing
you when you came to the camp, with the knowledge which she
could have gained from the papers, it is easy to see how she
could fabricate the story told you.

"Taking this view of it, makes it seem reasonable and
probable.  Either that, or she possesses some knowledge of
what has really been done--perhaps knows who committed the
deed--and thought to astonish you by saying what she did. 
Even then, she must have seen you before to have so
recognized you."

The explanation was clear and sensible, and yet it did
not drive from Daisy the queer thrill that had oppressed her
as she listened breathlessly to the words of the crone.  It
dashed aside what had seemed so miraculous, and the
miraculousness of the performance was what she was most
disposed to cling to.  And yet Daisy Malcomb would solemnly
have assured her friends and herself that she was not the
least bit superstitious.  Probably there is a drop of
superstitious blood in the best of us, if we did but
acknowledge it.  Which is not to be wondered at, when we
recall how short is the time since the age of witch-burning. 
The spirit of old Cotton Mather is not yet dead.

Daisy, fearing ridicule, did not essay to put her
feelings into words, and Chicago Charlie went on:

"I shall have the Gypsy camp shadowed, and something may
develop.  At the same time, I do not intend to give my
personal attention to it.  There is other work for me just
now, and for you, too."

He anticipated the glance of surprise with which this was
greeted.

"Will you explain yourself, Charlie Clingstone!" she
demanded, vexed at the silence that ensued.

"I have been looking everywhere for the fortune-teller
that called on you that night, as you know.  I half-believe,
too, that I have located her.  She is in one of the
buildings about the Cairo street, in Midway Plaisance."

Daisy knew the place.  It was one of the special exhibits
at the World's Fair, on the mile-long thoroughfare known as
Midway Plaisance containing the pay exhibits and
concessions.

She drew in her breath quick and hard.  She had already
visited the Cairo street-having been there earlier, in the
season, before the buildings were completed--and she
recollected now that there was a marked resemblance in some
of the faces seen there to that of the woman who had called
on her.

"Can you go with me to-morrow?" he queried, watching the
shadows chase each other over her expressive features.

"I will arrange to do so, if you specially wish it."

"Thank you.  I especially wish it, or I should not have
asked it of you.  Now as to this Englishman, Selwyn Fisher,
for the Gypsy could have meant no one else, I hardly think
he is the man to watch, though I shall have some one
constantly on his track.  I don't believe that a man did the
deed.  I think it was a woman, in spite of the assertions of
the old fortune-teller."

Much more was said, which it is not the present purpose
of this story to record.

The next day, Chicago Charlie and Daisy Malcomb pressed
with the crowd through one of the turnstiles into the big
Fair.

Before and about them lay the wonderful "White City."  A
poet's dream wrought into towering palaces and artistic
forms.  A vision of rich magnificence standing with marble
feet in the waters of the Michigan Lake.

But they felt that they had no time just then to devote
to its wonders and beauties, and so they turned aside and
entered Midway Plaisance; where the glancing sunbeams fell
on queer buildings of foreign construction, on Javanese,
Dahoman and Irish villages--and where the odd music of a
Chinese band brought back to Chicago Charlie memories of the
time when he was a ragged urchin and vigorously led a
procession of other  boys battering away at old tin pans
with a stick.

Entering Cairo street--seemingly a section carved out of
the heart of old Cairo where Egyptian hieroglyphics looked
down from the walls and solemn sphinxes guarded the
mysteries hidden away in the depths of the buildings, they
sought the spot where the Ghawazees, or dancing girls, were
accustomed daily to give exhibitions of their dancing in the
far-off Orient. 

Two girls, fairly comely in features, with rich red lips,
were swaying sensuously in the center of the floor, the
dance being more a swaying of the body and limbs than
anything like the dances Americans are accustomed to.

Chicago Charlie's eyes were on Daisy Malcomb, more than
on the voluptuous figures of the dancers, for one of these
swaying women he had picked on as resembling the one who had
visited Daisy on that fatal night.

He saw Daisy turn pale, felt her clutch tighten on his
arm, and knew she had recognized the dancing girl.

Fearing the recognition might be mutual, if Daisy's
agitation attracted attention, he drew his sweetheart away,
passing out as if in search of other attractions.
 
   "It is she!" Daisy whispered, in much agitation, and with
blanching lips.  "That is the girl who called on me to tell
me my fortune!"

"And it is the girl who took the knife, and who committed
the murder!" was the detective's inward comment.

Aloud he only said:

"I thought so.  I felt I could not be mistaken, for your
description was very minute.  Now we will go in here to rest
awhile, for you seem about to drop.  I was afraid your face
would betray you, when you saw her."

Daisy was almost too weak to stand, so suffered herself
to be led into a neighboring cafe, where refreshments and a
cup of stimulating coffee were ordered for her by the
detective. 

CHAPTER VII A BIT OF SHADOWING.

IN AN OBSCURE CORNER, where the light did not fall so
blindingly and where the tinkling accompaniment to the
Ghawazee dance came with melodious softness, sat Chicago
Charlie, with his hat well drawn over his eyes, and peering
out keenly from half-closed lids.

His gaze was riveted on the dancing girls, and he was
especially watching the movements of the one who had been
recognized that morning by Daisy Malcomb as the nocturnal
fortune-teller.

It was the evening of the same day, and he had returned
to the Cairo building to make a study of the girl.

If this dancing girl were the murderess, what had been
her motive?  Why did she do the horrible deed?

This was the question to whose solution Chicago Charlie
was devoting his thoughts.

He was well aware that the Ghawazees had been in the
country only a few months, and it seemed impossible that
this girl could have formed the acquaintance of John Malcomb
in that time, housed as she had been from the gaze of the
public.  It was not likely, therefore, that the girl could
have held against him, personally, any animosity.  And
robbery had not been the motive for the commission of the
crime, for there had apparently been no valuables taken.

Shrewd as was the young detective he found himself at
fault and sorely puzzled.

There seemed but one solution of the mystery: This 
girl--taking it for granted that she had slain John
Malcomb--had not done it through enmity, nor through a
desire to rob, but because she had been well paid for the
deed by some one who was interested in putting Malcomb out
of the way.

Who was this person?

The detective's thoughts reverted to the Englishman,
against whom his suspicion had first been aroused.  Yet, by
putting together all the facts known of the Englishman's
career, there was little enough to indicate that Selwyn
Fisher had had reason for such a murderous desire.

Fisher and Malcomb had been friends or acquaintances, but
not cronies.  There was much to show that Malcomb had pushed
the acquaintance, for the purpose of handling some of the
money which Fisher now and then threw around so recklessly.
The Englishman had come to this country fabulously rich, as
it was said, the report adding that he had obtained his
wealth through inheritance.

About the Englishman, as flies about a keg of sweets, a
number of parasites had gathered.  They were principally
sporting men; men belonging to the "fastest" set of Chicago. 
John Malcomb did not exactly belong to this set, but he had
been on intimate and sympathetic terms with many of the
fellows who were reported to be "bleeding" the thick-headed
Englishman.

The detective's ruminations were leading him far from the
posturing of the dancing girls, when he was brought back to
things present by the actions of a man who had recently
entered the room.

This man was stylishly clad, and there was something in
his general appearance which caused Chicago Charlie to set
him down instantly as a confidence-man and a _roue_.  His
necktie was of the whitest, his hat of the shiniest, and his
clothing of the most elegant fit.  Now and then he cast an
amorous glance at the girls, and clapped his gloved hands
vigorously whenever the performance especially pleased him.

"I think I have seen that fellow," Chicago Charlie
muttered, eying the man still more closely.  "If I am not
mistaken, his name is Youngblood.  Colonel Solon Youngblood! 
I think I saw him at the races last summer with Walesey,
when they were backing that little black mare against
Thunderbolt!  They lost, too, if I'm not mistaken.  Yes,
it's the same fellow.  He is one of Walesey's chums, and by
that token I suppose he must have been an acquaintance of
Malcomb's."

This knowledge that Daisy's father had herded so often
with men of questionable character frequently stung him, as
it did now.

The dancing came to an end at last; and, when the crowd
began to thin out, one of the girls picked up a buttonaire,
and, advancing to the swell-looking man, pinned it on the
lapel of his coat.

"That is wort' a quarter!" he heard her simper, ogling
the man slyly.  "Don' you t'ink it wort' that much?"

Then, as the man stooped slightly to get at his purse,
she bent forward and quickly whispered something in his ear.

The man started, but regaining his composure, took out
the quarter and handed it to her, and began to praise the
flowers and the beauty of her dancing.

Chicago Charlie saw it all, and was aroused to instant
alertness.

What acquaintance had this Ghawazee with Solon
Youngblood?  Had she whispered a warning of some sort into
the ear of the sport and gambler?  If so, did it concern
him--Chicago Charlie?  Had she, then, recognized Daisy
Malcomb that morning, and known the detective when he again
sought the building?

These wild fancies, flying quickly through his mind,
seemed preposterous.  Nevertheless, Chicago Charlie was so
wrought upon by them that he resolved to shadow the man,
when the latter should leave the building, and see what
would result therefrom.

Youngblood did not remain in the building a great while
after that.  Most of those who had been interested in the
dances had gone, and Youngblood followed them.

Chicago Charlie also got up from his corner and strolled
out.

He caught a glimpse of Youngblood, as the latter turned
into Midway Plaisance, and proceeded to dog his steps, as
the sport walked slowly down the thoroughfare.

Youngblood took a car of the Illinois Central back to the
city, and the detective climbed into the coach just back of
the one occupied by the sport.

As the trains were crowded, it was not difficult to do
this without attracting Youngblood's attention.

Every now and then the sport glanced keenly into the
faces of the passengers about him, as the train rattled
swiftly on its way toward the city, but evidently not seeing
the one for whom he appeared to be looking, he abandoned
these furtive surveys after a time.

He got off on State street, and walked west toward the
river.

Probably fearing he was being followed, he halted, after
walking a block or two, and took a horse car.

The delay gave the detective time to make some changes in
his appearance.  He had long before abandoned his
policeman's uniform, as being unfitted to the character of
the work he expected to do, and wore now an ordinary
business suit.

He stepped into a corner, where the shadows from a stone
stairway fell protectingly; and, turning his coat wrong-side
out and adding to his face a set of chin whiskers and a pair
of glasses, he emerged and walked on again, resolved to take
the car that Youngblood was manifestly waiting for.

The turned coat--having been made with a lining of black
coat cloth, so that it was really a black coat, instead of a
light one, when it was turned--made the disguise complete.

Taking the opposite side of the street, he stopped at the
crossing; and, when the car came along, he climbed into the
seat within touch of Youngblood.

The detective did not know that Youngblood was fearful of
being followed, though the indications pointed that way. 
Neither was there anything to show that the sport fancied
the detective might pursue him.  In truth, Chicago Charlie
felt pretty sure that he had not been seen by Youngblood
while they were in the Cairo building.

Notwithstanding all this, he was fully as careful as if
certain the sport knew himself to be shadowed.

That these precautions had not been taken without good
cause, the events of the night were destined to prove.

On one of the side streets leading off from Adams, in
what might appropriately be termed the Bowery of Chicago,
stands a rickety, old building, several stories high which
has long had an evil reputation.

Youngblood, having dropped off the car at the junction,
approached and entered the building by a side entrance--the
shadower not far away.

No lights shone from it, which was a suspicious thing in
itself.  Neither was there any indication that it was
occupied.  It seemed to have been given over to neglect and
decay.

Stationing himself on a corner beneath a stunted tree,
Chicago Charlie closely watched this building for a number
of minutes.  Nothing came of it.  The house remained as
dark, as forbidding, and apparently as untenanted as before.

He crossed the street, avoiding as much as possible the
glare of the electric lights, and, when he felt again safe
from observation, drew near and circled the old house.  He
could not entirely go around it, for on the southern side it
was joined to the other buildings, and some of these were
occupied.

However, after considerable search and much stumbling,
the shadower found a rear door.  It was securely locked, but
a window near it he succeeded in forcing, and thus gained
access to the lower part of the house.

There was a dust-coated stairway leading into the
mysterious upper regions; and this stairway Chicago Charlie
at once ascended, stepping with the lightness of a cat, lest
the timbers and boards should creak or give forth some sound
of warning.

He spent almost a half-hour in searching the second and
third floors, without finding anything to reward him, and
might have continued the useless search for a much longer
time, had not the sound of a softly-closing door caught his
ear.

It came from below; and feeling sure, now, that the man
he had been shadowing was not to be found above, he hastened
to descend.

He again heard the sound, when near the foot of the first
stairway, and caught a gleam of light as it fell through the
entrance from the street.

The detective drew back, for the form of a man was dimly
revealed.

This man closed the door after him and stepped away into
the gloom.

What little he had seen of the man's general appearance
convinced Chicago Charlie that the fellow was not
Youngblood, and with his interest now whetted to renewed
eagerness he moved stealthily after.

Contrary to his anticipations the man did not ascend
toward the upper rooms, but went downward--thus showing that
there was a stairway leading to a basement or cellar.

It was a most perilous thing to do, for another might
enter the room at any minute, but Chicago Charlie slipped to
this descending stairway and, after intently hearkening,
noiselessly descended.

A gleam of light came to him, proving that the way led to
an illuminated underground apartment.  And he heard voices,
too, as he proceeded onward.

On reaching the bottom of the stairway, he perceived that
it would be impossible to enter this apartment without
discovery.  A half-dozen men were grouped about a table in
the further end of the room, on which a light was burning. 
All were heavily masked.  And though detached words and
sentences floated to him now and then with much
distinctness, he could recognize no voice but Youngblood's.

From what he heard, it was plain others were expected;
and, not wishing to be caught between two fires, he cast
about for a hiding-place.

The only one that offered was the dark corner between the
wall and the half-open door.  It was not the sort of
hiding-place Chicago Charlie would have chosen, but it was
the best to be had, and he slipped into it--just in time,
too, for there were voices in the room above, and the sound
of a footstep came from the head of the stairs.

Crouching in breathless suspense behind the door, with
every nerve strained to its fullest, resolved and ready to
fight or fly as occasion demanded, the young detective
waited the descent of the new-comers.

The light coming from the basement aided in screening
him, for it illuminated the stairway, thus throwing the
corner into still deeper gloom; and the men passed by
without dreaming that any one was thus near.

A sense of relief came to the daring shadower when this
ordeal was ended; and he was shifting about in his place of
concealment, seeking a point where he might see as well as
hear, when the door closed from within, leaving him
crouching there without any concealment save the intense
gloom that instantly prevailed.

He sought the keyhole, however, and kneeling on the damp
stones applied an eye to the small aperture, and looked into
the basement.

Youngblood, who had arisen, was rapping for order.

He did not speak until attention had been fully accorded
him.

Then he said, very quietly and firmly:

"The Lakeside League will now come to order. 
Sergeant-at-arms, satisfy yourself that the stairway and
building are clear, and that all present are entitled to
remain!"

CHAPTER VIII. THE LAKESIDE LEAGUE.

CHICAGO CHARLIE, seeing that this order was to be executed
with considerable literalness, scudded up the stairway like
a rat in a trap.

The sergeant-at-arms followed swiftly, peering into the
gloom around the head of the stairway, and then walking on
toward the entrance.  But, he did not see the detective, who
was standing within less than ten steps, securely screened
by the thick shadows.

No doubt the sergeant-at-arms had thus obeyed the order
of his chief many times, and had become careless through a
feeling of safety.  At any rate he came back in a few
seconds; and, returning to the basement, reported that all
was as it should be.

Chicago Charlie heard the report, for his eye was again
at the keyhole and his gaze sweeping the interior of the
underground room.

He was much puzzled by what he saw and heard.  The city
was filled with secret orders and lodges of all kinds,
wherein mysterious rites and ceremonies were nightly
performed.  Men who were only plain clerks and artisans in
the prosaic walks of common life, became in these
organizations Grand Key Holders of the Inner Temple and Sir
Knights of the Ancient Order of Homo.

Chicago Charlie, in his many-sided studies of human
nature, had often remarked how prone are men to rush into
societies of this character; and so, when one of the men in
the basement arose and respectfully addressed the chief as
"Liege and Loyal Lord of the Lakeside Leaguers," he was more
than half convinced that the meeting was only the gathering
of an ordinary lodge.

Nevertheless, having gone so far, he was resolved to see
the thing to the end, not knowing what might result.  The
fact that the men were masked amounted to nothing, for
masking in these secret lodges he knew was not uncommon.

The one fact remained, that Colonel Solon Youngblood and
the men who usually associated with him were ordinarily not
the kind of men to seek out such a place for a meeting, if
the meeting was to be only an ordinary one.

What the men said was of no moment, though it brought
from Youngblood an explanatory reply that rooted and fixed
the detective to the floor:

"This meeting has been called, brother Leaguers, to
seriously consider our position.  We are menaced by a new
peril.  For a number of months, now, we have gone on without
danger and without interference from the police, and I need
not tell you that we have been making money.  Recently,
however, a number of our men have been shadowed.  I was
myself watched to-night, and I think followed!"

He then went on to detail how he had been warned by the
Ghawazee to be on the lookout for a man who had been at the
time staring at him, in the Cairo building.

"You cannot guess who that man is, for he has but
recently taken up special detective work.  He is becoming
known as Chicago Charlie, the Columbian Detective, and he is
likely to prove a dangerous enemy.  I can hardly fancy what
put him on our scent, but he is after us, hot and heavy, and
each man of you must be constantly on his guard."

There was nothing said by Youngblood relating to the
murder of John Malcomb, nor of how he had become acquainted
with the dancing girl of the Cairo street.  Nothing to show
that this band had ever heard of John Malcomb!

One of the men rose to a question:

"When is that next cargo of stuff expected in?"

Chicago Charlie could not hear all that was said, but
this seemed to be followed by some talk of stolen goods, of
diamonds and laces and expensive merchandise.

When he saw that the meeting was about to break up--and
it lasted less than an hour--Chicago Charlie hastily
regained the streets, and stood there awaiting the coming
forth of the men.  They emerged one by one, and quietly
dropped away in different directions to avoid observation.

When Youngblood appeared, Charlie followed him as before;
and was not a little surprised when, at a neighboring
corner, the sport crook encountered Selwyn Fisher, as if by
appointment!

They took a horse car to the business part of the city;
and then an Elevated Railway train for the World's Fair.

The detective was somewhat astonished at this course of
procedure, remembering that Solon Youngblood had come from
there so short a time before; but that he stuck close to
them, with the tenacity of a bloodhound, may be taken for
granted.

Once within the Exposition, the two turned into Midway
Plaisance and sought out the big German beer garden, where
they lounged and talked, and sipped the beer that had been
ordered, while they listened to the music furnished by the
excellent German band.

The beer garden was crowded, principally by Germans, who
were chattering away with all their national vivacity; and
Chicago Charlie, relying on the security of his disguise,
took a seat at a table near that occupied by Youngblood and
Fisher, and also called for a mug of beer.

He was pleased to note that they had no suspicion of his
identity, and were therefore not on guard against him.

He slipped along the seat as far as he could without
attracting their attention and listened closely to what they
were saying.

It was even of more interest than what he had heard in
the basement of the old building, for it concerned John
Malcomb. 

"There can't be any doubt that the officers have you
spotted, Walesey, though I am glad to say we have been able
so far to keep them traveling on the wrong scent!"

Walesey gave him a look of gratitude, though his fat
cheeks shook with the terror which possessed him.

"It was a deuced unfortunate thing that you happened to
be playing cards with Malcomb in his room that night!  But
for that, no one would have thought of you.  And then, you
see, you foolishly volunteered that story about the offer to
bet and the quarrel, and told how Malcomb flew into a huffy
rage and ordered you out of the room."

"Hi was ha fool!" Fisher groaned, sinking back into his
chair and gulping down great quantities of the beer.  "Hi
guess Hi 'aven't sense henough to keep my 'ead hout of
danger!"

"You ought to congratulate yourself, then, that you have
friends to look out for you!  I was just going to tell you
how I disposed of that last fellow.  He fancied he had got
together enough facts to warrant your arrest, and he came up
to my room looking for you.

"'See here!' I said.  'Walesey don't know any more about
who killed John Malcomb than you do, and that is precious
little.  You think you've got facts, though you haven't; but
I suppose you'll go right on and arrest the poor devil,
anyway?'

"Well, he said that was his intention, and nothing I
could say would cause him to abandon it.

"Finally I says:

"'Look here, now!  What will it be worth to you to drop
this thing?  Fisher is an innocent man!  If money's any
object to you, perhaps we can arrange for you to let up on
him, and turn your talents in another direction.  Come,' I
say, 'what will it be worth to you?'

"Well, the upshot of it was that I bought him off for a
thousand dollars; and, as I couldn't find you at the time, I
took it out of my own pocket."

"Hi don't know ow Hi can hever thank you henough for
that!" Fisher declared, his tones and manner showing that
the huge draughts of beer he had been pouring into his
capacious stomach were beginning to affect his head.  He put
his hand into a pocket and pulled out a check book.

"Not at all!  Not at all!" Youngblood urged, with an
impatient gesture.  "Don't you suppose I can do that much
for a friend?  Keep your money!  What is a thousand
dollars?"

"But, I don't propose to 'ave you go paying hout your
good money for me, that way, don't you see!" Fisher
protested, laying the check book on the table before him. 
"Hi can honly thank you for the favor, but Hi can pay you
back the money; hand, bejove! Hi will!"

Thereupon he produced a fountain pen, and wrote his check
in favor of Youngblood for a thousand dollars, his fat
fingers trembling so much that he could with difficulty
control the movements of the pen.

Youngblood accepted this check, with many protestations,
but the detective observed that his fingers closed on it,
nevertheless, with a covetous grasp, and that he shoved it
down deep into his vest pocket, as if not in haste to part
with it.

These mute evidences were all lost on the befuddled
Briton, who likely would not have observed them had he been
completely himself.

Chicago Charlie saw through Youngblood's cunning scheme
at a glance; and indeed it required no shrewd mind to fathom
it.  It was merely one of the many tricks practiced by
Youngblood to get hold of Fisher's money.

There had been no such detective officer on the
Englishman's trail.  No one had ever come to Youngblood's
room, looking for Fisher to arrest him, as the sport had
averred; and, consequently, Youngblood had never paid out
any money to induce an abandonment of this object.

Solon Youngblood had simply taken advantage of the
Englishman's credulity and lied him out of a thousand
dollars.  How many thousand more had been filched from
Fisher's pockets by similar devices, Chicago Charlie could
not guess; but he was pretty sure the figures would
represent a large sum. 

Solon Youngblood was "protecting" his English friend with
a vengeance!

Chicago Charlie, though he had no great regard for the
safety or comfort of the Briton, yet disliked exceedingly to
see any one so robbed, and so resolved that he would do
something to thwart the plans of Youngblood and his fellow
harpies, if the opportunity presented.  Just now, though, he
had other and more important work.

The question again rose strongly in his mind, as he sat
there straining his ears to catch the talk wafted from the
other table, of whether or not Walesey had knowledge, guilty
or otherwise, of who killed John Malcomb?

The detective was still of the belief that the Englishman
was not himself the murderer, though the talk just caught
might lead to the inference that Fisher knew something of
it--more than he had confessed at the time of the inquest.

There seemed no way of getting at the facts in the case,
at any rate, and so the detective continued his watch,
mentally jotting down all he saw and heard of a suspicious
character.

It was very late when the two left the table.  The
Exposition grounds were ready to be closed.  Midway
Plaisance had emptied itself of its crowding throngs.  Only
here and there was a man to be seen--some belated sightseer,
who had overstayed.

Youngblood and Fisher made their way out of the beer
garden of "The German Village," and apparently turned down
the street toward the entrance.  The detective delayed a
little while, to avoid attention on their part, for the
security given by numbers of people was now taken away, and
he realized he must be circumspect.

What was his astonishment, on reaching the street, to
find that Youngblood and the Englishman had disappeared!  He
could see them nowhere, though the lights ought to have made
them visible in the then deserted condition of the
thoroughfare.

Somewhat startled by this strange disappearance, and
anxious lest they should elude him, he hurried along,
looking everywhere for some signs of the missing men.

CHAPTER IX. A MODERN DANIEL.
 
THE COLUMBIAN Detective was destined to a rude awakening
from the secure belief that all his movements of the night
had passed unobserved.  He was to discover that the man he
had set out to track was as wide-awake as any detective
officer that ever followed a criminal.

Passing the Javanese village, there came sounds that
momentarily drew his attention.  He was standing at the
moment where the light was not of the best.  Then there fell
on his ears the quick patter of nimble feet, and, almost
before he was aware of it, a number of dark-visaged men
leaped on him from the darkness and bore him to the earth.

He would have uttered a cry, but for the fact that a
heavy cloth of some stifling texture had been thrown over
his head at the moment of the attack and he was unable to
call out.

He fought with desperation, struggling vainly to throw
aside the cloth and free himself, when he was struck into
insensibility by a heavy blow on the head.

The slight sounds made by the scuffle had drawn the
attention of a watchman, but when that officer came hurrying
in that direction all was as still as midnight about the
scene of the combat!

The Javanese village lifted its queer roofs and turrets
in the faint moonlight, and seemed slumbering as peacefully
as if naught had occurred to disturb the serenity of its
repose. 

Who the dark-visaged men were it would have been
difficult at the time to say.  Only for the apparent fact
that the peaceful Javanese could have no motive for the
commission of such an act, they might have been thought the
perpetrators of it.

Perhaps the place had been selected in the hope that they
would be so accused, if the detective escaped and felt
disposed to lay charges against any one.

The guardian of the peace of the place returned to his
post of observation, a considerable distance away, and then
a dark form showed itself in a shadowy corner where it had
been lurking.  Another came forth at the same moment, and a
sifting moonbeam showed between them the white face of
Chicago Charlie upturned toward the sky.

The other members of the assailing party had vanished,
seemingly with as much mysteriousness and celerity as they
had appeared.

When quite sure the attention of the guard was drawn in
another direction, these two men lifted the unconscious form
of the detective and bore it away from the spot.

There was little enough chance for them to have done this
without being observed, only that they selected a time when
the guard had turned on them his back and was slowly walking
away.  Satisfied that all was right at the eastern end of
the Midway, he was setting out to walk to the western end;
and after him, as he thus advanced, crept the crouching
forms of the two men, with the body of the officer between
them.

When they had gained the vicinity of the big building
occupied by the Hagenbeck Animal Show, they put the officer
down, and one of them crept away as if on a tour of
inspection.

He was back in a short time, and again they moved forward
with their burden.

The long street was now apparently wrapped in slumber. 
The lights seemed to wink dimly and sleepily.  The last
visitor had departed and the gates of the great Exposition
had been closed for the night.  Should the watchman not turn
back, there was little chance that the men would be seen.

They were as stealthy as a pair of panthers in their
movements, and, whenever a light shone from any of the
buildings, or there was a suspicious sound, they crept with
their burden into the shadows lying heavily along the walls,
and there waited until feeling that it would be safe to
proceed.

They apparently had no fear that the detective would
immediately come out of his unconscious state; and, even if
he had done so, he would still have been unable to cry out,
for the headcloth had not been removed.

But he lay so limply that any one might well have been
deceived into thinking him dead.

Approaching now the big building containing the animal
show, they pressed close up to it; and, finding a side
entrance, which in some manner they managed to open, they
crawled through, dragging the unconscious man after them.

After much search, for they seemed not thoroughly
familiar with the place, they found a stairway that led them
to the rooms above; hurrying on and not halting until they
were in the vicinity of some of the big cages.

For a moment a lamp streamed across their faces, which
were wet with sweat.  Had any one been there to see, the
faces would have been revealed as dark and
desperate-looking;--not the faces of Americans, certainly.

It would have puzzled the keenest detective in Chicago to
have given a plausible reason for this attack, by these men,
on the Columbian Detective.  Surely these fellows could have
had no connection with Solon Youngblood and the Lakeside
Leaguers, nor with any of the parties whom it was the desire
of Chicago Charlie to ferret out.

One of the men, who was as fearless as a lion, in his
way, approached the great cage containing the lions, whose
roarings and scufflings had been so often witnessed from the
street; and, removing the bar that held the door securely in
place, looked in.

He was greeted by a low growl from one of the aroused
lions.  He paid no heed to it, however, but picking up the
detective in his strong arms, he removed the cloth and
hurled him by main force into the lions' den.

When he had done this, he closed the door as quickly,
shot the bar into place, and the two men scudded away as
fast as they could, leaving the imperiled officer alone with
this new danger.

Doubtless they reasoned that he would be torn in pieces
by the fierce brutes; probably mangled beyond recognition;
and there would be no witness, therefore, to the dark deed
that night committed.  It would be the talk of the town for
a few days, would absorb the attention of the newspapers and
the public, be a ten days' sensation, and then be forgotten.

Almost immediately a series of fierce growls, which grew
into angry roars, filled the ponderous cage and rumbled
ominously through the rooms.

Then a big, black-maned brute got on his feet and
shambled lazily forward from his corner; emitted a hoarse
sound from his cavernous throat, and showed his yellow teeth
in a wrathful way.  He lashed his tail from side to side, as
he approached the unconscious man with catlike softness.

The moonlight, streaming from without through the bars,
gave to the scene a ghastly vividness.

The other lions watched, crouchingly and uneasily.  The
roars had subsided, and it might readily have been fancied
they were awaiting in breathless suspense the result of the
investigations of the black-maned monarch from the African
jungles.

It was a most fortunate thing for the unconscious
detective, lying thus in peril of his life, that the club
which had knocked him senseless had not abraded the skin. 
There was no smell nor taint of blood on his person.  He
seemed more like a man lying asleep, with his face turned
toward the moonlight.

The lion appeared to hesitate.  He revealed his teeth
again, as if he meant to pounce on the man, but closed the
heavy jaws and contented himself with sniffing at the
detective's face and clothing.  Then, squatting flat on his
belly, he gave the man a playful tap with one big paw, much
as a cat taps at a mouse in play.  When this failed to
arouse the man, he got up, sniffed him over again; and then
returned yawningly and lazily to his corner, from whence he
watched the prostrate form with his big, staring, yellow
eyes.

The other lions likewise kept their gaze fixed on the man
in mute anticipation, but remained sluggishly in their
places.  Having been fed but an hour or two before, they
were lethargic and sleepy.

Their eyes were half-closed, their heavy heads resting on
their paws, when a groan broke from the pallid lips of the
detective, and he moved.  Instantly they were alert and
growling ominously.

Other groans and other movements of the limbs and body
followed, the aroused beasts watching these developments
with keen intentness.

Then Charlie came back from the land of clouds and
shadow; and with a sigh of pain stared about and endeavored
to situp.

The motion was greeted by a deep-voiced roar, which had
the immediate effect of restoring him to full consciousness.

He was bewildered by what he saw, and for a time could
not tell where he was or recall the last acts of his
conscious existence. 

Then the almost deserted street came back to him, as he
had last seen it, and with it the memory of those pattering
feet.  He started up again, when the strong recollection of
the struggle near the Javanese village returned and the pain
in his head told him how the struggle had terminated.

The rumbling roars of the lions were increasing in
volume, and with his faculties once more clear he recognized
his position.

The sifting moonlight rendered the interior of the cage
distinctly visible and threw the threatening lions in strong
relief.

Their angry attitude warned him of the necessity of
caution; and a deep sense of terror, such as he had seldom
felt, swept over him.  To be thrown thus to savage beasts
was a most horrible thing; and, in anticipation, he felt
those gleaming, yellow teeth rending his flesh.

He drew back in fear, crowding closely against the bars. 
He would have called out, but a dread of the consequences
held him silent.  He had often seen those lions, in his walk
up and down Midway Plaisance, but had never until then given
them close attention.

However, he recalled how he had seen the keeper stalk
into their midst, holding them at bay by the mere waving of
a stick; and how they had crouchingly and instantly obeyed
this keeper's commands.

The recollection gave him courage.  He felt that he might
accomplish what another man could, even though not a
professional lion-trainer.

He was resolved to escape from the cage, and he was
anxious to do it without attracting attention.

If he could reappear on the street, without a single
scratch as a witness of what he had undergone, he felt it
would be truly a victory.  Besides, he was not willing that
his name should be paraded in the papers, in the way he knew
it would be, if the reporters got hold of the story.

Lifting himself a little, he looked about for the door
through which he knew he had been thrust.  It was within
reach of his hand, and by a little further lifting of his
body he might touch the heavy bar holding it in place.

The lions were still growling and shifting uneasily, but
he drew himself half-erect and faced them with so stern a
mien that they remained in their places, instead of leaping
at him as he feared they would.

He then reached up and quietly slipped back the bar,
drawing his body slowly toward the door, but keeping his
eyes fixed on the threatening brutes.

Their uneasiness increased and their growls now welled in
an angry chorus.  Only the fierceness of his attitude seemed
to keep them from springing on him.

He continued the slow movement of his body until he had
brought his back against the door.  Then, summoning all his
energies, he quickly thrust the door open and sprung
backward out of the cage.

The black maned brute leaped up with a roar that shook
the building, and dashed quickly forward, his jaws widely
distended.  But his expected prey had escaped him!  The door
swung to with a rattling clang; and, the big bolt having
been shot into place, the black-maned monarch did nothing
but vainly dash his nose against the bars.

Hoarse roar on roar resounded, and the lions, with their
angry bounds, shook the big cage from center to
circumference.

Charlie heard a wrathful voice exclaiming, from another
room:

"Blast them infernal lions!  They're always fighting. 
They'll kill each other some of these nights."

The detective knew the voice was that of the keeper, who
had been aroused from his slumber by the uproar, but he
knew, too, that the keeper had no true idea of the cause of
this outbreak among the big beasts.

So he scudded hurriedly to the stairway, down which he
slipped with as much lightness and ease as was possible.

The outer entrance had been left unlocked by the villains
who had borne the detective into the building, and Charlie
had no trouble in making an exit.

On reaching the street he halted for a moment, listening
anxiously.  A cold perspiration bathed his body, and he
realized that he was trembling as with an ague.  He had been
cool enough and courageous enough during the period of that
trying ordeal.  Now he felt faint and giddy, and grasped the
wall to keep from falling.

No sounds came to show that the keeper had risen from his
bed; and the growls of the lions were subsiding.

Satisfied that he had escaped unobserved, and thankful
for his wonderful preservation, the detective slipped away
through the deserted street, wondering how he was to get out
of the Exposition grounds.

He was not only weak and sick, but he was stiff and sore,
and his head ached terribly.  He placed a hand to his head. 
The blow had been a severe one, as shown by the large
prominence it had produced.  He was so faint that he felt
compelled to stop now and then and rest; but he finally
reached the grounds of the Exposition proper; and, seeing no
one near, scaled the high board wall, and set out in the
direction of the city.

CHAPTER X.  WORLD'S FAIR WILLIE.

"ROBINSON CRUSOE had a cat;
   Poor old Robinson Crusoe!
   He kept it in the top of his hat;--
   Poor old Robinson Crusoe!"

Chicago Charlie, having caught a train at one of the
outlying stations and thus reached the city, heard these
nonsensical words, as he hurried along the street in the
vicinity of the boat landing.

He thought he recognized the voice, and, quickening his
footsteps, soon overhauled the singer.

It proved to be a shabbily-dressed boy, but one who had a
peculiarly bright face, though the features were very dark. 
Although not more than fifteen years of age, there was in
his manner the assertive alertness of experienced manhood. 
Such boys as he, cast adrift in the whirlpool of a great
city, and who must sink or swim aided only by their own
exertions, develop prematurely.

"Whither bound?" Clingstone called out, in cheery tone.

The lad came to a halt, under a blinking electric light,
and stared curiously at his accoster.

It was plain he did not recognize the detective, though
the latter was well known to him.  He had not seen Charlie
since the latter had doffed his policeman's garb.

The detective swept aside the disguising beard and again
spoke, at the same time coming still nearer.

"What a lark!" the boy cried.  "Say, you skeered me!  I
see you comin' along there and heard you a-hollerin'; and
says I to myself: 'Wonder now what the duffer's up to?' 
Hadn't any idee it was you!"

"What are you doing now?" Clingstone questioned.

"Workin' the World's Fair."

"Like all the rest of 'em, eh?"

"You bet!  Say, I've got the jolliest layout, down there! 
I've got the sellin' of papers in Midway.  Made nighabout
two dollars to-day!  What's your lay?"

The detective laughed.

"Oh, you needn't grin!  I know you're up to something, or
you wouldn't be *rigged up in that style.*  Hain't a cop any
more, I reckon?  Git bounced off the force?"

"We'll talk about that as we go along," said Clingstone,
lowering his voice, as an example for the boy to do the
same.  "You haven't told me where you are going."

"Jist now I'm going home to look after the Infant Wonder.
Then I'm going 'round to the newspaper offices and get my
papers, fer I reckon the first edition is out now; and then
you'll see me sliding for the Exposish, about daylight.  I'm
World's Fair Willie, now, you see, and I've got to hump
myself, to keep up with the rush of biz!"

"Not Billy Stubbs any longer?"

"Only to old friends like you.  To all my new and swell
acquaintances I'm Wide-awake Willie of the World's Fair! 
See?"

The boy was rattling on at this gait, as they turned into
a street leading westward from the lake.

The horse cars were already running, early as was the
hour;--in fact they seemed to run all night--and Charlie,
grasping the boy by the shoulder, led, or rather pushed him
toward one.

"We'll get home quicker this way!" was his explanation. 
"I want to have a long talk with you, and I haven't any time
to spare.  I've got to get home myself, and get to bed, or
I'll be down sick.  I've been out all night, and my head
aches fit to split.  I think you can do some work for me;
like you did once before, you remember?"

The boy looked at him inquiringly, winked to show that he
understood him; and then the two climbed into the car.

They got off at Jefferson, and in a tenement house they
found the home of the boy who had called himself World's
Fair Willie. 

It was a little room on the fourth floor, not much bigger
than a large dry goods box; and to it they painfully toiled
up several flights of creaking stairs.

Billy Stubbs pushed the door open, and, searching out a
piece of candle from a corner, lighted it and set it on a
low table.  Then he pointed to a stool.

"Set down and make yourself to home.  These here
apartments ain't very big, and they're a little hard to git
at, but they're cozy.  This room an' that there closet there
is what I calls my suite."

On a low bed in a corner of the little room a child was
sleeping;--a chubby-faced little fellow, with the
bed-clothing half kicked off of him, and one plump arm
thrown above his head.

"The Wonder is doing all right, I see!" and Billy
tip-toed softly to the bed and looked into the sleeping
face.  "You've no idea how that chap grows!  It's a miracle! 
He was all skin an' bones when I took hold of him and made a
hospital out of myself, and now he's as fat as the big woman
in the side show.  I've give him another name!  You know I
called him Tommy; but that was too common for a kid like
him--an',--bein' it's the World's Fair year--I throwed Tommy
aside as no good, 'ceptin' fer ordinary brats, an'
christened him Christopher Columbus!"

"Christopher Columbus Stubbs!" and the detective nodded
approvingly.

"I 'lowed mebbe the name 'u'd be a mascot.  Mebbe he'll
turn out a discoverer, and discover who his daddy and mammy
is.  Don't want 'im to do it in a hurry, though, for I've
jist froze to him; an' the way he's tuck to me is good to
see.  He calls me 'Billy,' jist like he was growed up; an'
when I told him t'other day that I was World's Fair Willie,
he shook his yellow head, an' said: 'No!  Dess Billy!'  Oh!
he's a good 'un."

So pleasant were these reminiscences that the boy--who
was but a waif himself--gave an awkward step of a dance,
then thrust his hands into his pockets and whistled a bar
from the latest opera.

"He's doing finely!" Chicago Charlie admiringly
commented.

"What was it you wanted of me?" and the boy turned from
those interesting disclosures, remembering that Charlie had
stated his time was limited.

"You recollect the work you did for me once?"

"Shadowing the tough that hung around Polk street
station?"

"Yes.  I've got some more work of the kind for you.  As
you see, by my change of clothing, I'm not on the regular
force, just now.  I've gone into a bit of special work."

"Private detective biz?"

"Not exactly.  I've been assigned to run down a certain
case, by the inspector!"

"Cricky!"

The boy drew up his knees, and looked earnestly over them
at his visitor.

Then a shade darkened his face.

"'Fraid I can't do it, after all!  There's that World's
Fair business.  I've got a route there that I ought to
keep!"

"You can keep it.  It's because you have that route that
I think you can be of use to me."

"String yer narrative, then!" and the boy bobbed his head
"Say yer say; an' I'm with ye, if it's something I kin do."

"You know the Cairo street!"

"Do I know the Infant Wonder?  Ask me something easy!"

"There's a girl in that street--one of the dancing
girls--that I want you to shadow for me.  She's the darkest
one, and the best-looking one.  She wears a silver girdle,
and has a gold crescent set in her hair just above her
forehead.  She's the only one dressed just that way."

"Oh! I've seen her!" Billy announced, with great
eagerness.  "You see I've got the run of everything, with
this newspaper lay, and there ain't many things in Midway
that I hain't seen!"

"I want you to keep your eyes on her, every minute you
can spare from your work.  And you must do it in a way that
she will suspect nothing.  Do you think you can?"

"Yep!" and the boy drew his knees still higher and rested
his chin on them.  "I kin try as hard as the next feller! 
Is that all you want me to do?"

"I think you will find it quite enough.  Of course you've
got to use your wits.  For instance, should it seem
necessary at any time to watch any one else--some one who
has said something or had a talk with her to arouse your
suspicion--you are to do so."

The boy's expressive face showed that he comprehended.

"Same instructions as what you give me before!" and he
put down his knees and laughed lightly.

Then his countenance grew serious.

"I didn't have the Infant Wonder with me then!  That
there chap's got to be looked after.  Now the question is
how am I to look after him and sell newspapers and do the
shadder trick?"

He brightened instantly, however, and went on:

"There's the kindergarten.  I'd fergot about that.  I've
been leavin' him there every day, same as the other hard
workin' mothers round here has been a-leavin' of their kids. 
But I don't know how it would be about nights.  They told me
when I first went there that they wouldn't on no account
keep the Infant Wonder after six o'clock in the evenin', and
that I'd got to hustle myself back at that time no matter
what happened.  The old woman's pretty vinegary at times,
and I don't know but she'd 'a' pitched Christopher Columbus
into the streets.  I didn't never give her the chance!"

The child on the bed stirred uneasily, as if this talk
awoke in his slumbering mind unpleasant memories.

Charlie looked at his watch.  The gray dawn was showing
through the dirty east window, the only window in the room.

"It's time for you to be seeing about your papers. 
Christopher Columbus is doing all right and will probably
sleep like a top for three or four hours yet.  I'll stay
with him, though, for I don't feel like doing anything.  I
was never more beat out in my life.  When you come back
we'll go down to the kindergarten and see what arrangements
we can make.  It must be fixed so that you can have your
whole time to give to this work, if necessary."

Billy Stubbs was manifestly delighted.  "All right," he
declared.  "That suits me to a dot."

Then he picked up his hat, tiptoed quietly to the
stairway, and Chicago Charlie heard him bounding and leaping
on his way down to the street.

"I couldn't have found a better ally," the detective
mused putting his hand to his paining head.  "My! how that
lump hurts."

Then he stretched himself on the floor; and in a few
minutes was sleeping as soundly as was the Infant Wonder.

CHAPTER XI. THE NEWSBOY AS A SHADOWER

WHEN CHRISTOPHER Columbus Stubbs awoke that morning and
looked drowsily about him, he was much surprised to find a
man sleeping on the floor, instead of his newsboy guardian.

He immediately began to cry; and, this arousing the
detective, the two might have been seen the next instant
sitting bolt upright, staring at each other and digging at
their eyes. 

"Hello, Infant Wonder!" the detective laughingly called
out.  "You've tuned up rather early.  Spoiled my nap, too!"

The child continuing to cry, he went over to the bed, and
soon had the little fellow snuggling contentedly in his
arms.

Billy Stubbs found them thus, a few minutes later, and
expressed his approval in his usual boyish, boisterous
fashion.

When the newsboy had told all he had to tell of his
morning's experiences, the three left the room, obtained a
breakfast at the nearest restaurant at the detective's
expense, and then took their way leisurely toward the
kindergarten, which was only a few blocks distant.

It was a raw, disagreeable morning.  The wind blustered
around the corners, the clouds hung loweringly, and there
was threat of rain.  But in the eyes of the Infant Wonder,
who toddled unsteadily between the two, the shabby street
and the threatening heavens were only vistas opening into
wonderland.

Christopher Columbus could talk, so Billy alleged, but it
must have been in some foreign language, for Chicago Charlie
could scarcely understand a word of his prattle.  The
kindergarten, which had been established and was run by the
Society for the Cultivation of Christian Charity and the
Amelioration of the Condition of Working Women--the Alphabet
Society, as Billy Stubbs called it, because of its
interminable initials--the S.C.C.C.A.C.W.W.--was located in
a dingy, brown house, set some distance back from the
street, and which was reached by a double flight of stairs.

A thin, nervous woman, with a cast in one eye, and who
possessed a buzz-saw voice not at all calculated to soothe a
scared infant, responded to their pull at the bell.

She frowned, when she saw that a stranger accompanied
Billy and the Infant Wonder.

The latter began to cry to return to the street.  Whether
this was the effect of her chilling presence and memories of
unpleasant days spent there, Chicago Charlie could not tell.

He had doffed his hat, when she appeared, and now began
to explain why he had called.

"We couldn't think of such a thing," she asserted, with
some asperity.  "It's enough to worry with the children
through the daytime!"

But after some further conversation, in which the
detective offered her ten times what she received for
keeping a child throughout the daylight hours, the Infant
Wonder was admitted into the kindergarten under the new
stipulations:--which were, that Christopher Columbus Stubbs
was to be kept there daily from sun to sun, excepting at
such times as Billy should wish it otherwise.

When the detective and Billy were again in the street,
the boy began a voluminous rehearsal of how he had found the
Infant Wonder stumbling about, one dark night, in dangerous
proximity to the lake; of how he had taken him home; and of
how, when he could not, by advertising and otherwise, gain
any clue to the child's parentage, he had resolved to adopt
the pretty little fellow and "turn himself into a hospital."

"Why didn't you get the assistance of the police?"
Chicago Charlie queried.

"And didn't I?  And what good did it do?  They was
a-goin' fer to send him to some institution er other; and
thinks I, 'if they're a-goin' to do that, I'm a better
institution than they'll find!' an so I jist kep' him."

The boy and the detective officer separated, almost as
soon as this marvelous story was told, each going their
different ways.  Chicago Charlie to his room, in search of
needed rest, and Billy Stubbs back to the World's Fair, to
enter on his new mission. 

Midway Plaisance was crowded that day, in spite of the
threat of a storm.  The boy was alert throughout all the
long hours, only leaving when it was time for the evening
papers.

But nothing rewarded his diligence.

That night, however, he had cause to congratulate himself
on the closeness of his watch.

He had wormed himself without observation into the Cairo
street, and was lying with nose thrust almost against the
paws of one of the big sphinxes, when he beheld the
Ghawazee, whom he had been directed to shadow, come out of
one of the buildings and walk uneasily about, as if
expecting some one.

The expected party was not long in arriving.  He was a
little fellow, almost as dark as the girl, with a feminine
slightness of form, and his tread fell as softly as that of
a tiger.

Like a flash came to the boy the thought, that here was
the real murderer!

He appeared to start up out of the ground, for Billy did
not see him come through the gate.

That the two were lovers was soon made apparent.  They
withdrew into a dark corner, as if to escape any unfriendly
gaze, and remained there for more than an hour, in close
conversation.

Then Billy saw the man kiss the Ghawazee, as he arose to
go, and saw her steal back through the doorway.

"I reckon I'd better foller that there chap!" the
watching newsboy observed.  "No use hanging'round this bit
of Egypt all night!  I'll not git to see the girl ag'in;
that's certain."

When the man slipped out through the gate into Midway,
Billy was close at his heels, for the hour was so late that,
though the gate had not been closed and locked, the
gatekeeper had relaxed his vigilance.

Hurrying to the west end of the thoroughfare, the man
sought a concealed point, and scaled the fence, exhibiting
remarkable agility.

Not to be outdone, Billy Stubbs imitated his example,
scrambling over the high wall in some fashion, and then
pursued the little man through the vacant lots that lay
thereabout.

It did not take Billy Stubbs long to tell that the fellow
was heading for the Gypsy camp, and he knew then that the
little man was a Gypsy and a member of the band camped
there.

The fact that the Gypsy had thus met the dancing girl
struck the boy shadower as somewhat strange, but he gave it
little heed at the time, being fully occupied with the task
in hand.

When the Gypsy entered one of the tents, he was greeted
by a grumbling voice.  Billy had never heard it before, but
it was the voice of Gypsy Nell, the fortune-teller.

"Ye'r prancin' 'round turrible late to-night, Zelna
Magruder!" the voice grumbled.  "Why can't you come in like
you ought, and let them that wants to sleep, sleep?"

Billy had sneaked close up to the tent, and could readily
hear every word.

"Business, Nell!  Do you think there's nothin' to do but
set around an' tell fortunes?"

His tones were squeaky and thin, and reminded Billy of
the squeal of a rat.

"The business you're into will hang you one o' these
days.  You'll find I'm a true fortune-teller in that!  What
are you up to, anyway?  What in the world, Zel, air you
scratchin' at?"

"I'm gittin' my heavy coat!" he growled back, irritated
by her nagging.  "I've got to go out on the lake to-night,
and it looks dark enough to blow."

"Better put it off!" she urged, and Billy could tell that
she had arisen.

"If I'm bound to be hung, as you say, there's no danger
of my drowning!"

"What do you have to go out fer?" she whined.

"Oh! bother!  Don't ask me sech questions!  You're allus
pestering me.  You ought to know.  There's a cargo of stuff
comin' in, an' the off'cers have got scent of it.  I've got
to warn the boys."

"You'd better pull out of that league business, Zel
Magruder!  If ye don't, you'll wish, one o' these days, you
had.  I don' no as I'll care, though!"

"Go to thunder!" was his ungracious exclamation.  "When I
want yer advice I'll ask it."

He had found his coat and instantly quitted the tent, his
form being revealed as he passed through the entrance, in
the fan of light from the lamp he had lit.

Billy, still crouching and watching, saw the crone come
to the door and shake her fist at the darkness after him.

"You're an evil hound, Zel Magruder, and I'll be even
with you yit!  Mind my word!"

Then she went back and blew out the lamp, and Billy
Stubbs hurried away on the trail of the receding Gypsy.

CHAPTER XII. FIGHTING FOR LIFE.

BILLY STUBBS permitted the oars to rest in the rowlocks, and
bent forward to listen.  About him the night winds sung,
blowing fresh and strong toward the land.  The blackness of
darkness was over him.  Behind him, lights gleamed from many
of the houses, late as was the hour.  Before him and beneath
him rolled the waters of Lake Michigan, the waves tossing
now and then into white crests.

Billy Stubbs had followed Zel Magruder to the lake front,
and had there seen him enter a boat and pull out into the
lake.

He remembered what he had heard Magruder say to the
Gypsy woman!

"There's a cargo of stuff comin' in, an' the officers
have got scent of it.  I've got to warn the boys!"

Who those "boys" were and what it all meant the newsboy
was determined to know.  It might be a matter of importance
to Detective Charlie, and it might not; but, whatever it
was, he felt that it was his business to find out.

There had been another boat lying in the water, close to
the one Magruder had taken; and Billy finding little trouble
in releasing the painter, had climbed cautiously into it,
and now was paddling out into the lake after the Gypsy.

It seemed rather a reckless thing, in view of the
darkness and the state of the weather.  But Billy Stubbs,
when his detective blood was up, was given to doing reckless
things.

Bending forward now on his oars, he heard the "thump
thump" of the oars in the Gypsy's boat; and getting his
bearings anew from the sound, he also rowed on, endeavoring
to keep a direct course by watching the lights in the
houses.

Twice the noise of the Gypsy's rowing ceased in that
unaccountable manner, each time, forcing Billy to await the
renewal of the strokes.

Fancying the sounds of his own oars might have been heard
by Magruder and the latter thus warned, he became
exceedingly cautious in his movements, lifting and dipping
the oars with great care.

Magruder was heading down the lake toward the White City,
he having taken to the water more than half a mile above the
northern limit of the Exposition grounds.  He had swept far
out in the lake and was almost in the track daily and
nightly pursued by the boat of the World's Fair Steamship
Company.

When almost opposite the big brick ship, erected and
armed to represent a regular U.S. Line of Battle Ship, Billy
Stubbs became again aware that the sounds of Magruder's
rowing had ceased.

He lay to on his oars, as he had done before, listening
intently for some renewal of the noise to guide him.

A minute; two minutes; five minutes, passed away; and the
silence of the night and darkness continued to brood over
the waters.

The flashing of lights from the Exposition buildings came
now and then, but they served only to render the darkness
seemingly more intense.

For some time Billy had known that the wind was
increasing in violence and that the waves were running
higher.  There was not enough of a "blow," however, to give
him any uneasiness on that account.  He could handle a boat
fairly well, and felt at home on the water.

But he became anxious as the minutes slipped by and no
sounds came to tell him that the Gypsy's boat was anywhere
near.

When nearly ten minutes had passed, and still there came
nothing to indicate the Gypsy's near presence, the boy
pulled slowly and quietly forward.

He was now thoroughly alarmed, believing that Magruder
had given him the slip and that all his work of the night
was thus to come to naught.

But he had not pulled fifty yards when he was undeceived.

Magruder's boat loomed out of the darkness, in which it
had been hidden, and the Gypsy, pulling at the oars, quickly
laid it alongside.

"Curse you, you spy!" came the low words; and at the same
instant Billy felt one of the Gypsy's oars strike him.

He gave a low cry, for the pain of the blow stung him,
and he was thoroughly startled.

But he did not lose his presence of mind, in the face of
this unexpected peril; He grasped the oar, letting his own
drop, and clung on so tightly that Magruder could not draw
it away.

  "Curse you!" the Gypsy cried, striving to draw the oar
away.

For reply, Billy clung with the tenacity of a leech, and
the two boats, set in motion, bumped together so violently
that the occupants came near being thrown into the water.

So nearly did Billy Stubbs come to being hurled overboard
that, in order to save himself, he had to let go the oar.

As a result the boats swung apart, when the Gypsy again
lifting the blade, aimed another murderous blow at the
news-boy's head.

Billy sought vainly for the oars he had dropped.  The
shaking of the boat had loosened them from their places, and
they had slipped into the lake!  Escape by flight seemed,
therefore, hopeless.

He had deftly avoided the second blow of the Gypsy's oar
by quickly ducking his head; and when another blow was aimed
at him--for the Gypsy had again brought his boat within
reach, the boy tried to catch it as before.

With a horrible oath the Gypsy jerked it away, almost
falling out of his boat.  But at that moment Billy was
blinded by a lightning-like flash.

There was a loud report, and a pistol ball cut through
the air within an inch of his head.

Zel Magruder had grown desperate.

Billy Stubbs saw the pistol-hand lifted again, and raised
himself to leap into the lake; but before he could reach the
water the report rung out once more, sharp and clear, and
Billy Stubbs seemed to sink out of sight like a lump of
lead.

"One infernal spy out of the way, anyhow!" Magruder
growled, setting his oars in place, at the same time keenly
watching to see if the boy arose to the surface.

He observed that Billy's boat was drifting landward.  It
was but a few yards away, slowly drifting toward the shore,
but the gloom already rendered it nearly invisible.

"That last ball caught him between wind and water!" was
the heartless comment, peering still over the black, tossing
waves.  "He'll never come up till he floats up, ready for
the morgue.  I wonder who he was, anyhow?  Spies are getting
terrible thick and bold, lately.

"Well, he'll not bother me any more!"

With this, certain that Billy was done for, he bent on
the oars and pulled further out into the lake.

CHAPTER XIII A REMARKABLE LETTER.

CHICAGO CHARLIE, sitting silently in the seclusion of his
room, had much to cogitate on.

He felt nearly done up.  The wound on his head still
pained him, and he was so stiff and sore from his late
exertions that he felt scarcely able to move about.

Nevertheless, his interest quickened, when his mail was
brought in and he saw that one of the letters was from Daisy
Malcomb.

He tore it hastily open, eager to get at the contents.

As he ran down the page, his eyes dilated, his cheeks
whitened, and his breath came in gasps.

This is what he read:

"Chicago, June 7, 1893.

"Dear Charlie:--I must beg your pardon in advance, for
writing these lines, that I know will so pain you.  But,
indeed! indeed, dear Charlie! I have convinced myself that
it is the thing I ought to do.  I fear you will never
forgive me, though I shall pray for your forgiveness to my
dying day.

"I am forced to tell you that I can see you no more!  No
more!  My God! how can I write it?  But it is true.  You
must not think of trying to trace me.  It would be useless,
and I do not desire that you should.  I want you to forget
that there ever was such a miserable girl on earth.  Seek
someone else, whom you can marry happily, and forget me.

"Oh! I don't know what I am saying!  I feel that I want
you to remember me always, yes, I am even selfish enough to
want you to remain single; as I shall do.  But no!  No! 
That would not be right.  There are many girls you might
find in this city, or in other cities, much handsomer and in
every way better suited to you.  Find one; and make her
happy by marrying her;--for I am sure that whoever becomes
your wife must be a happy woman!

"And do not think of me too harshly, dear Charlie!  Do
not think me cruel and hard.  Do not think, either, that I
am driven to do this.  It is of my own free choosing.  I
cannot explain to you why I do it.  You will never know. 
But believe always that I felt it to be best for both of us.

"And, dear Charlie! should you cherish my memory, as I
shall cherish yours--do not, for Heaven's sake, do not ever
believe that I could be so wicked as to kill my own father! 
I am unworthy of you--and I know you must learn to hate me!-
-but do not, do not believe that!

"Now, good-by!--and do not try to search for me, for it
will be useless.  Good-by!  Good-by!

                    "Your unfortunate and miserable

                    "Daisy."

The ashy fingers of the strong, young Columbian Detective
shook, as he held the paper and stared at these lines.  He
could not credit his eyesight.  Surely, he felt, this must
be some horrible dream.  It could not be a reality.

Yet, he knew that those lines had been penned by Daisy
Malcomb.  This was no counterfeit of her handwriting--no
forgery.  The letters, the words, were hers.  And she had
written that way to him!  To her promised husband!  To the
man she had parted from not fifty hours before, with
embraces and loving words.

Again and again the detective ran over the lines, feeling
that there must be a mistake somewhere; that the letter must
have been written in jest, and there was an explanatory key,
if he could but find it.  But he was driven to acknowledge
that this was wholly untenable.

He did not look at the other letters that lay on the
table, mutely bidding him to read them; but took up his hat,
thrust Daisy's strange communication into his pocket, and
strode toward the door.

There he stopped and hesitated.

A glance at the mirror had shown him that his eyes were
shining unnaturally and that his face was as white as that
of a corpse.  He looked more like a dead man galvanized into
temporary activity than a man in whom the warm life currents
were still coursing.

He felt that he ought not go on the street looking like
that. 

The letter burned in his pocket.

He could not resist the temptation to look at it again.

He turned to the words, to make sure they were there:

"Do not ever believe that I could be so wicked as to kill
my own father!"

  Why had Daisy Malcomb written that?  It struck him that
here might be the clue to the secret!

Some one might have led her to think that Chicago
Charlie, in his detective search, had come on evidence
convincing him that she was the murderess!

"Good God!  Can anybody have been so base?"

The sweat of despair stood on his forehead.  He could
think of no one who could have done it;--who, even if base
enough, could have induced Daisy to give heed to it.

The position seemed so foolish that he cast it aside, and
sought for some other.

There was no explanation--there could be none! save what
appeared in the letter itself!

Daisy had bidden him an everlasting farewell, claimed
herself an unfortunate miserable girl, and assured him it
would be useless to search for her.

He was struck dumb by the overwhelming catastrophe that
had so suddenly come on him.  His fertility of resource
stood of no avail.  He felt bound, helpless, stricken unto
death.

"I will find her!" he declared, turning desperately
toward the street.  "If she is alive, I will find her, if it
takes all the years of my life!  There's some devil's work
here!  I'll find out what it is!  She must have been crazy
when she wrote that.  Crazy with despair; with grief!  Some
fiend has driven her to do that?"

Yet, when he came to sift this idea, it seemed to have as
little foundation as the exploded ones that had preceded it. 
Who was there to so frighten or influence Daisy Malcomb?  No
one!  She might, indeed, have lost her mind, and written the
letter while under the influence of derangement and
delirium!  There seemed no other explanation.

He found himself in the street, without knowing just how
he got there; and sought the nearest cab.

He had determined to visit Daisy's home, and begin his
investigations of the mystery there.

Though the cab rattled furiously through the crowded
streets--he having enjoined the driver to haste--the pace
seemed provokingly slow.

He was in a fever of impatience, and could brook no
delay, chafing under this seeming slowness like a
high-spirited horse.

He half-expected, on arriving at Malcomb's, to find the
doors closed and the shutters up.  But the house showed
every appearance of being still occupied.

Hoping that there might still be some mistake, and that
Daisy might meet and greet him as before, he dismissed the
cab and bounded up the walk.

He observed that a strange man was doing the work about
the yard, and the woman who came in answer to his ring had
also an unknown face.  The house was the same, but the
servants were not!

"Is Miss Daisy Malcomb in?" he queried, trembling in
spite of his best efforts.

The maid glanced at him wonderingly, struck by his
pallid, shaky look.

"I don't know any one by that name," she replied.  "I
just came here this morning.  Shall I inquire of the
housekeeper?"

"Send her here," he requested, catching at the door to
keep from falling, "You are quite sure Miss Malcomb isn't
here?"

The maid darted away, convinced that she had encountered
a madman; but soon returned, with the housekeeper at her
heels, who was followed by a gawking, curious servant.

It stung Charlie to have these people stare at him as if
he were some specimen in the zoo;--stung him the more, for
it told him that his agitation had loudly proclaimed itself.

"Who occupies this house, then?" he asked, when the
housekeeper assured him that no one by the name of Daisy
Malcomb was to be found there.

The answer nearly prostrated the detective:

"Colonel Solon Youngblood!"

Chicago Charlie made the housekeeper speak the name and
title again, before he could trust that he had heard aright,
then as quietly as possible, he requested to see Youngblood.

He had been told that Youngblood was at home; and,
following the housekeeper, entered the little waiting-room,
where Daisy, in the happy days gone by, had so often
welcomed him. 

The furniture was the same; and, looking at it, he found
it difficult to rid himself even yet of the idea that she
would meet him there.

But the heavy tread heard in the corridor was not that of
Daisy Malcomb; and a moment later, Solon Youngblood stood
before him.

If Youngblood knew him, he affected not to recognize him
on this occasion; but stood, as if awaiting an explanation
of the call.

"Your name is Youngblood, I believe?" the detective said
awkwardly rising, for he had never felt so ill at ease. 
"You will pardon me, I hope, when I ask how long you have
occupied this house?  I came to see a young lady who I
thought lived here, and find that a change has been made!"

"Ah! yes." And Youngblood smiled more amiably, and took
a seat.  "We only moved in here yesterday.  The property
came to me through purchase.  I have owned it for some time,
but only took possession yesterday."

"This is the house of John Malcomb?"

"It was the house of John Malcomb, before it became mine.
Malcomb, as you probably know, is dead!"

"And his daughter?"

"Well, really now, you wouldn't expect me to keep track
of people that way?  I can't tell you, sir, where she is!"

The tones were rising and testy.

"Was she not here yesterday?"

"Neither can I tell you that, sir!  She was not here when
we came in!"

"And you do not know where she is to be found?"

"I have already told you I do not!"

He frowned and shifted uneasily, as if annoyed.

"One question more, if you will allow me?"