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?"

Youngblood nodded.

"When did you buy this house?"

The new proprietor arose in evident disgust and anger.

"All such questions may be answered by inquiry at the
proper place.  To save you search, though, I will say, that
the property has been mortgaged to me for a long time, and
that shortly before his unfortunate taking off, John
Malcomb, finding he could not pay out, gave me a clear deed. 
I hope you are satisfied sir; and now I will wish you,
good-day!"

He turned back into the corridor, leaving the detective
to pick his way blindly into the street.

Instead of finding a key to the mystery, the mystery had
deepened.

CHAPTER XIV ON THE REVENUE CUTTER, ANDREW
JOHNSON.

WHEN ZEL Magruder rowed away into the thick darkness that
lay over the lake, he was firmly convinced that the boy spy
who had been following him had sunk to his death in the
black waters.  Yet Zel Magruder was a sorely mistaken man.

The whizzing bullet had sped by as harmlessly as had the
first and Billy Stubbs went into the water wholly uninjured.

He had not leaped without knowing what he was doing.  He
had seen that to remain would be to court death, for the
Gypsy's shot proved that the Gypsy meant to murder him.

Therefore, when he felt the waves curling over his head,
he closed his lips firmly, and, striking out boldly, for he
was a reasonably good swimmer--he pulled away from the
dangerous vicinity as fast as he could.

When forced to rise, he could see nothing, even after he
had freed his eyes from the water.  Sure, though, that the
Gypsy was watching for him only a few yards away, he
remained perfectly quiet; supporting himself, not without
difficulty.

Something bumped against him, and, putting out a hand, he
discovered it to be one of the oars of his boat.

This was a God-send; and he clung to it, as drowning men
are said to cling to straws.

With its aid, he found his position in the water much
easier; but he did not essay to swim, convinced that
Magruder was still within hearing distance.

Not until he heard the Gypsy's boat moving away, did he
turn his face toward the land.  Then he put forth all his
strength though his progress was slow, both owing to the
high waves and the interference of the oar, to which he
thought it best to cling. 

Suddenly there came the rattle of more oars; a number of
them this time, showing that the approaching boat was not
Magruder's.

Then a clear voice rung over the water.

It was manifestly a friendly call, and Billy answered it,
in as loud tones as he could command.

The sounds of the oars told him the course of the boat
had been shifted.  Again the voice called, and again Billy
replied.

Then the boat loomed dimly alongside, seeming gigantic
because of its illy-defined shape.

Billy shouted once more, to make his position known, and
a muscular hand reached down from the bow, and seized him by
the collar and drew him into the boat.

The newsboy was as wet as a drowned rat, but the chill
produced by his uncomfortable bath was likely to be the only
unpleasant effect of his novel adventure.

As soon as he was safe in the boat, he was sharply
questioned, and the boat's head was turned about.

Within twenty minutes thereafter he found himself on the
U S. Revenue Steamer, Andrew Johnson, then lying at anchor
near the Government exhibits, and learned that the crew of
the boat that had rescued him had belonged to the vessel.

The men of the Andy Johnson, as she was familiarly
called, had heard the shots from the Gypsy's revolver, and
thinking something must be wrong, had sent a boat's crew to
investigate the cause of the shots.

Billy had scarcely stepped on the deck of the cutter, his
face plainly revealed in the bright light, when a roar of
recognition greeted him and a bushy-bearded sailor scrambled
forward.

"Well, may I be hanged! if that ain't Billy Stubbs!  Come
here, you lively rascal!  What have you been doin' swimmin'
round out there in the lake?"

Billy had partially acquainted the boat's crew with what
had befallen him, and he proceeded to give a brief account
of his adventures to this sailor friend, Jack Rackstraw.

Before he had concluded, and while he was still dripping
wet, Rackstraw seized him by the shoulder and pushed him
toward the companion-way leading to the captain's cabin.

"Tell that to Cap'n Stebbins, will ye?  Don't go to
babblin' too much of it hyer to the crew? mums the word to
them!"

Then, pushing him in advance into the captain's presence,
Rackstraw bawled out, in a big voice!

"Beg pardon, Cap'n Stebbins! but hyer's a youngster, that
I'm well acquainted with, that's got a yarn I think you'll
like to hear!

"Spit it out, youngster!"

This last to Billy, who stood somewhat ashamed.

Stebbins was a pleasant-looking man, in a neat
uniform--his appearance nothing indicative of the sailor and
commander and fighting man that he really was--and he
questioned the boy kindly enough, taking no apparent notice
of the streams of water that trickled from Billy's clothing
to the carpet.

His interest became intense, as Billy plunged into the
narrative.

"A cargo coming in, and he went to warn those in charge
of it, eh?" commenting on that part of the story which
touched on Magruder's words to the old crone.  "That seems
to be information worth having!  I think you and your
friend, Charlie Clingstone, are looking after the same
rascals that we're hunting.  If so, probably we can be of
mutual help.

"Here, Rackstraw, take this boy away and give him
something to eat and something hot, and warm clothes, too!"

And before Rackstraw could obey the order, he had turned
to his desk and commenced to write.

Rackstraw led Billy Stubbs away, gave him some warm
drinks, and a suit of clothing that was a world too large
for him, talking all the while of what had recently befallen
the boy.

The rough sailor seemed to have a friendly spot in his
heart for the waif, whom he had met and become acquainted
with many months before.  It was while Rackstraw had been
hanging about the city doing next to nothing but kill time. 
Billy Stubbs had sold papers to him and blacked his boots,
and the acquaintance thus auspiciously begun had grown
gradually to its present proportions.

"Shouldn't be s'prised if the cap'n does the has'some
thing by you fer givin' him that tip.  The feller you had
the fight with was most likely one of them smugglers we have
been looking for so long.  You'd stand high, if we should
chance to ketch 'em through you."

The mental picture of the great benefits to be derived by
his friend, Billy Stubbs, from this happy consummation, was
so rose-tinged that a huge roar of laughter escaped him,
indicative of his pleasure.

"When you're a millionyer up a tree, an' I'm still
nothing but poor Jack, mebbe you'll drop me down a dollar er
two, eh! Master Billy?"

He stood back, cocked his hat sidewise, and critically
surveyed the changed apparel.

"If anybody makes any remarks about them clo'es, jist
tell them that your tailor went on a strike.  Hello! there's
the cap'n a-wantin' us a'ready."

When they were again in the captain's room, the captain
gave Rackstraw an endorsed letter; remarking, as he glanced
at the boy:

"We're going to lie out in the lake, on the lookout for
your recent acquaintance and his friends.  We can only hope
we may run foul of them.

"You shouldn't have taken that boat I suppose, as it
wasn't yours; but I'll have it looked up in the morning and
restored to its owner.  We can arrange about the charges,
sometime, should there be any.

"Mr. Rackstraw, here, will accompany you on shore, and
together you will hunt up Mr. Clingstone.  You will each
then be guided by his advice."

"Whoopee!"

Honest Jack Rackstraw gave utterance to this exclamation,
as soon as they were out of the captain's apartment.

"There's a leave of absence in that paper, I'll bet a
month's wages.  And that leave of absence means a lakeful of
adventure and fun.  Come along!"

They heard a boat drop into the water and knew that they
were to be immediately rowed ashore.

Then they were in the boat, with its bow pointed toward
the land, and the strong-armed crew sending it along at a
gallant speed.

CHAPTER XV.  THE TRIPARTITE ALLIANCE.

THE MYSTERY surrounding the disappearance of Daisy Malcomb  
proved impenetrable.  Do what he would, Chicago Charlie
could not clear it away; nor could he form any reasonable
theory by which it might be explained.  In fact, the more he
thought of it and pondered over it, the more inexplicable
did it become; until, through grief and anxiety and baffled
hopes, he was well nigh insane.

The possession of the house of Solon Youngblood was a
piece with the mysterious disappearance of the girl.  That
Youngblood had a right to the property was, however, soon
shown; for, an examination of the proper records revealed
that Youngblood's statements concerning the mortgage and
deed were in every essential correct.

He wondered whether or not a discovery that the house and
ground belonged to Youngblood had had anything to do with
Daisy's singular act.  Then he accused himself of brutality,
in harboring so foolish a suggestion, and put it from him.

He was in this frame of mind when Rackstraw and Billy
Stubbs found him--bursting in on him with all the radiance
of discovery and hope.  But it would have required more than
their unusual exuberance of spirits to drive the chill from
the heart of Chicago Charlie.

Yet he greeted Rackstraw warmly, when the latter had been
introduced by Billy Stubbs; and, when he had read the letter
from the captain, had been told that Rackstraw had met John
Malcomb, in the latter's lifetime, and had listened to
Billy's stirring account of the adventures of the night, he
sat down to a discussion of the situation.

He saw that it was essential to continue the pursuit of
the Gypsy and his associates, for there was irrefutable
proof that the men the Gypsy had started to warn were
members of the band led by Solon Youngblood.  It was a fair
inference, therefore, that among these men were to be found
the proofs he was seeking.

Yet this last startling phenomenon--the singular letter
and the absence of the girl--had almost turned his thoughts
from the slayer of John Malcomb; though duty, and a hope
that a solution of one mystery would clear up the other,
urged him to continue work along that line.

He had reached the conclusion, however, that the task to
which he must give his individual attention was the
shadowing of Solon Youngblood and the latter's intimate
associates.  He felt sure, though without positive proof,
that Solon Youngblood could at that moment have laid bare
the mystery of the disappearance of Daisy Malcomb, as well
as that surrounding the murder of Daisy's father.  He felt
that the two were linked puzzles, solvable by one and the
same means.

These reflections, indefinite and shapeless to be sure,
were crowding his mind, even while he talked to the sailor
and Billy, and discussed with them plans for the shadowing
and ultimate capture of Zel Magruder and his companions.

When he had laid out for them the work he desired them to
do for Captain Stebbins, in his letter, had placed Rackstraw
at the detective's disposal, with unlimited leave of
absence--he shook them by the hand; and, when he had seen
them depart, turned again to the task that was so engrossing
him.

Chicago Charlie had seemingly aged in a dozen hours as
much as if a dozen years had rolled over his head.  Not only
had he apparently aged, but there was in his face such a
drawn and tense look, that he started back with almost a cry
of fright, when he surveyed his features in the glass.

"This will never do!" he thought.  "My face betrays me. 
It tells too much.  I must either learn to hold my feelings
and emotions in check, or quit the perilous business in
which I have engaged!"

He had come to a seeming rash resolve, and now proceeded
to get ready for its execution.

With a keen razor, he removed from his face every trace
of a beard.  The mustaches on which he had so prided himself
were ruthlessly sacrificed.

"They will grow again!" he grimly muttered, as he
nervously removed them.  "At any rate, what does it matter?"

He was thinking that nothing mattered, now that Daisy was
lost to him.

When he had cut away the beard and mustache, he got some
pigment from his trunk, and by its skillful application
tanned his face to a dark hue, and so changed the general
appearance of his physiognomy that his best friend meeting
him in the street would never have known him.

He surveyed himself again in the mirror, this time with
marked satisfaction.  The transformation was really little
short of marvelous.

"I think I can run the gantlet, now!" he commented, in a
pleased whisper.  "And--if my disguise should be
penetrated!----"

The black look that overspread his face emphasized an
apparent threat.

The resolution he had taken was this:

He would seek employment in Youngblood's house, if
possible, even though the employment should be the most
menial.

Failing in that, he would obtain such work as would place
him where he could constantly watch the house and grounds. 
He was skilled as a florist, having taken much pride as an
amateur in the cultivation of flowers, and he thought it
possible that his knowledge in this, would secure him work
in some of the gardens near the Malcomb residence, if not in
the Malcomb grounds.

With this in his mind, and his plans fully matured, he
descended into the street.

So swiftly had the hours sped, that it was now evening,
and the streets were thronged by the thousands of working
men and women returning from their daily employment, and by
other thousands of clerks and business men hastening
homeward from their books and ledgers.

All were crowding in Chicago haste, no one heeding his
neighbor.

Chicago Charlie stood, after having reached the street,
waiting for a coming car, when a carriage dashed furiously
around a corner.

He recognized it as the opportune moment of his life, for
in the carriage, in imminent peril of their lives, were
Colonel Solon Youngblood and the handsome woman who called
herself his wife!

CHAPTER XVI. "I HAVE HEARD THAT GRAVEYARDS YAWN."

COLONEL SOLON Youngblood recognized his peril, but was
powerless to aid himself or the woman at his side.  The
horse, a spirited animal, had taken fright at a fluttering
paper that rolled between his feet, and had immediately
become unmanageable.  Leaping forward, with Youngblood
clinging desperately to the reins, the latter had parted,
and the animal was now tearing wildly along, not only
threatening the lives of the occupants of the bounding
carriage, but the lives of the people in the street.

A police officer tried vainly to stay the horse's
progress, and men, in that foolish fashion so common on such
occasions, "shooed" the animal and waved their hats, unaware
of the palpable fact that their antics only served to
increase the fright of a beast that was already insane from
fear.

Narrowly escaping collision with a huge beer wagon, the
carriage bounded toward the side that Chicago Charlie was
on, and where he had stationed and nerved himself for an
effort at checking the horse's speed.

Youngblood, livid with fear, was trying to get hold of
the broken and dragging lines; while the woman at his side
seemed half unconscious through fright.

With a bound that would have done credit to a
professional athlete, Charlie left the pavement, hurled
himself directly across the path of the scared brute, and,
then, grasping the bridle-bit, hung on for dear life.

People scattered in all directions.  Men yelled and women
screamed. 

But the nervy detective never released his hold, though
it looked for a moment or two as if he were sure to get his
brains dashed out.

His powerful hands at length succeeded in drawing back
the head of the straining brute, until the forward movement
was checked.  Then, with a twist Charlie drew the head still
further around, and the horse came down in a heap, piling
the buggy almost on top of the detective, who had leaped
aside to escape the thrashing heels that beat the air like
ponderous flails.

A dozen men sprung to the detective's assistance, some
freeing the occupants of the buggy from the wreck, and
others helping the rescuer to hold and subdue the horse.

It was seemingly all over in a minute, and the horse,
panting and broken in spirit, was standing quietly, but with
streaming flanks, Chicago Charlie's hand still securely on
the bit.

Youngblood, having convinced himself that he had escaped,
and also that the woman was uninjured, came forward to thank
the man who had risked his life thus to help him, at the
same time effusively drawing out his purse.

There are some men who think that any favor may be offset
by the payment of cash, and Solon Youngblood was of the
number.

He did not at all recognize Chicago Charlie, but took him
for a total stranger.

Flourishing a hundred-dollar bill, he held it out, at the
same time saying:

"I can never thank you enough, my good friend, for what
you have done, and so offer this!"

Youngblood's tone was offensively patronizing.

"Keep it!" the detective exclaimed, with voice so changed
by the disgust he felt that Youngblood never would have
known it, even though Chicago Charlie had attempted no
disguise.

A policeman was now on the scene, and the crowds, seeing
that all had ended well, were again streaming along as if
nothing unusual had happened.

Disgusted as he was, Charlie saw that it would not do to
offend Youngblood, for the chance of securing a situation
might never again be so good.

"Can I not do something for you, if you will not accept
money?" the sport asked, staring in some surprise.  "You
look as if----"

He hesitated to put the thought into words.

"I am in pretty hard straits, just now!" confessed the
disguised detective.  "I do not want pay for what I have
done, but----"

"Well, out with it!" thrusting the bill back into the
purse.

"If you could secure me a situation, now, where I might
do something to earn a living, it wouldn't be bad.  I've
been out of a job so long that I hardly know what work looks
like, but I think I could suit any employer who'd be willing
to try me."

This was said with a little pitiful air of pleading.

Youngblood looked at him closely.

The two were standing at the horse's head, while the
policeman seemed to be paying marked attention to the
flushed and handsome Mrs. Solon Youngblood.  No one was
giving the speakers any heed.

"I'll tell you what!" and Youngblood lowered his voice. 
"I'm needing a man, now.  A reliable man; one who can do his
work and keep his tongue in his teeth.  If you're that kind
of a man, call around at my office in an hour."

He drew out a card and penciled the name and number on
it.  "You'll find me there!"

Chicago Charlie saw he had been given the address of the
Malcomb place!

The gallant policeman was assisting Mrs. Youngblood to
re-enter the carriage.

Seeing this, the detective spliced the broken reins with
a strong knot; and Youngblood climbing in beside the woman,
he gave the reins into the hands of the sport, and saw him
drive away.

Fortune seemed once more to smile on him.  Scarcely had
his plans been perfected for entering Youngblood's service,
when the desired opportunity had presented!

And to become Youngblood's private secretary!--for that
was what he believed it to mean--he could not have asked for
anything better!

Promptly at the expiration of the hour he was at the
place appointed, and was ushered into a little room in the
north wing of the building.  It was a room which had been
much used by John Malcomb, and in which Youngblood had
established an office.

Notwithstanding its prosaic character, it was richly and
luxuriously furnished.  The writing desk, on which stood a
typewriter, and where were many bunches of letters and
papers, most attracted the detective's attention.

Youngblood came in directly.

"I want some one who is handy at correspondence and can
get up a neat and effective letter, for I'm a little awkward
at such things.  There's a pile of letters there, that's
been waiting an answer for a week, just because I haven't
had the nerve to attack them."

Chicago Charlie saw that Youngblood was closely watching
him.

Feeling secure in his disguise, he announced his
readiness to begin work at once; and for an hour thereafter
the two were closeted together, Youngblood dictating short
notes which he desired to have elaborated as replies to the
letters.

Then he went out, leaving the detective to complete the
work.

For a long time the typewriter sung under the detective's
fingers.

Youngblood had promised to return, but, hearing nothing
to indicate that he would soon do so, Chicago Charlie
glanced anxiously at the papers arranged in pigeon-holes,
wondering if any of them contained the clues he was seeking.

"It surely will be my own fault if I don't succeed now!"
was his thought.  "No man ever had a better chance given
him."

But though he searched diligently, nothing of consequence
was revealed.

Finally, as Youngblood still absented himself, he got up
to go.  There was no more work to be done that night, and no
object could be served by remaining longer.  He looked at
his watch.  It had already grown late.

Still wondering why Youngblood had not returned according
to promise, he let himself out of the office.

As stated, the room so used was situated in the north
wing of the building.  A long corridor had to be traversed
before the street door could be reached.

Chicago Charlie was moving thoughtfully along this
corridor, his mind on Daisy Malcomb, when he became
conscious that some one was near.  He had heard nothing, but
that indefinable feeling which sometimes comes, had swept
over him.  Then his blood almost chilled in his veins.

A form that was the exact counterpart of John Malcomb
came into view!  It was moving from the north part of the
building toward the eastern end!

Chicago Charlie stood rooted by a feeling akin to terror. 
He knew, so far as human knowledge could go, that the
original of that shadow was in the land of spirits.

But for the fear that held him fixed he would have
advanced to question the mysterious thing.

Less than a minute was the gruesome object in sight, the
dim light of a lamp at the further end of the long hall
sicklying it over and giving it occasionally a fantastic
appearance.

Then it vanished, as mysteriously as it had come.

Charlie Clingstone, with that sense of awe still
oppressing him, hurried to the point of disappearance.  But
nothing was to be seen.  Nothing to indicate that any form
of man or ghost had passed that way.  Neither did a hasty
search reveal anything.

A clammy sweat rested on his face and forehead.  He was
undeniably mystified and scared.  He had never believed in
such manifestations.  Yet, if he had not seen the spirit of
John Malcomb, what had he seen?

As nothing was to be gained by a further search, and not
wishing to be found prying about the house thus in the
night, he turned back along the corridor and descended to
the street.

"My God!" was his almost inarticulate exclamation, as he
wiped his dewy forehead.  "I shall soon begin to think that
I'm sure enough losing my mind.  That couldn't have been
John Malcomb; and yet--and yet--it was wonderfully like him! 
Who was it?  What did it mean?"

CHAPTER XVII. PLOTS OF THE ENEMY.

ON THE second floor of a big building which was used partly
for a machine shop and partly for a warehouse, a dozen men
were congregated in a small dark room.

They were anxious faced men and seemed to have sought the
place to avoid observation.

It was an interior room, with only a dirty skylight to
let in the sunshine and air of the outer world.  All about
were scraps of old iron and miscellaneous odds and ends of
rubbish.  The floor was greasy and dirty, and even the
chairs and table had the same appearance of grime.

Yet Solon Youngblood was there, clothed in his usual
immaculate fashion.  The slight form of Zel Magruder was
also to be seen, crouched in a big chair.

More than ever on this occasion did Zel seem thin and
weakly womanish.

He was recounting some adventures, to which his
companions carefully listened.

"They'll be on your track for another murder, Zel
Magruder!" Youngblood sharply commented.  "You're getting
reckless!"

"Well, what was I to do?" Zel demanded, in no pleasant
tone.  "The young brat was a-follerin' me an' a-tryin' to
find out where I was goin'.  If he'd 'a' done so, you
fellers would likely be in limbo purty quick.  I tried to
knock him into the water with the oar; and, when he grabbed
it and hung on like a bull-dog, I shot him.  The police be
blowed!  How are they ever to know who done it?"

"If it had only been the other one, Zel!"

Youngblood's voice rasped and his eyes took on a heated
light.

"If you'd only knocked that Columbian Detective over that
way, I'd move that the band give you a gold medal!  But, I
think I've got him, now!"

He smoothed his chin reflectively and stared at the dirty
floor.

Two or three of the band eagerly drew closer.

He laughed; then rising, rapped with his knuckles on the
table for order.

"I'll tell you all about it later, boys.  Business first,
then pleasure.  The treasurer will make a report concerning
that last lot of goods."

It was the same evening, and almost at the same hour,
that Chicago Charlie, standing in the corridor of the
Malcomb house, fancied he must have seen the spirit of John
Malcomb.

The "goods," as was quickly shown, were a part of the
cargo whose coming had been spoken of by Magruder.  The
treasurer's report showed of what they had consisted and of
how they had been disposed.  One item touched Magruder, and
he arose to explain:

"I hain't been able to do so much, sense old Nell got the
idee into her head that we'd better pull out o' the biz. 
Before that, she was the rankest o' the lot, in favor o'
handlin' any kind o' stuff that brought in money.  I guess
she got skeered.  Anyway, she's been advisin' the band to
let the thing alone, an' she's been givin' it to me hot and
heavy, because I don't pay any 'tention to what she says!"

"Your people got away with the silks, didn't they?"
Youngblood frowningly questioned.

"Yes, but I couldn't git 'em to push the sale o' the
jew'lry!  Nell wouldn't touch anything with a hot poker, and
them that she had influence over wouldn't either.  I'm
afraid we can't handle as much o' the truck as we did once."

Youngblood was not pleased with the statement.

"What was done with the other lot of watches and
diamonds?" he growled.

"Old Jake Wolfstein is shovin' them out for us as fast as
he can."

Wolfstein was a man long suspected of being a "fence" for
thieves; but though his place of business--which showed in
front of it the three gilt balls of the pawnbroker--had been
more than once searched, no stolen goods had ever been found
in his possession.  He was one of the shrewdest men of his
class in the entire city.

"If the Gypsies go back on us we'll have to turn
everything over to Wolfstein," Youngblood muttered, "though
I'd hate to do it, for he charges such an allfired
commission.  He's never satisfied with his five hundred
"pershent," but wants it all!"

He knew, however, that Wolfstein was indispensable to
him, and that he would have to allow any percent the old
cormorant demanded.

"Now I'll tell you what I hinted at awhile ago."

Youngblood settled back in his chair, and smiled
wolfishly.

The business of the meeting appeared to be ended; and the
reports, with the exception of that made by Magruder, had
seemed satisfactory.

The band had not been so quiet and secretive on this
evening as on that other when Chicago Charlie had watched
them.  No doubt they felt safer from intrusion and
espionage.  They had worn no masks.

The fact that they had changed their place of meeting may
have accounted for this stronger feeling of security.

The men drew their chairs about Youngblood, evincing the
liveliest interest.  It was not often their chief took the
trouble to communicate to them his plans or discoveries.  As
a usual thing, he gave his orders and they obeyed.  He was
the directing brain; they were the muscles of the
organization.

"I have warned you many times, as you will remember, to
be on your guard against the disguises of the man who is
becoming known as Chicago Charlie, the Columbian Detective;
but when I did so I never thought I'd be myself taken in by
him.  Yet I was, in a most glorious shape; and this very
evening.  He's my private secretary!"

The men looked incredulous, and Youngblood, noting their
startled glances, laughed aloud--a roaring, jolly laugh that
caused them to stare more than ever.

Then, still laughing, he proceeded to relate how Chicago
Charlie had deceived and "taken him in."

"Do you know, his disguise was so perfect that I never
dreamed but that the scamp was a stranger!" he averred. 
"And I never suspected anything until he called at the house
an hour afterward.  Likely I then had my wits about me a
little better, for I was a good deal rattled by that
runaway.

"Something in his voice--something that sounded
familiar--caused me to watch him.  Disguising the voice is
the hardest thing to do in the world.  A man may change the
color of his face, and put on different clothes, and even
wear wigs and mustaches.  But, unless he's particularly
skillful, whenever he tries to alter his voice it takes on a
husky sound that betrays him.

"I began to notice his voice, and then I saw that his
complexion wasn't natural;--that he'd used some kind of tan. 
And when I continued to study him, with my suspicions thus
aroused, I soon saw who the man was."

"If he'd been looking at me the time the knowledge came
to me, he'd have seen the thing in my face.  But he wasn't
looking; and I continued to dictate the letter, just as if
nothing had happened."

"Why didn't you kill the hound then and there?" one
fierce-eyed fellow demanded.

"Which goes to show what a brainy fellow you are,
Swipesey!" was the sarcastic retort; under which Swipesey
collapsed utterly.

"No! it wouldn't have done to strike, then.  No more am I
ready to strike now.  But by coming into my own house that
way, he has put himself into my power.  I shall let him go
on fancying that he's playing it cute and deceiving me in
the very worst way, until I get ready to dispose of the
scoundrel.

"Why! he even went through some of my papers, to-night,
and was amusing himself that way when I left to come here.  
Don't you see that I can put him on more false scents in a
week than he can follow up in a month."

He rubbed his hands gleefully, and smiled back at the
beaming faces about him.

The Lakeside League ever stood ready to swear by their
chief, but never more so than now.  They were a brainless
lot of scoundrels, the most of them, and worshipped in
another intellect and finesse they did not themselves
possess.

"Just let him go on!" and Youngblood nodded his head
sagely.  "I'll give him enough rope and see him hang
himself.  It will, maybe, save us a more disagreeable job."

"If 'twas me, I'd put a knife inter 'im some dark night!"
Swipesey growled, not pleased with the way he had been sat
on.  "Sich cattle are a good deal safer out o' the
way;--that's my notion!"

"Maybe I'll give you the contract for doing that same,
yet!" was the smiling reply.  "I think I've got him,
though!"

With this he got up, indicating he had said all he meant
to say, and moved toward the door; but the Leaguers,
grouping themselves in twos and threes, continued to talk of
what the chief had just told them.

They were afraid of the Columbian Detective, and their
words and actions showed it.

CHAPTER XVIII.UNSUCCESSFUL SEARCHING.

NO MAN could possibly have been more surprised than Chicago
Charlie would have been had he known the subject of the
conversation in that little upper room.

He believed himself perfectly secure, never once dreaming
that his disguise had been penetrated by the keen-eyed man he
had set out to watch.

Neither had he any occasion to change this opinion, as the
days glided by; and two days later, having finished his task
and seen Solon Youngblood leave the office, he was still
resting in the pleasant belief with which he had all along
beguiled himself.

His thoughts, as he sat there, comfortably tilted back in
the office chair, were on Youngblood, on Daisy Malcomb, and on
the shadowy figure so remarkably resembling John Malcomb.

The figure had not again appeared, or at any rate had not
again been seen by the detective.

And Charlie was almost ready to think he had been the
victim of some optical illusion.

His reason told him that he had not seen Malcomb.  Nothing,
he fancied, could make him think that.  Had he not seen
Malcomb lying dead in his own office, bathed in blood?  Pshaw!
he put the idea from him as being supremely silly.

Still, he could not shake off the feeling that had held him
chained that night, when he stood face to face with the
spectral thing.  Spirit or man, the sight of it had given him
such a chill as he would not soon forget.

Sure it could not have been Malcomb, and unwilling to
believe he had seen nothing at all, he turned to the only
other tenable theories: What he saw must have been a man
disguised to look like Malcomb, or one who naturally much
resembled the dead man.

This was unsatisfactory enough--and did not answer the
question of what Malcomb's double had been doing there that
night!--but it was the best he could do.

The seeing of the ghostly thing had had one good effect. 
It had taken his mind somewhat away from its recent unhealthy
brooding.  Still, when the eyes of Youngblood were not known
to be on him, a look of anguish often swept over his face.

Since the receipt of Daisy's letter, he had scarcely taken
time to sleep, all the hours in which he could be away from
the office being given up to a vain search for her.  He had
sought for her everywhere.

Only that morning, learning that the body of a young woman
had been taken to the morgue, he had gone thither filled with
the most distressing fears.

Each day a similar report had drawn him to that terrible
place of the dead.

The almost insane tone of the letter led him to anticipate
her suicide.

With his mind thus running from one thing to another, he
took the letter from his pocket and gave it another careful
study.  He had done that probably a hundred times, until he
knew every word and sentence, and could even see the curves of
the letters without glancing at them.  Nevertheless, he read
it over with as much avidity as if it had been just received.

It told him no more than he already knew.  Of her own
accord she had disappeared, leaving neither trace nor clue,
and warning him of the uselessness of trying to find where she
had gone.

When he had read it over and over he put it up again; and
his day's work being ended, left the office and went out into
the street.

There was ease for his wounded spirit in the rushing,
bustling atmosphere of the great western metropolis.  The
sight of these hurrying thousands, each on his own interest
intent, conveyed a lesson to a thoughtful man.

It revealed the fact--sometimes an unpleasant fact--that
among these myriad he was of little more consequence than an
ant vainly struggling up an ant hill.  He might die and pass
away, and few indeed would there be to mourn or remember him.

Rapt in such reflections, Charlie Clingstone walked on and
on, along the familiar streets, entering neither cab nor car,
until the dusk of coming night was about him.

He had not guided his footsteps, but permitted them to
wander whithersoever they would.

Suddenly he was aroused by a voice, that growled hoarsely
in his ear.

"Hey, shipmate!  Off your cruising ground, ain't ye?"

A rough hand caught him by the arm.

Looking about he beheld the beaming face of Jack Rackstraw.

At Rackstraw's heels trudged the newsboy, a shadow on his
smiling face.

"What news?" Clingstone questioned, knowing by their looks
they had something to communicate.

"It's the Infant Wonder!" Billy exclaimed.  "She's been
a-lickin' of him."

"Who?" the detective questioned, finding it difficult to at
once adjust himself to their thoughts.

"Why, the Holy Terror!" cried Rackstraw, with ready
indignation.  "That there termagant that calls herself Mrs.
Susan Tonguegrass.  Mrs. Sourtongue would be a heap sight
better.  We ketched her at it!  An' the Infant, he was
a-howlin' jist tremenjus.

"We packed him off home; and then I set out and filed a
complaint instanter ag'inst the Holy Terror, an' I think
she'll be a-huntin' up another herd of infants by tomorrer.

"From what the leader of the Alphabet Society said I reckon
she'll git the bounce, for it wasn't the first complaint that
had been put in ag'in her."

Chicago Charlie turned toward a restaurant.

"We'll go in here," he said, "and talk it over."

A happy fate seemed to direct his footsteps, for the girl
who came forward to take their orders was an old acquaintance. 
She had been one of the John Malcomb servants!

Ever since the time of the discovery that Youngblood had
taken possession of the house, Chicago Charlie had kept a
sharp lookout for some of these servants, but this was the
first one he had met.

"You don't know how glad I am to meet you!" he exclaimed,
cordially, putting out a hand.

She drew back in alarm.

Chicago Charlie, absorbed in the pleasure of seeing her,
had forgotten his disguise, and committed a most egregious
blunder.

He saw that she was both puzzled and alarmed, no doubt
because of the strangeness of the face and the familiar
intonations of the voice.

Rackstraw and Billy Stubbs, who had not been troubled by
the detective's disguise, as they had known of it, seemed
stupefied, fearing an unpleasant disclosure.

"Bring us something to eat and I'll explain everything,"
the detective urged, observing that the actions of the girl
were attracting attention.  "You'll know me well enough when
I tell you who I am."

The girl was visibly agitated, but hurried away,
nevertheless; returning soon with some hot rolls and butter
and some steaming coffee.

"You still don't know me, I see," Clingstone laughingly
whispered, as she placed the things on the table.  "I'm your
old friend, Charlie Clingstone."

She started incredulously at first; but seeing that it must
be the truth, for she could not deny that the voice was
Clingstone's, she gave him a friendly glance, declaring:

"You almost frightened me to death.  Why are you fixed out
that way?  Going to a masquerade?"

He did not reply to this; but asked, with quick eagerness:

"Can you tell me what has become of Daisy Malcomb?"

"Indeed I cannot!  The Youngbloods came and took possession
of the house and told me that my services would be no longer
needed.  All the others were treated the same way."

"And Daisy?"

"I don't know where she went, nor when.  She was not to be
found, when the Youngbloods came there."

There were but few people in the restaurant, and, seeing
that her services would not be in immediate demand, he urged
her to take one of the chairs.

"I have something to say to you!  Do you like your place
here?"

"Not if I could get better.  I've got to do something,
though!"

Then he told her the story narrated to him by Rackstraw and
Billy Stubbs.

"If you think you'd like that place I believe it can be
obtained for you.  I'll have the inspector recommend your
appointment."

She smiled and showed her white, even teeth.

She was a handsome girl, with an intelligent face and a
bright and winning manner; and Jack Rackstraw, the grizzled
lake sailor, viewed her with undisguised admiration.

"The pay will be better, I feel sure!" Chicago Charlie
averred, taking a notebook and pencil from his pocket.  "If
you will say the word, I will write to the inspector right
now."

It was evident that he desired her to have the situation,
and Billy Stubbs was immensely tickled at the prospect.  Billy
felt that in the hands of this friend of Chicago Charlie, the
Infant Wonder would be perfectly safe.

"What do you say?" and the detective poised his pencil as
he looked at her.

She nodded.

"I'll try it; for I don't like this place the least bit. 
Too many rough men come in here!"

"I'll mail this for you as soon as we go out!" he said,
when he had written and folded the note.

Then he again fell to discussing the probable whereabouts
of Daisy Malcomb.

The next morning Miss Lilly Lilac--for that was the girl's
name--was notified that the position rendered vacant by the
resignation of Mrs. Susan Tonguegrass was hers if she would
accept it, and a liberal salary was named as the recompense
for her services.

CHAPTER XIX. LED INTO A TRAP.

RACKSTRAW AND Billy Stubbs went away together,
congratulating themselves on the future prospects of the
Infant Wonder, and Chicago Charlie continued his
perambulations.

Arriving at his room, two or three hours later, he found
a newsboy awaiting him.

The newsboy carried a letter, which he immediately put
into the detective's hand.

"It's from Billy Stubbs," he explained.  "He said for me
to give you this and to tell yer to come quick.  He couldn't
leave."

Having delivered the letter and the statement, the boy
gave a respectful pull at his frowsy foretop, and
disappeared.

The letter was a badly spelled scrawl, but it held
startling information.

Billy, in his wanderings, had discovered Daisy Malcomb's
hiding place.

The note ran thus:

     cHicaGO cHarlEy, i Hav fOUn Out wHur DaZy iZ.  sHe
     iS in tHe OLD HOUsE At a HundErd an Ate AvEnOO SHE cAnT
     giT AWAy       iM gOin too StAy aN wACH HEr till yeW
     COme COme RiTe Of
           Billy StUBBs

The blank shown in the copy was filled with a name, which
it would be impolite to insert here.

Charlie stared at the scrawl in amazement.  Then he
thrust the note into his pocket, and turned back into the
street.

If Daisy was held at the place given he would find her
and have speech with her, if nothing else.  She had not
desired him to follow her, but he would follow her,
nevertheless.

Billy's note stated that she was held in the house. 
Else, what did he mean by saying she could not get away. 
Manifestly, she had encountered enemies, against whom she
had found it impossible to fight.

Whatever might be the trouble, he would go at once, and
do what he could--or whatever she would permit him to do--to
aid her.

He knew the site of the old house well.  It was in a
locality similar to that in which he had watched the meeting
of the Lakeside Leaguers.  She must indeed be in dire
straits, to be found in such a place.

With these thoughts whirring in his mind, he stopped
short.

The thought had come to him that this might be but a lure
of enemies to lead him into a trap.  He was not acquainted
with the scrawling chirography of the newsboy, Billy Stubbs. 
He had never even thought to ask Billy if he could write,
taking it for granted that he could, for he knew Billy could
read well enough to spell out the news in the papers.

His head whirled as he stopped thus bewilderedly, with
that fear suddenly pressing in on him.

If this were a trap set for him, and which it was
expected he would walk straight into, there could be but one
conclusion from it: his disguise had been penetrated.

He recalled, with some feeling of pride, the manner in
which Lilly Lilac had stared at him in the restaurant.  This
was good evidence that his disguise was excellent.  He was
loath to believe that it had been seen through.

Only for a few moments did he halt in indecision.

His resolve was quickly taken.

Stepping to the nearest telephone station, he put himself
in communication with the Inspector of Police.

Happily the inspector was in his office, and Chicago
Charlie could pour his story into the ears of the man he
most desired to hear it.

He told the inspector of the communication he had
received, gave him the name of the avenue and number of the
building, and spoke of his fears of a trap.

"Go ahead!" was the reply.  "We'll see that the trappers
are trapped!"

Thus reassured, Chicago Charlie took the car of the line
passing nearest to the old house; and in less than a half
hour thereafter stood in the dark street before the
forbidding building.

There was nothing about it to indicate that it was
inhabited.  No friendly lamp or gas-jet poured its light
through the windows.  No sounds came from behind its closed
doors.

"Looks more than ever like a trap!" he mused, running his
eyes over the house.  "It would be a bad place up there to
get into trouble.  I'm afraid the inspector's friends
couldn't get to me soon enough to be of much assistance."

Nevertheless, the thought that Daisy Malcomb might be
screened somewhere behind those dingy brick walls, stirred
him anew.  He felt that he would go through fire, should
that ever be necessary, to rescue or aid her.

Circling the building, and watching closely against any
sign of treachery, he sought carefully for some place by
which he might enter.

He was wondering why he did not see Billy Stubbs, if the
boy had really sent the note; and was becoming more and more
convinced that an effort was being made to trap him, when a
boyish voice whispered down from the gloom.

"Slip this here way.  She's above stairs here."

Chicago Charlie turned in that direction, with his hand
on his revolver.

He was not yet satisfied that all was as it should be. 
The voice had sounded remarkably like Billy's, but the words
had been so whispered that it was difficult to be certain of
this.

"Is that you, Billy Stubbs?" he ventured to call.

No reply came, and he knew the boy had turned back into
the house.

Stumbling forward, he found some rickety steps, leading
up to a door wherein the boy must have stood.

He mounted these, with his hand still on his weapon.

The feeling that treachery was afoot was strong on him.

The door stood slightly ajar, and he pushed on into the
house.

All was dark as Erebus.

There seemed to be a wide hallway, penetrating he knew
not whither.

He whispered again to the boy; and, receiving no reply,
and with the conviction still growing that evil was meant,
he drew out and cocked the pistol, and took another step.

Instantly he felt himself plunging downward through the
gloom.  The rotten floor, or a portion of it, had been
removed.

A wild cry of alarm and fear arose from the gloom.

Then Chicago Charlie struck among a heap of rubbish, and
remained silent and senseless.

Again the boy whispered:

"Pards, we've got 'im!"

CHAPTER XX. BILLY STUBBS AS A WILD RIDER.

EVEN THOUGH Billy Stubbs had not found Daisy Malcomb
as stated by the false letter, he was not idle.  The special
work given to him by Chicago Charlie was the shadowing of
Zel Magruder; and, even while Chicago Charlie was plunging
downward to seeming death in the old house, the keen-eyed
newsboy was lying in the shadows of the Gypsy tents.

He had seen Magruder enter one of them and was thinking
of worming his way to a better position, when the Gypsy came
out and walked away into the gloom.

Billy followed with stealthy footsteps, and was somewhat
surprised when he saw Zel turn toward Buffalo Bill's Wild
West, which was giving daily and nightly exhibitions at
Sixty-second and Sixty-third streets.

Instead of going toward the entrance that was nearest,
Zel Magruder veered off; and, after making a wide circle,
approached the stables.

There was a small door there, used only by employees, and
which was commonly to be found locked.  Whether Zel found it
open or managed to undo the fastenings, Billy did not know;
but he nevertheless saw the Gypsy pass through.

This was a disappointment, for the newsboy feared he was
now to lose track of him.

But, after creeping up to the door, he saw that Zel had
only pushed it to, and had not fastened it.

Hence he crowded in, determined to go wherever Zel went
if he could possibly do it without discovery.

There were horses and men all about and the place where
he found himself, though dimly lighted, was not gloomy
enough to make him feel at ease.

A couple of Mexicans were standing out far off, hurling
their lassoes at various inanimate objects, and a Uhlan
guard was striking up a conversation with a Cossack.

Billy was bewildered by all he saw and heard, and for the
moment almost forgot the object of his errand.  Then he
looked around for Zel Magruder.

He did not see him at first, but an instant later he
caught sight of the Gypsy stealing along in the shadow of
the wall.

It was plain Magruder's presence was unknown to the men
whom Billy saw about.

"Whatever is the Gypsy up to?" was his mental query.

Magruder was getting further and further away, advancing
as if he meant to force his way into the very arena itself.

The exhibition was in full blast.  Annie Oakley had given
splendid illustration of her dexterity in the use of
fire-arms; and now the gathered thousands were wildly
cheering the horse races between cowboy, Cossack, Mexican
and others, on their native steeds.

Magruder halted, crouching in the gloom until the races
were at an end, and Billy Stubbs, with his curiosity worked
to fever pitch, kept on until he was perilously near the
Gypsy!

The air was still resounding with the plaudits of the
multitude, and preparations were going forward for the
introduction of the Pony Express, when Magruder, turning in
Billy's direction, discovered the boy, who was staring at
him from beneath an awning.

With an oath, Magruder flashed out a knife and dashed at
him, his intentions being murderous, for Magruder was
thoroughly reckless when aroused.

Billy sprung back with a cry of fear, almost falling
headlong over some object on the ground.

A bronco, saddled and bridled, stood near.

What induced the scared boy to perform the next act, he
could not have told, unless it was his insane desire to get
away from that gleaming knife.  Almost before he knew it he
was on the back of the bronco, clambering into the saddle
for safety, as he would have mounted into a tree if pursued
by a bear.

The startled bronco gave a bound that bore Billy out of
reach of the threatening knife, and at the same time hurled
him into what seemed likely to be new perils.

The little beast had been half asleep, when Billy
bestrode him in that unceremonious fashion, and, seeing the
glaring lights and hearing the applauding shouts, doubtless
thought the time had arrived for an exhibition of his
running and bucking qualities.

Almost before Billy knew what the bronco meant to do, he
found himself the central attraction of the big show!

The sight of those tiers of faces in a measure brought
back his wits, and, though terribly scared by what had
occurred and much dreading the consequences, he saw that the
best thing he could do was to cling to the back of the
bronco.

The little brute was tearing along like mad, and the
spectators, thinking this a new feature of the exhibition,
were, many of them, shouting in their usual boisterous
fashion.

The programme said nothing of a wild bronco from the
untamed West being ridden by a tatterdemalion boy; but they
accepted it as one of the good things which Buffalo Bill
sometimes introduced without previous announcement.

The managers and employees of the Wild West were
thunderstruck.  They knew not what to make of this sudden
appearance, and for a minute stood in speechless amazement.

Doubtless they would have interfered shortly, but the
bronco, rearing and plunging wildly, began to prance and
buck.  The way in which Billy clung to the back of the
bounding pony assured them that fun was in store for the
multitude; and so they stayed their hands, alert, in case
the boy should need help.

Fright, and a feeling that he must hold on or be killed,
made of Billy Stubbs a most marvelous rough rider.  He set
his teeth hard, dug one hand into the bronco's mane and with
the other clasped the high pommel, screwed his heels into
the bronco's sides, and held on for dear life.

There was never a worse scared boy than was Billy Stubbs
for a few minutes.  The bronco vaulted, pranced, pitched and
bucked, in the most approved fashion;--the applause of the
audience rose hysterically;--the cowboys stared their
wonderment;--and Billy gripped the saddle like grim death.

Then the bronco, discovering that the reins were hanging
idly, bolted wildly out of the arena.

It was all over in less than five minutes and Billy
Stubbs was back again at the point from whence he had
started.

He heard men hurrying toward him.

Zel Magruder was nowhere to be seen.

But Billy Stubbs thought little enough of Zel Magruder
just then.

He heard those pattering steps; and, anticipating condign
punishment, freed himself as quickly as he could, and darted
away.

Like a rat he scudded through the shadows, and finding
the door by which he had entered, he slipped out into the
night.

CHAPTER XXI. IN A QUEER PRISON.

ONE OF the witnesses of Billy's miraculous performance,
was his friend Jack Rackstraw.

Rackstraw, having been left to his own devices and
finding time hanging heavily on his hands, had resolved to
"take in" the Wild West exhibition, and was in one of the
front tiers of seats, when Billy dashed in so
unceremoniously.

Rackstraw was never more astounded in his life, than when
he saw his boy chum on the back of the pitching bronco.  He
could only stare and give vent to his astonishment in
whispered exclamations.  For the moment he could not believe
his eyes, yet a second look told him that it was sure enough
Billy Stubbs.

"Blast me!" what'll that boy be up to next?  How did he
git onto that ferowcious brute, anyway?"

When the bronco had reached the climax of its wild
antics, and Rackstraw expected every minute to see Billy
hurled to the earth or crushed to a bleeding mass, he rose
with the firm intention of hurrying to the boy's rescue.

But a hand on his shoulder checked him.

"Sit down!" growled a voice.  "Do ye think nobody else
wants to see?"

Rackstraw sunk helplessly back.  His better judgment told
him he could do nothing, and that if Billy was to be killed
he must be killed.

But he muttered:

"Drat the imp!  I reckon I'll have to cowhide him fer
that."

His mind was still in a bewildered whirl when the bronco
vanished with Billy still clinging to his back.

Then, feeling shaky in every limb, Rackstraw climbed down
and made his way toward the entrance through which the
bronco and boy had passed.

A man barred his way.

"No coming in here, sir!" was the declaration.

"What's become of that boy?" Jack howled.

The man, who was only an employee, and who was as much
puzzled as the sailor, growled back:

"Plague take the boy!  I don't know where he came from
nor where he's gone.  He's knocked the programme endwise and
set everything wild!"

Rackstraw glared at him wrathfully, then stumped
furiously away, and was soon after outside of the big show,
with the night wind whistling about and the stars shining
down on him.

Making his way now as best he could along the outside
toward the point where the stables were located, he stopped
at each advance of a dozen steps and watched and listened.

A crouching form hurried toward him.

"Oh, Jack! is that you?"

The voice was Billy's.

"You young hound!" and Rackstraw gripped him by the
collar and churned him up and down.  "What do you mean by
such cantankerin'?  How did ye git on the back o' that
there----"

"Come on," Billy whispered, "let's git away from here."

Rackstraw was no more anxious to have Billy arrested than
was Billy to be arrested, and, though he was as much
mystified as ever, he suffered the boy to lead him away.

"Now see here, you young rascal!" he grumbled, when they
were in the neighborhood of the high fence enclosing the
Exposition buildings.  "I ain't a goin' a step furder until
I know more'n I do at this instant.  Where air you goin' and
whatever have you been up to?"

Billy Stubbs, with the fear of the Wild West men still
strong on him, halted and gave Rackstraw a hurried
explanation.

The sailor snorted, but with surprise more than disgust.

"It was jist like you, young feller.  Some o' these
nights you'll go off smilin' an' come back froze up in an
ice box.  Well, if you do you needn't blame me!"

"I'm sorry I lost Magruder," Billy observed, still
shaking from his recent excitement.

"An' I'm sorry I lost that show.  Reckon now, you
wouldn't care to go back with me an' see it out?"

"No! no!"

Billy clung to his hand almost fiercely.

"All right, then!" looking down with eyes that held a
softened light.

He would have said more, but a form slipped stealthily by
them, which they saw to be Magruder's.

Magruder seemed equally anxious to give the Wild West
exhibition a wide berth.  He was now hastening toward the
Fair grounds.

Billy pulled at Rackstraw's hand and drew the sailor
along in the Gypsy's wake.

They soon lost the Gypsy, however, for the latter was
moving at a good gait.

Satisfied that he had found entrance into the grounds, or
would soon do so, they also went in; and for a long time
strolled about, looking vainly for him.

The time was growing late, and it seemed unlikely they
would get to see Magruder again that night.  The people had
nearly all departed, though the guides and guards still hung
about, and there was a considerable amount of activity in
all the buildings.

They sought the Cairo street, with no better success, and
turned back into the grounds and approached the lagoon.  A
few gondoliers were still visible, hoping to yet take in a
fare.

"They hain't no use lookin' any furder this night!"
Rackstraw averred.  "I'm going over to the Andy Johnson an'
see if I can't git a good sleep once more.  Can't seem to
sleep as well as I ought in these hotels and the like.  An'
you, young'un, air a-goin' along with me!"

He linked his arm into Billy's, as he half feared the boy
would rebel and break away, and together they walked past
the Horticultural Building, and on toward the bridge leading
to the beautiful wooded island surrounded by its lagoon.

Billy went willingly enough, for, though loath to give up
the search, he saw that he could accomplish nothing by a
longer stay, and was, besides, thoroughly beat out by his
experiences of the night.

They never dreamed of danger, as they turned from the
wooded island toward the smaller island, containing the
Hunter's Camp.  The scene was like a bit out of fairy land,
so smiling and peaceful was it under the light of the
electric lamps.  The shadows of the low trees and bushes
were reflected in black masses in the water; and where the
shrubbery intercepted the light, there were dark and
romantic places, resembling hidden dells. 

They had scarcely set foot on the little island when
three or four men leaped out of the shadows and beset them.

Rackstraw knocked one of the rascals down at the first
blow; but this seemed not to frighten the others, who lunged
at him with knives.

It was a most dare-devil attack, considering the time and
place.  

The assailants were dark-visaged fellows, much resembling
those who had attacked Chicago Charlie several nights before
near the Javanese village in Midway Plaisance.

Neither Rackstraw nor Billy thought of this, at the time,
though they had been told of the attack by Chicago Charlie
and been warned to be on the lookout for these scamps.

Rackstraw was armed with a small pistol, but, disliking
to use it, he again struck out fiercely, catching one of the
fellows under the jaw.

But the one he had previously knocked down, was up and
coming at him again.

"Slide out, boy!" he whispered, turning to Billy, whom he
had placed protectingly behind him.  "They're determined to
slice us up!  Pull out, I'll foller ye!"

Billy, who was thoroughly alarmed by the fierceness of
the attack, obeyed this sound advice, running lightly out on
the bridge.

There seemed to be other forms moving in the bushes, as
if more black-browed men were hurrying up, and Jack
Rackstraw, menacingly waving his pistol, followed the boy.

Not much noise had been made in the short struggle, but
it had reached some of the guards, who were now seen to be
hurrying thither.

Rackstraw saw these guards coming, and became aware, too,
that the attacking force had as suddenly vanished.

A black look came to his face.

He saw clearly what had been attempted.  Whoever the
assailants were--whether friends of Zel Magruder or
not--they had striven to waylay the sailor and his boy chum,
and had chosen the island as offering the most favorable
point.

Doubtless they had thought to slay the two there and toss
the bodies into the lagoon.  Found thus, gashed with knives,
there would have been a sensation, it is true, but not much
chance of discovering the guilty parties.

Seeing that his enemies no longer threatened him,
Rackstraw turned to follow Billy Stubbs, but was surprised
to observe that the boy had disappeared.

Billy in fleeing across the bridge in advance of
Rackstraw, had seen a man on the opposite shore, whom he
took to be one of the assailing party.

Therefore, as soon as his feet left the bridge, he turned
sharply, and ran rapidly and silently, convinced that
Rackstraw was abundantly able to take care of himself and
sure the sailor would follow him almost immediately.  So he
ran on for some distance, scarcely looking back.

When he came to a halt at length, it was in the shadow of
the big 120-ton Krupp gun, which had not yet been moved into
the building devoted to the Krupp Gun Exhibit.

This monster cannon, the largest ever manufactured,
towered above the boy like an immense redwood log from a
Californian forest.

Billy, listening and waiting for the coming of Rackstraw,
was startled by a sound of light footsteps.

The footsteps were probably those of a peaceful
passer-by, but the gamin, being in an extremely nervous
state, attributed them to the advance of foes, and cast
about for a place of concealment.

Nothing offered but the yawning mouth of the big cannon.

It was like crawling down into the wide-open jaws of
death, to enter that black opening; but Billy Stubbs climbed
up to it and slid into the big hole feet foremost.

"What if the thing should be loaded, and should go off!"
was his scared thought.

Nevertheless, being already in the maw of the monster, he
did not deem it wise to crawl out, and reflection soon
convinced him that he was in no danger from an explosion of
the gun--for it would never have been brought in there
loaded to threaten human lives and the safety of the
buildings.

The interior of the big gun was not an uncomfortable
place, as he found, when his fears had subsided.

He began to wonder, though, how Jack Rackstraw was to
find him there, and, when no further alarming sound came to
disturb him, he was on the point of creeping out to look for
that redoubtable individual.

Then there came again the tread of footsteps, combined
with low-spoken words, and Billy knew that a number of men
had advanced and were grouped near the cannon's mouth.

Then he heard them mounting, by a stepladder or in some
manner; heard their talk grow louder; and then the
brightness of the electric lights suddenly disappeared,
leaving him in total darkness.

An iron cap had been placed over the cannon's mouth, and
Billy Stubbs was a prisoner!

CHAPTER XXII. BILLY AS A HERO.

A SENSE OF DEEP FEAR smote the newsboy, when he realized
that he had been thus imprisoned.  His natural thought was
that it had been the act of the men who had attacked him and
Rackstraw on the island.

Feeling thus, he remained perfectly quiet, until sure the
men had departed.  Even then he did no more than stir for
some time, not knowing but they might come back.

That they were a desperate lot, he had had ample proof.

"This hyer's a go!" he soliloquized, twisting uneasily in
his strange prison, "I never thought to get caught, when I
climbed up hyer.  It's almost as bad as the horse in the
Wild West!"

Truly his experiences of the night had been far from
pleasant!

The minutes crept by with feet of lead.  The men did not
return, nor could he hear Rackstraw's voice calling to him,
as he had half hoped he might.  The air became close, and he
wondered if he would be forced to remain in there until he
smothered.

The minutes lengthened into an hour.  Still Rackstraw did
not come.

The Exposition grounds grew strangely quiet.  The change
struck him strongly, for usually the stillness was not
remarkable.  He believed that even the guards had sought
their rest.

Billy could endure it no longer.  He crawled to the
cannon's mouth and placed his hands against the cap that
excluded the light and air.  It seemed as immovable as the
Cheops Pyramid.  Pushing against it with head and hands did
not stir it from its place.

He groaned aloud; then, becoming frightened, shouted for
help.

His voice within that confined space, seemed thrown back
on him in muffled waves.  He was sure it did not penetrate
to any distance.

Nevertheless, he called again and again, pitching his
tones to a shriek, as the thought that he was buried there
alive grew firmer and stronger.

It was no use beating his head against the cannon's cap,
and it appeared to be quite as useless to waste his breath
and strength in this sort of shouting.  But he could not
forbear, and again and again screamed his fear at the
echoing steel.

No one came in answer to his calls; and, thoroughly cowed
and almost exhausted, he remained quiet after a time,
convinced that help could not come to him.

He blamed himself for abandoning Rackstraw.  This would
not have occurred, if he had kept close to Rackstraw's side! 
He almost felt that he was being justly punished for leaving
Rackstraw to face their foes alone.  He told himself that
the act, performed in fear, had been cowardly, even though
Rackstraw had urged it.

Altogether, the newsboy never spent more miserable hours
than those he passed shut up in the big Krupp cannon.

But day came at last, when it seemed to the weary newsboy
that it never would come.

The electric lights burnt themselves out in the rays of
the rising sun; though it was not this fact that made Billy
Stubbs aware of the arrival of daylight.  It was the hum of
voices of early risers.

None of them passed near the big gun, and so did not hear
the calls that Billy again began to send up.

He longed intensely to be released, and yet feared the
result.  What would be said and done to him when he should
be found in there?  Would he be punished or placed under
arrest?

His calls ceased, as the dread of this pressed on him.

Then again he heard voices--the same, he was sure, he had
heard when the cap had been placed over the mouth of the
cannon.

He held his breath in suspense.

He could tell that the men were climbing up, as before.

Then the cap was taken away and the sunlight and air
poured in.

Billy Stubbs crouched in his prison like a spaniel
expecting castigation.

But the men, who were employees of the Krupp Gun Company,
instead of looking in, walked away.

The newsboy crept to the opening and peered out.

There was no one near; no one apparently looking in his
direction.  With his pulses thrilling, and feeling that this
was his golden opportunity, he crept out still further,
clutched the rim of the cannon's mouth with his hands and
dropped lightly to the ground.

He glanced fearfully about.

No one had observed him; and, feeling that he had made a
miraculous escape, he hastened away as rapidly as possible,
endeavoring to assume a nonchalant air.

Though the hour was early, men and women were already to
be seen moving about the buildings, and Billy realized that
it was high time he had his supply of morning papers. 
Usually he was distributing them at that hour.

A train of the Illinois Central Railway engaged in the
business of carrying excursionists to and from the grounds,
was ready to pull out for the city.

He deemed it not wise to make any search for Rackstraw at
that time.

"I reckon he's safe enough aboard the Andy Johnson" was
his inward comment.

He could see the funnels of the steamer, from where he
stood--the steamer lying at anchor near the pier.

There was little time for reflection.  Rackstraw had
always shown himself abundantly able to look out for number
one.  Therefore, certain that his sailor friend had come all
right through the difficulties of the night, Billy Stubbs
hurried aboard the train.

It pulled out almost at the same moment, going to the
city nearly empty.

In a remarkably short space of time, Billy returned by
the same way, laden with his supply of papers.

He glanced over one of them, while making the run to the
Exposition grounds.

A lot of startling headlines riveted his attention:

               "ROUGH RIDING!

           THE WILD WEST ASTONISHED!

       A WONDERFUL PERFORMANCE NOT DOWN
                  ON THE BILLS!

 How the Auditors of 'Buffalo Bill's Wild West
         and Congress of Rough Riders' Were
             Given a Genuine Sensation.

"The people who went to see the performance given at
Buffalo Bill's Wild West last night, were treated to a bit
of rough riding for which they had not come prepared.  The
races had gone off as usual, marked by their customary
success; and then came the event of the evening.

"The Pony Express act was in course of preparation, it
being the next thing on the programme, when a
roughly-dressed boy, but one showing in his every movement
that he was a most skillful rider, dashed in, mounted on the
most vicious of the bucking broncos.

"For a moment, those who had been looking for something
else stared.  But the performance then given was good enough
to atone for the absence of the Pony Express act.  The
bronco pranced and plunged, but his utmost skill was not
able to hurl the young centaur from his back.  Time and
again did the pony take those wild leaps.  It is doubtful if
any but the best of the cowboys could have held a seat on
him.  Yet the boy remained as firmly in the saddle as if he
were part and parcel of it.

"Buffalo Bill and Nate Salsbury were as much astounded as
any.  Where the boy had come from and who he was seemed
unknown.  Then, as an explanation, one of the cowboys
whispered aloud the secret.

"The young rough rider, who had taken this singular way
of introducing himself, was none other than Gunnison George,
celebrated throughout the Rocky Mountain region as the most
dare-devil horseman and bronco-buster ever known in the
West.  Although but a boy in years, it seems that Gunnison
George has attained his celebrity through genuine merit. 
Last season he rode in the famous trick race against
Sage-Bush Sweeney, and beat Sweeney at every point; and the
year before, when only sixteen years old, he broke and
subdued for the Farnham Brothers, of the Texas Panhandle, a
herd of as wild and vicious broncos as ever roamed the
cactus stretches of the great Staked Plains."

There was more of the same sort, nearly a column of it. 
Either the enterprising reporter had given free rein to his
exuberant imagination, or some one had "filled him full of
fairy stories."

Billy Stubbs stared as if his eyes would pop out of his
head.

"Gunnison George!" he gasped, holding the paper limply in
his hands and looking bewilderedly at the title thus
strangely bestowed him.

"Rocky Mountains!  Ridin' ag'inst Sage-Bush Sweeney! 
Breakin' ponies in the Panhandle!  What a lot o' rot that
reporter's been gittin' off!"

Yet, he was manifestly pleased at finding himself made a
hero in this remarkable way, and did not take his eyes from
the account until he had read it through.

A paragraph at the bottom caused him to stare more wildly
than ever:

"Gunnison George could not be found at the conclusion of
his own performance, though Salsbury, Burke, and even
Colonel Cody himself, sought everywhere for him.  If he is
still in the city, and sees these lines, he will know that
Colonel Cody greatly desires to see him, and will favor that
gentleman by calling at the Wild West exhibition."

"Phew!" and Billy Stubbs opened his eyes widely and
whistled his surprise.

He could hardly believe the paragraph true; but, on
turning to the "Personals," he found there one reading thus:

"If Gunnison George will call at the 'Wild West' he will
confer on me a favor.  W.F. Cody ("Buffalo Bill.")"

Fortunately for Billy Stubbs there were very few
passengers on the train at that early hour, else his excited
antics must have been noticed.

When he left the train and started out to distribute his
papers his mind was not at all on his task.  Indeed, he was
so exceedingly absent minded, that more than once he passed
a customer, who was forced to call sharply after him to get
the morning news.

The boy was in a quandary.

He was extremely desirous of seeing the great scout, of
whom he had heard so much, but he feared to make the
venture.  There was a grand mistake or deception somewhere. 
He knew that he was the rough rider referred to in the
laudatory newspaper account.  But he was equally sure he was
not Gunnison George of the Rocky Mountains.  Whether or not
there was any such famous horseman as Gunnison George he had
no means of knowing.

When he had sold his papers--he had retained in his
pocket the one he had read--he sought a quiet corner and
read over again and again that marvelous bit of reporting.

It almost drove his mind from all thoughts of the hours
he had spent in the cannon, and of Jack Rackstraw.

"If I could only find Chicago Charlie!" he mused.  "He
could tell me what to do.  Hanged if I can tell myself. 
Seems as if I ain't got head enough on me this morning to
know who I am.  Gunnison George!  Sage-Bush Sweeney!"

Thus muttering, he turned about and hurried across the
intervening ground to the lake front.  Thoughts of Chicago
Charlie had put him in mind of Jack Rackstraw, and he was
resolved to show the newspapers to Rackstraw and to be
guided by the sailor's advice.

Rackstraw had not slept much that night--in fact had
scarcely lain down.  After seeking everywhere for his young
chum, he had at last made his way to the Andy Johnson, and
gone on board.  But, he had not been able to rest, and was
now one of the first of those on the vessel whom Billy saw,
as the latter came hurrying down the wharf.

"You owdacious young rascal!" were the words that greeted
the newsboy; and though they were roughly couched, words
had never sounded sweeter, for the kindliness of the tones
belied the severity of the form of expression.

"Playin' larks on yer old chum, eh?  Is that what you've
been doin'?  I've a notion to take a boat-hook to ye!"

The Andy Johnson was lying against the wharf, and
Rackstraw sprung over the rail at a bound; and the next
moment was wringing Billy's hand with as much cordiality and
energy as if the boy were some long-lost brother.

"Tell me where you went las' night!  Out wi' it, or I'll
chuck you into the lake.  Here I've been a-turnin' gray
thinkin' you was dead, er something!"

Billy drew him away from the vessel's side, and showed
him the paper.

Rackstraw, when he saw the staring headlines, and read
enough to comprehend what was there printed, was 
dumbfounded.

"Some of them reporters hain't got good sense, Billy
Stubbs!  But, hang me! you did stick onto that critter like
mud!  What else does it say?"

"Buffalo Bill wants to see me!"

Billy pointed a forefinger at the personal.

Rackstraw roared like a steam whistle, so great was his
mirth.

"Gunnison George!  Hip-hip!"

He seemed about to break forth in a series of cheers.

"But what do you think of it?"

Rackstraw cooled down and rubbed his nose.

"What do I think of it?  Why, I do'--I mean, I'd go an'
see him!"

"Buffalo Bill?"

"Why not?" said Rackstraw.  "He's advertised fer ye. 
'Lost, strayed er stolen!  A boy rider, as is supposed to be
Gunnison George of the Rocky Mountains.  A reward of five
dollars fer returnin' of him to the Wild West show!'

"Them ain't the words, but, that's about what they means
ain't it?  Of course you'll go; an' I'll go along of you! 
Had any breakfast?"

"Not a bit.  Haven't had time!"

"Come aboard, then.  We'll talk it over while we're
takin' ballast!  Where'd you go las' night?"

Billy Stubbs was hungry enough to do justice to the food
Rackstraw placed before him; and between bites he placed his
friend in possession of the incidents of the night.

They were sufficiently astonishing to make the honest
sailor stare.

Rackstraw kept up a running fire of comment, that was
sometimes humorous and sometimes serious; and when Billy
had stowed away the last mouthful, the sailor announced his
readiness to go straight to the grounds of the Wild West.

CHAPTER XXIII. OUT OF THE SNARE.

PURSUING THE ADVENTURES of Billy Stubbs has led us too far
from Chicago Charlie and the dire peril in which he was
placed.

But for his forethought in communicating with the
inspector, he would have plunged to death, when he fell
blindly through the gloom into the basement of the old
house.

The crash of his fall had not ceased to be heard, when
there came a shrill whistle.  It was from the boy who had
lured him to the door, and who was now stationed without to
act as a sentinel.

The plans against Chicago Charlie had been most complete,
and the thoughts and aims of the planners had been most
murderous in their character.  They had emanated from
desperate men:--men who shrunk from nothing that looked to
securing their safety.

Two of them were advancing out of the gloom toward the
senseless detective, when that shrill and warning whistle
reached them.  They stopped instantly:

"Cops!"

This expressive exclamation was followed by a muttered
curse.

Then, abandoning their intentions concerning the
Columbian Detective, their dreaded foe, they sprung away
through the darkness and hurried to the floor above, where a
window permitted them to look out on the street.

What they saw told them that their worst suspicions were
correct.

Two or three men in citizens' clothing were on the street
just below the building, and others, similarly dressed, had
advanced into the small yard.  Still another was to be seen
at the foot of the rotten stairway.

"They've got the house surrounded!" one of the men
fearfully whispered, drawing back in much alarm.  "I reckon
we're in for it, Swipesey!"

His companion, who was none other than the fierce-eyed
villain of the Lakeside League, in low-toned maledictions,
cursed the Columbian Detective.

They saw they were in a trap, from which it would be
difficult to escape, and in consequence were much exercised.

"If we'd only done him up," growled the amiable Swipesey,
shaking his fist in the direction of the basement.  "He's
the cause of this!"

"That feller's comin' up the stairs!" announced the
other, who had again placed his face to the window.  "We've
got the slide!"

They did not take the trouble to discover the fate of the
boy, but, plunging again below stairs, they made their way
to a coal-hole opening on an alley.

The alley was guarded, but it offered the only way of
retreat.

"Two more cops out there!" Swipesey whispered back,
drawing in his head like a tortoise.  "We've got to make a
break for it, or s'render!"

"Not 'slong's I've got good legs under me, an' no bullets
in my back!" his companion growled.

Each of them was "wanted" for a dozen crimes, and the
knowledge of what capture meant for them made them
desperate.

Swipesey, who was in the lead, and who had peered out of
the coal-hole, took a bulldog revolver from his pocket and
nervously fingered it, as he again advanced to the opening.

At that moment they were made aware that the officers had
gained entrance to the house.  They could hear footsteps
lightly pacing the floor above them.

"If I go down, there'll be some one go down with me!"
Swipesey threateningly snarled, uneasily shifting the
revolver.  "Hyer I goes.  I'm goin' to dive for the alley
that's jist back."

The other was crowding close at his heels.

The next moment a revolver cracked at the street
entrance.

Swipesey and his "pard" had made a bold rush; and, being
detected in the act, had been fired on by the officer
stationed there.

Swipesey swung around, recklessly returned the shot, and
then sped on.

Other revolvers opened, ominously breaking the quiet of
the night.  But the shots did no execution; and these daring
members of the Lakeside League, having gained the other
alley, sped away unharmed.

The prompt intervention of the police had saved the life
of Chicago Charlie, but the police had not been able to hold
in their net his would-be murderers.

The boy who had given the alarm, had mysteriously
disappeared, and, though he was probably in hiding somewhere
in the house, the officers were unable to find him.

Those who had descended into the basement--for the broken
floor had shown where the detective was to be
found--discovered Clingstone, doubled in a heap among some
rubbish and broken boards, and still in an unconscious
condition.

But no bones had been broken, and his injuries were not
severe.  They amounted only to some contusions.

"Sound as a dollar, yet!" one of the policemen averred,
pressing a brandy flask to the detective's lips.  "Send for
an ambulance!"

The liquor had a reviving effect; and long before the
ambulance arrived, Chicago Charlie was able to sit up, and
announce his ability to stand, and even to walk.

"Thanks, boys!  You don't know how grateful I am for all
you've done for me, and desire to do; but I don't care to be
carried to a hospital in a wagon.  I'm all right, or will be
in a few minutes!"

As a proof of it he got on his legs, which, though they
upheld him, were a little unsteady.

However, the feeling of faintness and weakness soon
passed away, and, supported by his brother officers, he
walked into the street.

There they took a cab for the office of the inspector,
where they made their report.

"I was a fool for walking into that trap," Charlie
confessed.  "Perhaps, though, it will teach me a lesson."

Whether or not it did, will be seen later.

CHAPTER XXIV. THE SCENT OF A ROSE.

CHARLIE CLINGSTONE was much worried over this singular
attack.

Of course, he had no idea who the men were that had made
this attempt on his life, but the fact that such an attempt
had been made seemed to prove that his latest disguise had
been penetrated; and he returned to his room that night,
much depressed.

The strain of the last few days was telling on him
sorely.  Not a trace had he been able to find of Daisy
Malcomb.

"No news, no news!" he groaned, sinking his face in his
hands.

The hope that she might be found in that old house and be
rescued by him had been so rudely removed that it was even
yet a shock.

"Where can she be?  Where can she have gone?" he repeated
over and over, looking at the unanswering walls.

It was scarcely a relief to turn from thoughts of Daisy
to thoughts of John Malcomb.  The mysterious shape dimly
seen that night in the corridor continued to haunt him like
a depressing nightmare.

So far, he had not only failed to discover John Malcomb's
murderer, but new mysteries, which were insolvable,
thickened about him.

There were only three facts to which he could cling:
John Malcomb had been murdered!  Could he doubt that?

Carefully he went over the facts known to him: He had
seen Malcomb lying with rigid face in a pool of blood, which
had oozed from a wound in his back.  He had seen the bloody
attempt at writing on the wall.  He had handled the stained
knife--which was even now in his possession.  He had seen
Malcomb buried!

Yes, John Malcomb was dead.  There could not be the
shadow of a doubt of it.

What, then, had he seen that night in the Malcomb house?

That was the second mystery!

Had he seen anything?

Groaningly he pressed his hands against his aching head,
for the fear smote him that he was losing his mind.

The third mystery was the disappearance of Daisy.  And
that letter!  That letter!

He took it out and read it over again; as he had done so
many, many times before.

"My God, why did she do that?  Why did she leave in that
way?  Why did she not give me her reasons?"

The letters swam before his eyes.

"I'm done up!" he at length declared, rising.  "I must go
to bed and get some rest, or the result will be that I'll be
as dead as those rascals want me to be."

Though he went to bed, he slept little, tossing and
moaning restlessly throughout the remainder of the night.

He was hardly in condition for the work that might be
expected of him that morning; but he went, nevertheless, to
Youngblood's office in the Malcomb house, endeavoring to
hide his depression under a light and airy demeanor.

He had taken much pains to remove all evidences of the
dreadful fall he had received, and had succeeded remarkably
well.  But there was a heaviness about his eyes that could
not fail to attract the attention of a close observer.

It did not fail to attract the attention of Solon
Youngblood, who, when he came in, glanced keenly at his
secretary.

"Out too late last night, I'm afraid, Dennison!  Late
hours generally play the devil with a young fellow.  I
didn't know you were given to such dissipation?"

Dennison was the name which Charlie had given as his own.

He averred that he had not been dissipating, but felt a
little under the weather.  Then the work of the day was gone
through with in the usual manner.

So far, the Columbian Detective's efforts to secure proof
against Solon Youngblood by means of the letters and papers
in the office had amounted to nothing.  There were letters
and papers in abundance, but none of them contained what he
sought.

Youngblood seemed to be doing a brokerage business, for
his correspondence usually concerned the purchase and sale
of various kinds of stocks and securities.

It was in all respects an uneventful day.  Youngblood was
kind and courteous, the clerk painstaking and quiet; and
when the office hours came to a close, Youngblood crowned
the
kindness of the day by inviting the detective to spend the
evening with him at the house.

"I think it will do you good," was the assertion. 
"You're brooding over something, and I know it.  Mrs.
Youngblood will be delighted to see you, and we'll try to
make it as pleasant as we can.  May we look for you?"

Ordinarily this would have been a most pleasing
invitation.  Just then, however, Chicago Charlie felt in no
mood for the frivolities of light and fashionable small
talk.

He hesitated a moment before replying.

Then, feeling that no harm would come from it and that
something of importance might be developed, he replied,
accepting the invitation.

There never was a more gracious and charming woman than
Mrs. Solon Youngblood, when she took the trouble to make
herself so.  She was an intelligent woman, and she was
handsome and brilliant--possessing an indescribable chic and
fund of vivacity.  And on this evening she strove to make
herself most agreeable.

There were cards, and afterward a light luncheon, with
excellent coffee, served in fragile, egg shell cups.

At any other time, or under other circumstances, Chicago
Charlie might have enjoyed the evening.  But he felt ill at
ease.  Nor could the sparkling talk of the beautiful woman
who called herself Mrs. Solon Youngblood win him away from
morbid thoughts.  Besides, he felt that these people were
not friends;--felt, somehow, deep down in his heart, that
they knew that they were not his friends, but were making
this effort for a purpose.

He recalled the experience of the night before.  But for
that he might not have harbored a suspicious thought.  But
that told him his disguise had been penetrated by
enemies;--and the chief of his enemies, he was quite sure,
was this smiling man who sat beside him:--Solon Youngblood.

Nevertheless, in spite of his depressing reflections and
conjectures, he strove to appear at ease; and that he did
not fully succeed was in nowise his fault.  Many another man
would have failed even more entirely.

At last, when he felt that it was almost time for him to
go, he found himself alone with Mrs. Youngblood.  The
discovery did not disturb him at once, for he expected
Youngblood to return to the apartment at any moment.

But when Solon did not come, he began to fidget, his
uneasiness slowly growing.

Mrs. Youngblood's keen eyes were on him.

"I weary you with my prattle," she confessed.

Then she got up quickly; and, placing two small glasses
on the table, poured wine into each.

He shook his head.

"Hasn't your husband told you of my temperance
proclivities?" he questioned, mildly looking at her.  "But
for that, I should be glad to join with you!"

She pushed the glass away.

Only a minute before he had refused to taste the bit of
apple she had laughingly offered.

He was becoming intensely suspicious and alert, and Mrs.
Solon Youngblood could hardly have failed to notice it.

Looking at her, as she stood there, smiling and handsome,
he could not but think of the Borgias.  Was Lucretia ever so
charming, so winning--so dangerous?

"You will at least take this as a souvenir of your call?"
and she carefully took from her bosom the large rose which
he had more than once admired that evening.  "I hope you
have had a most pleasant time; and am I presumptuous in
wishing that we may be able to see you here again, some
evening, in the not distant future?"

She extended the rose, which he could scarcely refuse to
accept.  His distrust of this woman seemed preposterously
silly.  He was a man and armed.  How could she harm him, if
he remained on guard against poison?  If they had meant
poisoning they would have attempted it earlier in the
evening.

He took the rose, which was a large and handsome one, and
pressed it against his nostrils, clasping it rather tightly
with his fingers.

Instantly from the heart of the rose came a blinding
explosion.  An impalpable, peppery powder filled his eyes
and overpowering odors suffocated him and rendered him
half-unconscious.

He heard Mrs. Youngblood give a little tittering laugh,
and knew that she had advanced close to his chair.

It was a large arm chair, in which he had remained seated
most of the evening.

He crouched in it now, blinded and helpless, and hardly
knowing what he was doing.

Then he felt himself clasped by strong arms.

The beautiful fiend who had given him the explosive rose,
had touched a spring beneath the chair; and iron hooks,
which had seemed part of the chair's framework, had clasped
him in a steely embrace!
                         
CHAPTER XXV.  A BEAUTIFUL FIEND.

THE GRASP OF THOSE STEELY ARMS, brought him back to a
full sense of his peril.  The peppery powder still partially
blinded him, and his eyes felt on fire.  Nevertheless, he
strugglingly strove to rise from the chair.

The laugh of Mrs. Solon Youngblood sounded cruelly in his
ears.

"Quite a little surprise, is it not?" came the mocking
question.  "I have another rose here.  Do you think you
would care for it?"

Through his blurred vision he saw her pluck at her
corsage.

But no other indignity immediately followed.

"You were in too great haste to leave me," she sneered. 
"Do you think I care only for the company of Mr. Youngblood? 
It is not often I have the pleasure of speech with so
gallant a young gentleman as yourself."

There was a bitterness in the words that showed she was
not pleased that her efforts to amuse and hold him at her
side had seemed so impotent.  If there was one thing more
than another on which Mrs. Solon Youngblood flattered
herself, it was her ability in that line.

"My God, woman!  What do you mean to do with me?" the
Columbian Detective managed to ejaculate.  "What is the
meaning of this outrage?"

"You are a very shrewd man and a very capable man, Mr.
Dennison, but you're not always as wide-awake as you might
be.  I do not think the police will appear to-night to
release you!  You forgot to warn them, did you not?"

Then Chicago Charlie understood the full strength of the
plot.

Having failed in their attempt of the night previous, a
resort had been had to an even bolder game by those who had
then sought his life.

He now knew that, whoever had been the parties luring him
to the old house, Solon Youngblood was their leader and
directing spirit.

"You're a very smart man, Chicago Charlie!  But the
smartest men sometimes make mistakes.  You will not have the
opportunity to make many more."

Any one not understanding the meaning of the words might
have thought that this handsome creature was addressing the
man before her in the most cordial way, for the sting hidden
in their depth was so subtle as to be almost
indistinguishable.

Yet Chicago Charlie caught it, and writhed in impotent
rage and pain.

She passed a handkerchief delicately across his face,
removing much of the substance that had so blinded him.

Then she stood before him, flashing on him a most defiant
look.  A look, too, that was full of hate and scorn.

"You think we haven't known you," she asserted.  "But you
were never more mistaken.  We have known you from the first
day--from the first hour!"

The fierceness of a tigress was now in her tones.

Chicago Charlie groaned and struggled anew.  He might as
well have saved his strength.  The steel arms that had
clasped him were tenacious in their grip, and he could do
absolutely nothing to release himself.  He could only look
at the fair fiend who was thus exasperatingly tormenting
him.

"Why don't you kill me, and be done with it, if that is
your intention?" he questioned, rendered desperate.

But for the thought that he had been so duped, Chicago
Charlie would as soon have died there, as anywhere.  The
despondency of despair was seizing him and life seemed
scarcely worth the purchase.

It will be remembered that he had suffered much during
the week past; that his fondest hopes had been dashed to the
ground, that failure had followed every effort.  More than
once had he felt that he did not care for life.

Yet he did not wish to die like a rat in a trap.

"Do your worst, woman!" he imperiously commanded.  "A
man can only die once; and I don't know that it matters much
when that one time comes.  It's a question whether a long
life is better than a short one."

She laughed him in the face.

"You hope to induce me to kill you there, and so end the
play.  I am not ready, for I'm afraid it might please you,
and I do not care to please the kind of man you are known to
be!"

She took up from the table another rose, whose
perfume--so sweet and fragrant--Charlie had more than once
noticed.

Then she took from a pocket a small bottle, and sprinkled
its contents lavishly on the petals.

"Another flower!" she whispered, balefully advancing.

He drew back, with almost a cry of terror.  The bottle
had held chloroform.

"My poor, dear boy! Don't you like the smell of a rose?"

That mocking smile had come back to her lips.

The detective, clutched by those steely arms, could not
lift a hand to push her from him.

"There is no trick about this!" she smilingly urged.  "It
is only a plain every-day rose, with a little perfume
sprinkled over it."

She had knelt at his side; and now, laying a hand
caressingly on his shoulder, she lifted the flower to his
nostrils.

He fought and almost screamed; but he could do nothing,
except shake his head, to repel this novel attack.

"Smell it!" she crooningly urged.  "You are excited.  You
are feverish!  It will soothe you.  It will make you sleep. 
Sleep is what you want, my poor fellow.  Sound, never-ending
sleep!"

At every sentence, she crowded the rose against his face,
holding it there in spite of his exertions to escape from
it.

Notwithstanding his determination to withstand the
effects of the chloroform, an indescribable feeling of
drowsiness began to take possession of him.

More than once, he roused himself, when he heard the
crooning voice of this female wretch taking on a distant and
suggestive sound.

Then he would rage again; only to drop back into
half-somnolence, under the effects of the Lethean drug.

"Sleep is what you want, my poor fellow! Sound,
never-ending sleep!"

These words came to him like the tinkle of a bell, or the
lulling voice of falling water.

Once more, he threw off the strange spell, and shook from
himself the dragging weight that sat on his shoulders.

"I will not yield to that infernal stuff!" he screamed. 
"Take it away!  Take it away!"

"It is what you need!" came the crooning tones again. 
"What you need.  What you need!"

It seemed to him that those words, "what you need!" were
being repeated over and over, until they ran into a lulling
song.

His head drooped.

Lower and lower it sunk on his breast.  His breathing
became labored.

Still Mrs. Solon Youngblood pressed that deadly rose
against his mouth.

Lower and lower sunk the head.

Then the muscles of the helpless man wholly relaxed, and
he lay as limp as if dead.

CHAPTER XXVI. IN PERIL DIRE.

CHICAGO CHARLIE WAS AROUSED by a dash of water.  A
breaking "whitecap," hurling its spray, touching him, and
its coolness brought a gasp of returning sensibility.  He
opened his eyes slowly and strove to rise.

But he sunk back, through sheer weakness, and because of
the terror inspired by his discovery.

He was in an open boat, in the midst of a stormy sea, on
a starless night!  A flash of lightning revealed this; and
the roll of the thunder's reverberation drowned the cry that
rose to his lips.

Again he strove to lift himself.  A sense of peril made
alert his mental faculties, but the lethargic influences of
the drug still held his muscles in a powerful grasp.

When the Columbian Detective had succumbed to the
influence of the chloroform, and Mrs. Solon Youngblood saw
that he had become unconscious, she gave him a keen glance,
and then moved softly away.

She was back in a very few moments, and at her heels
tip-toed two men.  Both were masked and armed; though any
one with suspicions quickened could have seen that the
taller of the two was Solon Youngblood.

"He knows no more than a stone," she whispered,
indicating the chair where lay the helpless detective.

She had turned the light low, and only a subdued gloom
reigned in the apartment.

Solon Youngblood and his companion advanced as if they
feared the victim of her wiles might awaken.

The knowledge of the cruel thing they meant to do,
oppressed them with its terror.  Besides, they had so
frequently been balked in their schemes against the life of
the Columbian Detective that they were not certain even yet
that their prey would not slip through their fingers.

Solon Youngblood was physically a powerful man, and it
was seemingly no difficult thing for him to lift the body of
Chicago Charlie, unaided even by the man who had come to
assist him.

He drew the limp form erect, while Mrs. Youngblood shot
back the steel arms of the chair; and both smiled, when they
saw what a harmless-looking chair it became when those
hidden claws were once more out of sight.

The two men then bore the detective from the room,
descending quietly with him to the street.

A cab was there in waiting, in which their burden was
placed; they climbing in after it.

Then the whip was laid on the horse and the cab rolled
away toward the northern part of the city, its ultimate
destination being the lake front.

For a long time the quick gait was continued.

There were very few people on the streets; for, in
addition to the lateness of the hour, the wind was
hysterically screaming, and heavy masses of black clouds
portended a storm.  Occasionally a crooked tongue of flame
lighted the sky, which was followed by a peal that caused
the houses to shake.

Unmindful of these disagreeable circumstances--being in
fact rather gratified by them--the driver of the cab held
quietly and serenely on his way.  He had no desire to
attract attention.

The stacks of tall buildings marking the business
portions of the city had been long passed, and they were now
nearing the suburbs.  The cottages seemed interminable,
stretching on mile after mile.  It was most exasperating to
the two villains in the cab, who were so desirous that the
work upon which they had entered should be brought to a
speedy end.

Then the cottages began to disappear, clumps of trees
became more numerous, and larger plots of ground grew
common.

But even yet the driver did not draw rein; nor did he
stop until the last house had been left far behind and the
sound of waves told him that the lake was near.

When a flash of lightning showed him the tumbling waters
just in front, he brought the cab to a halt; and, climbing
down, swung open one of the doors.

"A cursed long time you were getting here!" Youngblood
growled, scrambling down and stretching his cramped limbs. 
"Seems to me you have driven far enough to have reached the
State line.  How many miles are we out, anyhow?"

The fellow was not pleased at the tone and his reply was
little more than a surly growl.

Youngblood laughed, bitterly.

"Well, we'll not quarrel.  Neither of us can afford to. 
But I thought we'd never have done with it.  My back's broke
with stooping over that fellow, applying that chloroform to
his nose.  I thought the fumes of the stuff would do me up. 
'Twould have been a go, if you'd found all three of us lying
in there asleep!"

He laughed again, showing a desire to mollify the surly
driver.

"Are you ready to take him out?" came the voice of the
third member of the party, who was still in the cab.

At this Youngblood and the driver turned to the door; and
the limp form of the detective being pushed into view, they
seized it, drew it out, and bore it down to the sands of the
lake shore.

Then the driver went back to tie the horse and to scout
around a bit to make sure they had not been observed.

When he returned, Solon's assistant had produced two
boats from some point in the darkness, and he was now
standing by these, having drawn them up on the sandy point.

Youngblood was kneeling at Chicago Charlie's side, again
applying an odorous handkerchief.

"Curse the fellow, he's got a head like iron!  Bear a
hand here, and we'll have done with it.  I don't like the
looks of the lake, but it's all the better for our little
scheme."

The threatenings of the storm were increasing.  There had
been several dashes of rain; and, as he spoke, there came
another.  The sand, caught up by the stiff breeze, flew in a
shower.

"If we don't hurry we'll not be able to get out on the
lake at all."

He had caught the detective by the shoulders and, his
companions coming to his aid, Chicago Charlie was lifted
into the smaller of the two boats.  Both were then pushed
into the water.

Seated in the first, or larger, to which the second was
attached by a rope, the three men began to strain and tug at
their oars, moving by almost imperceptible degrees out into
the waste of stormy waters.

For a time they made very little progress, it being about
all they could do to keep the head of the boat pointed in
the right direction.

Chicago Charlie had not been bound before being placed in
the boat, it being the intention of his enemies to cast the
boat adrift, when they had made a good offing.  It seemed
pretty certain that the waves would ultimately engulf it,
and this was the more assured by the gathering strength of
the storm.  Even should he return to consciousness, a thing
they did not deem likely, he would be utterly helpless in
that small boat, without oars and uncertain of his position.

They believed that he would be drowned; and that his body
and the submerged or overturned boat being found the next
day, there would arise a very natural supposition that he
had ventured out alone, and been thus lost.

Solon Youngblood was one of the craftiest of his ilk, and
never took chances when he could avoid it.

When they had succeeded in placing a considerable
distance between themselves and the land, they found the
work of rowing much easier.  The waves did not run as high
as nearer in, and the "white caps" did not break so
furiously.

Nevertheless, they were drenched with spray, and but for
their exertions would have been chilled and very
uncomfortable.

But they did not cease their rowing until as much as a
mile yawned between the boats and the shore.  Then
Youngblood, crouching in the stern of the boat, took hold of
the rope and drew the other boat alongside.

Climbing in it, he again applied to the nostrils of the
insensible man a handkerchief steeped in chloroform, of
which he appeared to have plentiful supply.  Then he cast
the handkerchief from him, climbed back into the first boat,
and removed the rope from the boat in which lay the
detective.

He was very careful in all he did, that nothing should be
left to indicate the real manner of Chicago Charlie's death.

The wind which was from the north, caught the boat of the
helpless detective and soon bore it from sight.  But for the
frequent play of the lightning it could not have been seen
ten feet away.

Something like a malediction arose to the lips of
Youngblood, as he saw the little craft float out of sight,
and a sigh of relief fell from his lips.  They were pallid
lips, with almost the hue of death on them; for, in spite of
his iron nerve and hardened nature, the deed of this night
sat heavy on his conscience.

But he had been so hounded and harassed by the Columbian
Detective that he had felt called to resort to extremes; and
there was no doubt he would have repeated the act had it
been necessary.

The waves rose higher and higher, lashing the breast of
the lake with their spray, and the uncertain rain fell in
drenching showers, at frequent intervals.  It was truly a
wild night and growing wilder.  But not yet had the storm
broken in full force.

The little boat containing the detective already held a
great deal of water; and when Chicago Charlie was aroused by
that flirt of the waves, and looked so startledly about him,
he was made aware of the fact that he was lying in a pool of
water that had soaked his clothing through and through.

His mind acted quickly, and it took him but a moment to
comprehend to the full his terrible situation.  The
incidents of the night returned in quick succession.  The
last he could recall was that scene in the room of the
Malcomb house, with Mrs. Solon Youngblood kneeling at his
side, pressing the rose to his lips, and whispering those
lulling slumberous words.

All that followed was a blank; yet he knew where he was. 
Not the exact position of the boat, nor how far from land;
but he knew that he was out on the lake, and in peril most
dire.

Again he tried to lift himself; and finally succeeded so
well that he could sit half erect with head resting against
the boat's side.

He waited impatiently for a friendly lightning-flash.

It came, showing him his utter helplessness.

The boat was oarless and tossing at the mercy of the
waves.  The lightning-flash revealed something else.  A
towering billow that threatened to engulf him.

He closed his eyes, uttered a prayer, expecting to find
himself the next instant struggling in the water.  But a
yeasty line appeared at the apex of the green roller, which
thus broke harmlessly, and the boat rode safely in the milky
sea.

But a second lightning-flash revealed another billow,
towering still higher, and the detective closed his eyes in
terror, feeling that he was indeed lost.

CHAPTER XXVII. TRACKING ZEL MAGRUDER.

BILLY STUBBS WAS IN HIGH GLEE.  No interview he had ever
had, had resulted more satisfactorily than the one just held
with Buffalo Bill.  Not only had the great scout been kind
and courteous; but, seeing in the boy evidences of talent in
the horseback line, he had offered to give him a position,
and train him for the work of a rough rider.

Billy had felt forced to decline this most generous
offer.  Just now he owed allegiance to Chicago Charlie, and
the work Chicago Charlie had given him remained unperformed.

"Well, think over it!  There are plenty of riders to be
had, but I believe you might make your mark in that line. 
You have the native ability."

Billy was not so sure of this, remembering the terror
inspired by the bronco; but he did not refuse the season
pass to the Wild West exhibition, which the famous scout
placed in his hand. 

Rackstraw was equally favored, and the two went away
smiling and happy.  Luck had surely been with them.

"I'll be expectin' to kick up gold dollars from the
sidewalk, next," Rackstraw averred, his mouth distended in a
grin.  "I say, now, Billy Stubbs, that was the handsome
thing!  Buffalo Bill ferever!  Rah, rah!  Hip, hip!"

He swung his cap, and, but for the time and place, would
have given vent to his exuberance in a series of roaring
cheers.

Two nights later Billy Stubbs was again on the trail of
Zel Magruder; and the trail led him, as before, into the
camp of the Gypsies.

He crouched for a time in the shadow of the tent usually
occupied by Gypsy Nell; and then, finding a favorable
opportunity, when Zel and the crone were both talking
outside, he crept into the tent himself and sought
concealment beneath a pile of straw.

The straw was hardly in place over him when the two came
back, continuing the conversation.

The words were of a startling character.

"I don't think you ought to have anything to do with that
girl, Zel!" the crone was protesting.  "You'll go and git
yerself into the worst snarl that ever was.  Mind what I
tell you!"

"You're always growlin'!" Magruder made answer.  "Nothin'
I can do any more pleases you.  It's Zel don't do this, an'
Zel don't do that, tell you run me wild.  What in the
dickens would you have me do, anyhow?"

"I wouldn't have you lay a finger on Daisy
Malcomb--that's what!"

"I hain't laid no finger on her.  I hain't teched her.  I
dunno as I've spoke to her."

"See, then, that you don't!"

"Anything else, old growler?" and Zel threw himself into
a rickety chair and squinted up at the crone.

"Where've ye got her?"

He winked and laid a finger against the side of his nose.

"Guess, Nell!  You're a fortune-teller an' ought to be
good at guessin'.  If ye can't, I won't tell ye.  It's one
of the rules I don't dare to break!"

Billy Stubbs was wild with excitement, and so quick and
hard did his breathing become that more than once he was on
the verge of self-betrayal.

He could not see their actions; but, when the crone's
words again reached him, they showed that she had turned
away and was in another part of the tent.  But they were as
crabbed as before.

"You break them rules ever' five minutes, an' yet you're
always talkin' about keepin' them.  You'll hang yerself yit,
Zel Magruder!  Mark my words!"

"Then I won't git drownded, er chopped up in a railroad
accident!"

Zel plucked a straw from Billy's hiding-place, and
thoughtfully chewed it, as he nursed his chin.

"Say, what makes ye so blamed int'rested in that girl?"

"None o' your business!" grunted the old woman.  "You
won't tell me nothin', an' oughtn't expect anything better
in return."

Zel subsided, but still chewed at the straw.

Billy's suspense was great.  Was he to learn anything of
importance?

Had he not already done that?  He knew that Chicago
Charlie would hail with delight any news assuring him that
Daisy Malcomb was alive.

There could be no doubt, he thought, that Daisy was
alive, and held somewhere by the Lakeside Leaguers.  Oh! if
Magruder had only told where!

But Magruder grew silent and obstinate, after that
repulse by the old woman; and, finally spitting away the
straw, he got up and sullenly left the tent.

"He'll be hung, yit!" Billy heard the crone mutter.  "I
do'no', though, as I'll care.  He ain't no good.  No; he's
bad from top to toe; an' he'll bring ruin on all o'us,
sooner er later!"

Billy was in a quandary.  He intensely desired to follow
Zel, and there was no way of getting out of the tent.  The
crone showed no intention of immediately leaving it, but
moved about, engaged in some occupation, all unmindful of
the spy, who lay crouching almost at her feet.

Suddenly Gypsy Nell was startled by a sneeze.  It was a
sneeze, too, of mammoth proportions, and came apparently
from the ground just in front of her.

One of the straws had got into Billy's nose, and brought
forth that prodigious sound.

In spite of her years, the crone was keen-eyed and
shrewd.  She knew her senses had not deceived her, and she
was equally sure that the sound had not issued from the
earth.

Rightly divining that the straw must hold some one
concealed, she stepped toward it, and with a stick carefully
raked it away, standing back as if she expected a rat to
scud out.

She gave a little scream of fright, when her eyes fell on
Billy.

The newsboy leaped up, hoping to make his escape.

But the Gypsy woman caught him by the collar of his coat
and held him with a grasp that was remarkably firm and
strong.  In vain did Billy squirm and twist.  He could not
wrench himself loose.

"No yer don't, you young rascal!  Not till you tell me
what you mean by this!  What you doin' under that straw, in
my house?"

Billy saw that he must assume a bold front.

"Call this a house?" he said, facing her bravely. 
"Thought this hyer was a Gypsy tent.  Come in hyer awhile
ago, I did, to git me fortune told, and dropped down there
an' went to sleep.  Wasn't nobody hyer to wait on me."

Nell knew he was lying.

She flung him into a chair, and took a seat where she
could prevent his escape.

Something in the boy's face attracted her, and she looked
at him keenly and closely, bending forward in her
inspection.

Billy stared in surprise.

"Think mebbe I'm Charlie Ross, hay?  Well, I hain't,
then?  If you're a fortune-teller you ort to know who I am."

"I do!" she averred.  "I know a good deal more about you
than you do yourself.  Zel Magruder's lookin' for you!"

Billy half arose in fright.

"Set down there!  He's not comin' back right away.  Now,
what's your name?"

"Lost it awhile ago!" Billy declared.

"What's your name?" she impatiently demanded, tapping the
ground with the stick, which she still held.

"Gunnison George, o' the Rocky Mountains!" said Billy.

"Who calls you that?"

"The newspapers!  Didn't ye see 'em today?  Gunnison
George, what beat Sage-bush Sweeney in that big trick race
last year!"

"That isn't your name!" shaking her head in a manner to
show she was not pleased.  "You call yourself Billy Stubbs. 
That isn't your name, either!"

Billy was quite shaken out of the snarl of falsehoods he
was weaving, by this unexpected declaration.

"What is it, then?" he asked, his face showing his sudden
interest.

She laughed.

"I thought I'd catch you!"

"Then you don't know what my name is?  What made ye say
that, I'd like to know?"

"Oh, I don't know!  Perhaps it's because I believe you're
a Gypsy!"

Billy's mouth flew open.

"A Gypsy?"

"That's what I said.  A Gypsy!  You wouldn't like to join
our band, now, would you?  I'm sure you're a Gypsy!"

CHAPTER XXVIII.QUEER TALK OF THE GYPSY CRONE.

BILLY, WHO HAD BEEN MUCH FRIGHTENED at first, had
completely lost this fear, and was now intensely interested.
Therefore, when the crone imperiously took his hand, he did
not offer to withdraw it.

"You said awhile ago you came here to git yer fortune
told!  You didn't; but I'll tell it for ye, anyway.  It must
be an interestin' fortune, by the look of yer face.  Want to
hear it?"

Billy thought of Zel Magruder.

She interpreted his glance, for he had turned in a
frightened way eying the door of the tent.

"That rascal ain't comin' back fer a good while.  I think
he's goin' out on the lake.  If he don't, he's got a
sweetheart that'll keep him, so you needn't be afraid o'
Zel."

Billy wondered why she spoke to him in that manner.  Why
was she so friendly?  Did she entertain evil designs against
him?

The questions were unanswerable, and he thought it unwise
to put them into words; but they made him uneasy.

The crone was closely examining the palm of his hand.

"It's an interestin' fortune, anyway," she exclaimed. 
"You've had experience enough to make a book."

Billy became possessed of mingled feelings of fear and
awe.

"Sho!  You don't see anything there!"

"I see the lake.  I see a boy struggling in the water. 
Is the boy Billy Stubbs?  Yes, it is Billy Stubbs!"

"Sounds like a lesson out of the second reader," thought
Billy.

Nevertheless, he wondered much at what he heard.

"He has been knocked into the lake; but he does not
drown!  He swims ashore!"

"You're off, there," Billy mentally commented; but still
he held his peace.

"Now he is tracking a man.  It is a little man."

"Of course she knows about me follerin Zel Magruder!" was
Billy's scornful thought.  "Who couldn't tell them kind o'
fortunes?"

"This little man has a sweetheart, who is also a
Gypsy--an Egyptian Gypsy!"

This was so manifestly a reference to the dancing girl
that Billy's interest quickened.

"She is blood of the Gypsy blood, though she sometimes
claims not to be; an' she an' the little man are gitting too
thick to thrive.

"Ah! the boy is a Gypsy, too.  Three Gypsies!--like the
three little Indians all in a row.  Blood of one blood; and
blood is--is it thicker than water?  That's what the Gypsies
say!

"It's redder sometimes! and there's a stain of it on the
hands of the little man.  He has tried to wash it off, but
can't.  It is the red red stain of murder."

Billy Stubbs's eyes had taken on a staring look and his
lips were parted.

Then the old woman, pretending thus to tell his fortune,
recounted the incidents of the murder of John Malcomb; very
much as she had recounted them to Daisy Malcomb; only that,
in this instance, the murder was manifestly attributed to
Zel Magruder instead of the Englishman, Selwyn Fisher.

Billy Stubbs would have been more puzzled than ever if he
had known of that other "fortune," told several days before.

He was puzzled enough as it was; though he was keen
enough to know that she was striking at Magruder.

What most mystified him was that she should thus seek to
cast suspicion on Magruder.  She must indeed have hated the
little Gypsy intensely!

She was through at last; and Billy Stubbs realized that
of himself she had really told nothing--save that he was a
Gypsy--blood of the Gypsy blood.

He did not believe this.  Was sure it could not be true.

She cast away the hand, showing that she had finished.

"Is that all?" Billy questioned.

"Would you want more?"

Billy looked at her keenly; and would have given much to
know what was passing in her mind.

"Why did Zel Magruder go out on the lake to-night?"

It was a bold venture; but the very boldness of the
question seemed to please the woman.

"You're a Gypsy!" she declared.  "Blood of the Gypsy
blood!  Otherwise I would not speak to you this way.  But
Zel Magruder is a bad man.  He will be hung.  He will ruin
us all.  If it wasn't for that, I do'no' as I'd care how
soon the rope was put around his neck."

"Why did he go out on the lake?  There's a cargo comin'
in!  There's always cargoes comin' in!  'Stuff' _he_ calls
'em!"

She bent her head still nearer, seeming to fear her words
might be heard.

"Do you know what that 'stuff' is, Billy Stubbs?  It's
rich goods, smuggled in from Canada; that's what it is.  Oh;
they're a bad lot, them smugglers; and Zel is about the
worst among 'em.  As I said, he's bound to be hung!

"He lays around hyer, watches the police an' the
officers, an' then slips out in a boat to a certain place,
an' tells the smugglers all he can learn."

Her eyes were blazing, her skinny hands worked
convulsively, and her voice shook.

Billy would have been as senseless as a block if he had
not seen what she intended; she knew he was a spy of the
police; and she hoped what she thus communicated would be
borne to the authorities.

She sunk her voice still lower, until it was only a
shrill whisper.

"They've got a den somewhere on the Michigan shore; I
dunno jist where.  But it's on the Michigan shore!  On the
Michigan shore!  Zel told me so one night!"

"An' Zel is a-goin' out on the lake to-night?"

She nodded:

"He's already gone!"

"Does he go out every night?" Billy asked.

"Not every night.  Generally not more than once a week. 
But he goes out again to-morrow night.  It's but a small
cargo to-night.  To-morrow night the big cargo will come in!
To-morrow night the big cargo will come in!"

She bent swayingly forward, and rocked herself as she
repeated these words:

"To-morrow night the big cargo will come in!"

Her eyes were blazing unnaturally.  Her voice was husky
with passion or hate.  Her form shook.

Billy, drinking in her words, could but stare at her and
marvel.

She checked herself by an effort and arose from her
chair.

"I have been a fool!" she declared, with fierce
bitterness.  "I reckon old Nell is losin' her mind.  You'd
better go; and I don't think you'd better come back again. 
Zel Magruder would like to put his fingers on you!"

Her entire manner had changed.  There seemed a revulsion
of feeling; or perhaps she felt that she had carried her
revelations too far.  Zel Magruder was a member of the band,
and she probably realized that as such she owed some
fealty.

"You'd better go!"

The words were snarled, and Billy Stubbs saw that it was
not wise to remain longer.  Besides, if he hoped to do
anything that night--if he hoped to thwart Magruder's plans
or learn anything from them, it was high time for him to
leave.

He knew not what to say as a farewell; so he said
nothing, but picked up his hat from the heap of straw and
hastened out into the night and away from the Gypsy
encampment.

What a budget of news he would have for Chicago Charlie,
to be sure!  His heart glowed with the thought.  Daisy
Malcomb was alive, and held by the smugglers; most likely
held in that den on the Michigan shore.  He believed the
words of the crone meant all that.  That was the most
important of the many things he would have to tell, though
the others were of almost infinite value to his detective
friend.

Should he try to follow Magruder, or should he seek
Chicago?

He decided on the latter course; but, when he went in
search of the Columbian Detective, the latter was not to be
found in his usual haunts.

CHAPTER XXIX.THE WORK OF THE LIFE CREW.

"HARK!"

Clear and sharp came the explanation; and the bow oar of
the life-boat rested, poised in mid-air.

Within the boat sat a crew of hardy men, listening now
with straining ears, and watching with straining eyes, as
the life-boat rose on the heavy waves.

Thick gloom was about them, except when the bright
lightning burned across the sky, splitting the darkness like
the flaming sword of an archangel.

The lake storm was on in all its fury, and the
reverberations of the thunder rolled like the tones of
deep-throated cannon.  The spray blew blindingly--seemingly
one continuous sheet; and the rain that hissed downward to
meet it seemed to cement earth and air in a wall of water.

It was truly a wild night, and the most fearless of the
life crew was fully aware of his peril.

The life-boat had bravely pulled out from the lake shore
directly in front of the "White City,"--pulled out into the
storm and darkness, in answer to a cry that had come ringing
over the boiling waves.  It had been a despairing cry;--a
cry that told of a human life in deadly peril.

On the shore of the lake, and part of the Great World's
Fair Exhibition, is the home of the life crew.  This home, a
model United States Life Savings Station, lies close to the
great, brick battle-ship, Illinois; and in the waters in
front of the station, the life crews were accustomed to
demonstrate to curious crowds of sights-seers the methods by
which lives were saved from the sea.

But they were expecting real work, now; not play.

All through the night the men at the life-station had
watched the angry sky and the threatening storm; feeling
that there would likely be wrecks that night, and human
lives in peril.

As the lightning blazed, the men of this boat crew were
fully outlined as they sat anxiously in the boat, swinging
high on the rollers.  Their faces were stern and set.  The
grasp of the oars had something of nervousness in it.  About
each strong chest might have been seen a life-preserver.

A backward glance would have revealed, too, in that blaze
of light, the towering domes of the great Exposition.  It
was like a palace of Aladdin, lighted by a torch down-thrust
from the sky.

But they did not glance backward toward the White City,
but out toward the stormy waters of the open lake.

"Hark!" came the exclamation again.

Again the cry had been heard.

This time the direction was noted; and the boat's head
swinging round a point, the men bent to their oars with
right good will, and the boat forged toilingly through the
sea.

Those despairing cries had come from the lips of the
Columbian Detective!

With stiffened limbs, and body chilled and cramped, he
was clinging desperately to an overturned boat, hoping and
praying that help might come to him, yet almost believing
that it could not.  The north wind, breaking into a furious
storm, had sent the little boat down the lake, and the
tumbling waves had beaten it inch by inch shoreward; until
now it rolled less than a mile away and straight out from
the Exposition grounds.

A gleam of those white towers came now and then to the
despairing detective, bringing a ray of hope.

More than once since the boat had overturned had he
thought of abandoning it in an attempt to reach the land by
swimming.  Had the sea been more calm, such an attempt might
have been successful.  But in his weakened condition he knew
he could not safely trust himself in a fight against those
waves.

The fact that the boat was slowly driving toward the
shore though the advance was at times almost imperceptible,
gave him renewed courage.  But the storm was driving down
the lake, not toward the land; and while he moved only by
inches toward the longed-for shore, he moved by yards
south-ward.

Suddenly a light burned toward him across the gloom.  It
was an electric search-light, shining from the bow of the
life-boat.  He also saw--what he had seen
before--parti-colored rockets shooting high in the air from
the life-station.

The sight of the electric search-light so cheered him
that he again sent out his guiding call, and with more
strength and vim than before.  Hope returned, full armed and
strong.  The chill seemed to leave his limbs and a warm glow
gathered about his heart.  There was life for him yet, he
thought.

Time and again his cry rung out, directing the course of
the life-boat; and he did not cease his calls until the boat
was almost upon him, the glare of the search-light seeming
to put out his eyes.

There was no need to call more.  He and the boat to which
he was clinging had been sighted by the life crew.

A moment later strong arms lifted him from the water, and
these skilled men were rubbing his body and extremities, and
applying reviving draughts of stimulant.

The little boat was allowed to float away, for the crew
had as much as they could do to hold their own craft up
against the stiff wind and tumbling seas; and with their
work of reviving the half-drowned detective, they had
neither time nor strength for anything else.

Almost immediately the life-boat was put about for the
shore and in a remarkably short time Chicago Charlie was in
a comfortable room in the life-station; and within less than
a half-hour thereafter he felt almost as well and strong as
ever.

But his anxiety would not permit him to remain there
throughout the remainder of the night, though he was urged
and even commanded to do so.  Neither could he give them as
full an account of how he came to be out on the lake as he
knew they desired.

Finally, just before his departure, fearing some of the
incidents of the rescue, coupled with his name, might get
into the papers, he took the commander aside; and, telling
him enough to show him the need of secrecy in the matter,
begged him to say nothing of what had transpired, and to
enjoin the same silence on the men.

When he would not consent to remain until morning, the
commander directed one of the crew to accompany him to the
city; for it could be seen that the detective was still in a
weak and shaky condition, notwithstanding his assertions
that his strength had entirely returned.

Chicago Charlie was afterward grateful for this favor.

They had but just left the Exposition grounds, and were
in the neighborhood of the new hotels that crowd it so
thickly on the north, when Chicago Charlie, uttering a low
cry, grasped the arm of his companion and reeled back in
manifest alarm.

"What is it?" was the instant question.

"There!  There!  Don't you see that?" Chicago Charlie
demanded, in much trepidation.

"That what?"

"Why, that form?

"'Twas only a man!"

The form that had so startled him had vanished around a
corner.

"Was it a man?  Are you sure it was a man?"

"Why, certainly it was a man!  What else could it have
been?"

The detective did not reply for a moment.

He had beheld again the shape seen that night in the
Malcomb residence--the form so much resembling John Malcomb.

"You saw it yourself?" was his enigmatical inquiry.

His companion was much puzzled.

"I reckon that liquor they gave you down at the station's
affecting your head!  Of course I saw the man.  What about
it?  Did you think you saw anything else?"

"I thought I saw a man that I believe is dead."

"Mebbe he ain't dead, then!  Or mebbe it's only a
resemblance.  Shall we go 'round that way and look for him? 
Perhaps he's standin' there yet."

"Yes!  Yes!  If you please.  Of course I was mistaken;
but the resemblance was most marked."

"Nothing so very strange about that.  I've run across a
good many things like that.  There was my old chum, Jim
Welch, that died of a fever six years ago.  I thought I saw
him one night.  The light was about like this.  To make
sure, I hunted the fellow up that I'd seen, and when I had
him face to face he looked no more like Welch than you do."

He was walking with the detective toward the corner where
the form had disappeared.

When they reached it, no one was to be seen.

"He was too quick for us!" and Chicago Charlie thought he
detected a hidden thrill in the man's words.  "I reckon he
couldn't have heard us talking and skipped out?"

Chicago Charlie had no answer.  He was bewildered.  The
face and form--for he had seen both distinctly, as he
believed--were those of John Malcomb--and yet he knew John
Malcomb was dead.

"I don't know what to think of it!" he declared.  "It
couldn't have been a ghost?"

"Ghost, fiddlesticks!" with a scornful laugh.

"Of course, there are no such things.  But----"

"It was that liquor you've been taking!  I thought they
was pouring the truck down you pretty freely.  You'll be all
right in the morning; and you'll never see any more ghosts,
if you shun the tempting bowl."

He laughed again, but his laugh was not merry.

Then they walked on together, without further comment.

Chicago Charlie was not only mystified, he was ill at
ease.  What did this reappearance mean?  Was John Malcomb
still in the land of the living in spite of all the evidence
to the contrary?

CHAPTER XXX. THE SHADOW NEAR THE WHARF.

IT WAS DAYLIGHT, when Chicago Charlie found himself again
in the city; and one of his first acts was to seek the
office of the police inspector.

The inspector had long retired; and when the Columbian
Detective discovered he was not to be found at his office,
he went to his residence.

The inspector was intensely interested in the story
Chicago Charlie had to tell.

"We'll make a move on them!" he declared, at the same
time announcing his readiness for the work of the morning. 
"We'll have the Youngblood place surrounded, and then we'll
call on them to surrender, and at the same time bring you
forward.  Of course, they think you dead!"

The storm had worn itself out; in fact the rain had
ceased to fall before Chicago Charlie left the life-saving
station.  But the clouds still hung heavily, and the wind
was not yet entirely still.

The streets were in a disagreeable condition, when the
two men walked away from the inspector's home.

Early as was the hour, it was thought the best time for
the contemplated raid; and a number of good men were
summoned for this service.

But when the Malcomb residence was reached and the cordon
was drawn, it was discovered to the intense chagrin of the
would-be captors that the net was empty.  The Youngbloods
had been given warning, in some singular manner, and had
fled.  The only other tenable supposition was that, fearing
suspicion would fall on them should the detective be found
dead, they had thought it wise to make a change of location.

It was a most disagreeable surprise, and no man was more
pained than the inspector.

He had thought to catch Youngblood, produce the
detective, and force from Youngblood a confession by
threats.  He had known the plan to work well in many cases.

There was nothing more for Chicago Charlie to do but to
return to his room and seek his bed.

Some good men were instructed to make a search of the
city for the Youngbloods, and to report any discovery
promptly; and with this he was forced to be content.

He was worn out.  The toils and the excitements of the
day and night, with the perils, had told heavily on him.

But even though he so badly needed rest, he could not
immediately fall asleep.  Thoughts of that vision of John
Malcomb intruded.

He remained closely closeted in his room throughout the
day and far into the coming night, receiving reports from
the police who were making a vain search for the
Youngbloods, and wondering why he did not hear from Billy
Stubbs.

About midnight Billy came into the room, in a state of
great excitement.

"I've been lookin' fer you ever'where!" he asserted.  "In
all the places you told me to look, when I wanted you in a
hurry!"

"And I left word for you to come up here!"

"Well, I didn't git it!  Say, there's more stuff comin'
in to-night, and Zel Magruder's gone out ag'in.  I seen him
in a boat--a sailboat--and noticed which way he was headin'. 
Nell tol' me las' night that the big cargo 'u'd come in
to-night!"

"Nell?"

"Yes; the ole Gypsy woman!"

Then, in reply to Chicago Charlie's rapid fire of
questions, he told of the occurrences in the Gypsy tent and
of what Gypsy Nell had said to him.

As may well be imagined, the relation held for the
detective great interest; and when he was told of Zel's
words, showing that Daisy Malcomb was alive, his joy was
deep, even though it was tinged with fear.

But the revelation deepened, instead of clearing away the
mystery of her disappearance.  If she were in the power of
the Lakeside Leaguers, as Magruder's words would seem to
indicate, why had she written her lover that queer letter?

Chicago Charlie felt sure there was a reasonable
explanation, but he had to confess it was not discoverable. 
He could only wait the natural processes of time for the
solving of the problem.

There was work, now, to do, and no time for dreaming and
speculation.  Billy had said that Zel had put out into the
lake, and that a cargo of smuggled goods was coming in that
night.

Therefore, Chicago Charlie deemed it his present duty to
visit Captain Stebbins, on the revenue cutter, and acquaint
him with the facts known.

"Where is Rackstraw?" he inquired of the newsboy.

But Billy knew no more of the whereabouts of Rackstraw
than did Chicago Charlie.

"I expect he's making good use of that season pass to
Buffalo Bill's Wild West," the detective averred.  "Well,
we'll have to get along without him, for we haven't time to
look him up."

Billy had withheld nothing, as will be seen by this
reference to the Wild West.

As the nearest station was that of the Illinois Central,
they made their way to that, immediately on leaving the
detective's room, and were soon being whirled toward the
Fairgrounds.

Although the hour was so late, they found no trouble in
gaining admission, as the man on duty at the entrance
chanced to know Chicago Charlie.

They did not tarry in the grounds, but went straight to
the Andrew Johnson, which was lying in its usual place
beside the wharf.

They found Captain Stebbins on board, and to him the
detective quickly recounted Billy's story.

"This is important!" the captain declared.  "What was the
direction taken by Magruder?"

This last to Billy.

The newsboy spy gave him the desired information.

A few more words were said, and then the captain walked
away to give the necessary orders for immediate sailing.

"We'll lie out in the lake, along the track the smugglers
will be most likely to take coming in, and maybe we can
sight them," he explained, speaking again to Chicago
Charlie.  "It may be we'll have some fun yet, before the
night is over.  I'd like much to get sight of those
scoundrels.  They've been worrying me for the past two
months, and all efforts to bag them have failed."

He hurried away again to hasten the preparations for
departure; and Chicago Charlie, having nothing to do but
wait, walked slowly and thoughtfully toward the rear of the
vessel, leaving the newsboy to his own devices.

That Billy Stubbs was abundantly able to care for
himself, and to extract profit and amusement out of
seemingly poor materials, he had had abundant proof.

The detective could not get his mind away from the
mysteries that were puzzling him; and he wanted to be alone
to think of the woman who was dearer to him than life, and
who was probably in great distress, if not in great peril.

Leaning on the rail and looking over the strip of water
that lay between the vessel and the shore, he reflected on
all the strange events of the past few days.

Of the disappearance of Daisy, and the queer letter; and
of the even more mysterious reappearance of John Malcomb.

But, thinking it all over, and passing in review the
evidences gathered in the office of John Malcomb, he felt
sure that John Malcomb could not be among the living.

Caught by this later tangle, Chicago Charlie had
partially neglected the search to which at first he had
given his whole energies!  The search for Malcomb's
murderer.

It will be remembered he had believed that the murder had
been committed by a woman.  He had drifted from that theory,
and now held that the murder had been committed by the
Gypsy, Zel Magruder.

The proofs were strong:

Magruder was feminine in his general appearance.  His
hands and feet were as small as those of the average woman. 
He was in every essential effeminate.  His voice was not
that of a man; though it did not sound like the voice of a
woman!  Billy had compared it to the squeak of a rat; and
the comparison was good.

Chicago Charlie reasoned that Magruder had induced his
sweetheart, the Ghawazee, to visit Daisy Malcomb, under the
pretense of wishing to tell her fortune, and to abstract
some implement by which the murder might be committed.  He
had done that, to throw suspicion on Daisy Malcomb--and had
left those feminine impressions of hand and feet for the
same purpose.

The Ghawazee was a Gypsy.  Gypsy Nell had said so, and
Chicago Charlie's study of the girl's face made him believe
Nell's statement true.

The Ghawazees were a sort of Gypsies, but this particular
dancing-girl was not that kind of a Gypsy; but a real Gypsy;
a Gypsy from the land of the Pharaohs; just as Nell and
Magruder and the others of the Gypsy encampment were Gypsies
from England.  A Gypsy is a Gypsy the world over, and the
widely-separated bands, usually speaking a Gypsy patois,
consider themselves blood of one blood, and are constant in
their declarations that "blood is thicker than water."

Hence the friendship that had grown up between the
Ghawazee and Magruder, which was ripening, or had ripened,
into love.  This explained how Zel might have been able to
induce her to visit Daisy and steal away the knife.

There were other proofs that Zel Magruder was the
murderer of John Malcomb.  Magruder was a member of the
Lakeside League, the band owing allegiance to Solon
Youngblood.  This band had been systematically bleeding
Selwyn Fisher.

John Malcomb had assisted in this bleeding process, as
the detective could not doubt.  Chicago Charlie was even not
sure that John Malcomb had not been a member of the Lakeside
League, though he was naturally loath to think it.

At any rate, his shadowings had made him aware of the
fact that Malcomb, if killed by Magruder, had been killed by
the instigation of the band or at the instigation of Solon
Youngblood.  For he had come on proof showing that Malcomb
had declared he would assist in bleeding the Englishman no
longer, and that, if the thing was not stopped, he would
warn Fisher of how he was being daily and nightly robbed.

Chicago Charlie did not know if a twinge of conscience
had made John Malcomb take this stand, or whether there had
been some other reason.  He had only stumbled on the main
fact by overhearing a talk between Youngblood and one of the
Leaguers.

The inference was natural, he thought, that Youngblood,
not wishing to have such a "sucker" as Selwyn Fisher slip
through his fingers, and probably enraged at Malcomb, had
sought Malcomb's death, and induced Magruder to become the
active instrument.

Once or twice already, Chicago Charlie had been on the
point of placing Magruder under arrest for the murder; and
no doubt would have done so had not the disappearance of
Daisy come to turn his thoughts into a new channel.

The evidences that Malcomb had been murdered by Zel
Magruder were strong;--but what did they weigh, if the form
now twice seen were Malcomb's?

If Malcomb was alive, then he had not been killed, Zel
Magruder was not his murderer; the Ghawazee had not stolen
the knife with the intention ascribed!

Chicago Charlie's head seemed to spin round, as he strove
to follow the conclusions to their logical ending:

There had been no dead man lying in a pool of blood in
that office; Daisy was not fatherless; John Malcomb had not
been buried; there was no bloody knife; there had been no
bloody writing on the wall!

He clutched the rail to steady himself.  If he could not
believe these things, which he had seen with his own eyes,
and which so many others had seen, what could he believe? He
could not believe in his own identity!

Not only did he clutch the rail, but he put one hand to
his head, and stared at the waves, a low cry at the same
time breaking from his lips.

A boat had shot out from the land and was gliding along
the wharf.

In that boat was the form seen on two previous
occasions--the form of John Malcomb.

His low cry and startling attitude attracted the
attention of a sailor.

"What is it, mate?" was the sympathetic question.

"There!  There!  Do you not see that!" the detective
cried, his agitation so intense that his words trembled.

The words had swept beyond the limits of the vessel, and
might possibly have been heard by the occupant of the boat.

There was a smaller craft lying between the Andrew
Johnson and the main shore, and into the shadow of this
craft the boat swung, vanishing before the sailor got a
really good view of it.

"Will you have a boat lowered?" Chicago Charlie
requested.  "I must see who that was.  Lower away a boat
quick!  For God sake, make haste!"

It was known by all that the detective was on board as
the confidential guest and friend of the captain; therefore,
when this appeal was shrieked at them, the sailor and his
companions lowered a boat, leaping into it at once and
grasping the oars. 

The excited detective was not a moment behind them; and
under his commands, they pulled out for the point where the
other boat had been seen to disappear.

But when the place had been gained, nothing was to be
seen.  The little boat and its occupant had vanished.

Satisfied that he must be somewhere in the vicinity,
Chicago Charlie urged a thorough search, but, when it was
made, the crew had to confess themselves beaten.

Neither boat nor man could be found.

CHAPTER XXXI. A STIRRING CHASE.

LIKE A BIRD OF PREY hovering on the crest of the waves, lay
the Andy Johnson.

She was far out in the lake, on the path which it was
hoped would be taken by the smuggler.

All were alert on board the Andy Johnson, though no
lights gleamed.  The men were at their places; the small
brass guns had been run out; and every preparation made for
a chase or a fight.

A chase was what was anticipated, should the smuggler be
sighted, for it was not believed the latter would make much
resistance.

Yet there were very few on board who believed the night
would bring anything but disappointment.  To many it seemed
the wildest of wild-goose chases.  Zel Magruder, who was
said to be going to warn the smugglers and convey them
information, had been seen to sail in that direction; and
had been watched by the newsboy until lost to sight nearly a
mile from land.

But what did that indicate?  The straight sail out into
the lake might have been but a ruse.  The information that
Zel was going to meet the smugglers might even have been
false!

Nevertheless, the well-trained crew stood at their
places, ready to obey the commands of their officers.

Though the night was dark it was star-lit.

Captain Stebbins, pacing to and fro uneasily, stopped
every few seconds and swept the surface of the lake with his
glass.

The fires had been banked, but were ready to be stirred
into life in an instant.  Therefore, no smoke came from the
funnel of the revenue vessel to stream out like a warning
flag.

There were probably none on board so excited as Chicago
Charlie and his boy second.  The capture of the smuggler
meant much to them.  To Chicago Charlie it probably meant
the rescue of Daisy Malcomb, and the unraveling of the whole
chain of mysteries surrounding her and her father.

A warning command came from Captain Stebbins.  He had
seen something--some sloop or ship--though just what, he was
not yet ready to say.

A tightening of mental tension might have been observable
in all the crew.  Still, scarcely any one moved.

"It is a sloop," the captain declared, whispering to his
second in command. 

Then he passed the glass to the man for a verification of
the discovery.

The vessel was seen to be bowling along easily.  She
carried an immense spread of canvas; but, stood well up to
the work, showing that she was stanch and dry, as well as a
fast sailer.

Information of the characteristics of the sloop went
quickly round, whispered from mouth to mouth.  All hoped the
vessel might prove to be the smuggler.

It was plain the revenue cutter, lying low in the water
and having a black and indistinct outline, had not been seen
by the stranger.

The fires were unbanked and the steamer moved forward
but at reduced speed.

If the sloop were a smuggler, the fact would now soon be
made manifest.

It was made manifest in a very few minutes.

Captain Stebbins, watching her closely and suspiciously
discerned evidence of excitement on board of her, as soon as
the black streamer of smoke from the steamer became visible
to the sloop's officers and crew.

Still, the sloop held on her way for a time, probably
thinking the Andy Johnson might be only a peaceful
merchantman.

Then she was observed to alter her course.

This was interpreted as an expression of caution, and
even of fear; it being reasoned by the captain and officers
that the sloop had changed its tack to make the steamer show
her character.  If the steamer was a revenue vessel, a chase
would ensue, or at any rate she would tack to intercept the
sloop.

"We'll make her uncover!" the captain grimly announced.

Then the course of the Andy Johnson was altered a couple
of points; and, when the sloop was seen to bear still
further away one of the bright brass guns bellowed out its
compliments, commanding her to lie to.

Instead of doing this, the sloop was observed to be
crowding on more canvas, and to be bearing further and
further away.

There could be no doubt now, of her character, no doubt
she was the smuggler Zel Magruder had set out to warn; no
doubt that she believed the steamer to be a vessel of the
revenue service!

The excitement on board the Andy Johnson leaped at a
bound to fever pitch.  Every eye was strained across the
star-lit spaces, every heart beat in anticipation, every
nerve was tense and tingling; yet each man stood obediently
in his place, awaiting the time for action.

Chicago Charlie and Billy Stubbs stood near the captain's
side, in the forward part of the vessel.  Chicago Charlie
was painfully calm, Billy Stubbs wildly exuberant.

"Will we git 'er!" Billy whispered, as the steamer was
felt to forge swiftly through the water, under the
propulsion of her powerful engines.  "D'ye reckon we'll git
her?"

As he said it, he danced up and down, glancing at the
detective and at the lake, unmindful, much of the time, that
many of his numerous questions remained unanswered.

The steamer was now moving at great speed--and she was
accounted a fast vessel--but rapidly as she moved, it was
noticeable that she gained very little on the sloop.

The latter, with its immense spread of canvas, was
proving herself a remarkable sailer.  She looked not unlike
an immense sea gull, or white-winged night bird, as she
glided on over the slightly-ruffled bosom of the lake.  The
breeze was stiff enough to fill her sails, but not
sufficiently so to make her heel over, and thus she stood
well up under every stitch of canvas that could be set.

The steamer's fires were fed until they roared like small
infernos, and the smoke streaming from her funnel was thick
and black as soot.  The ponderous engines racked her from
stem to stern, and at every quivering stroke she seemed to
leap through the sea; but her utmost energies did not serve
to lessen the distance between the vessels.

The sloop was holding straight up the lake, with the wind
astern; and, having several hundred miles of good sailing
ground before her, it was evident the chase was not soon to
end.

Chicago Charlie looked grave, and Captain Stebbins'
usually good-humored face harbored a most fierce-visaged
scowl.  Affairs were not progressing to suit either.

"Do you think we'll git 'er?" Billy again asked, pulling
at the detective's hand.

"That depends!" and Chicago Charlie deigned for the
moment to look down on the boy.  "If something breaks on
board the sloop and nothing on the steamer, or if the wind
comes up so the sloop can't carry so much sail; or--we'll
git 'er, if we git 'er!  That's as much as I can tell you!"

Billy Stubbs needed no plainer answer to tell him that
the chances of overhauling the sloop were of the slenderest.

Still, the fires were fed, the engines kept at full
speed, and the men remained at their posts.

Now and then a gun was fired, in the vain hope of
striking the spars or cordage of the sloop and crippling
her.

"She's the witch of the lake!" Stebbins averred, speaking
to the detective.  "See how she shows us her heels!"

The words were those of admiration, for Stebbins was an
enthusiast on the score of fast sailing.

"See her walk along!  Do you know, Clingstone!  I'd give
a pile of money to be able to own that sloop?  She's as fast
as they make 'em, and she's a beauty!"

He took up the glass again and scanned the sloop
carefully noting the details of her construction and
rigging.

Then he began to fret and fume, consumed by his inability
to overtake her.

"Confound it, the Government never gives us anything
faster than a tug-boat.  It's a shame!"

The chance that Chicago Charlie hoped for did not come.
Nothing broke on the sloop, nor did the wind arise
sufficiently to make her shorten sail.  Within an hour she
had left the steamer away behind; and in another hour the
captain's glass could nowhere reveal her.

The stirring chase had ended in signal failure.

CHAPTER XXXII. THE FIGHT IN THE FERRIS WHEEL.

JACK RACKSTRAW, disconsolate, with no friends or
acquaintance anywhere discoverable, found himself in front
of the ungainly monstrosity known as the Ferris Wheel.  He
had sought everywhere for Billy Stubbs and Chicago Charlie;
he had sought everywhere for some of the sailors from the
Andy Johnson.  The Andy Johnson was not in position at the
wharf, and no one could tell him whither she had gone.

"Beats all!" he avowed, speaking, perhaps, to the wheel,
for he was looking at it.  He was not referring to the
wheel, however; though a bystander might have thought so.

The Ferris Wheel, from which a bird's-eye view may be had
of the entire Exposition, is somewhat to the Columbian
World's Fair what the Eiffel Tower was to that of Paris. 
Visitors are carried two hundred and sixty feet into the
air, in cars similar to railway coaches in construction.

Jack Rackstraw had no special desire to go whirling round
on this great pin-wheel, but a lack of something else to do
caused him to enter one of the cars.  It was at the time
unoccupied. 

Two ladies soon came in, however, and after them a
gentleman.  Rackstraw scarcely perceived them, for he was
looking down Midway Plaisance.  Had he but glanced at the
man, his interest in his fellow passengers might have
quickened.

The great wheel began to revolve.  Still, Rackstraw paid
no heed to the trio, but looked out on the queer buildings
and queerer people of Midway.

Up, up they went, seemingly into the clouds, until the
whole region round about unfolded itself like a map.

Rackstraw uttered an exclamation of admiration.

Instantly the man bent on him a glance, which was dull
and unquestioning at first, but which speedily kindled into
rage.

The man was the Englishman, Selwyn Fisher.

Fisher had evidently been making a fool of himself in
more ways than one.  Excessive drink had made his eyes
stupid and heavy, as well as blood-shot, and his puffy
cheeks were puffier than ever; while his rotundity had
enormously increased.  He seemed even then suffering from a
too free indulgence in spirits, or from alcoholism.  His
hands shook, his gaze was uncertain and wavering, and his
suddenly-kindled anger had in it something suggestive of
delirium tremens.

Rackstraw was giving him no heed, and only looked up when
a cry from one of the women came as a warning.

Fisher had arisen unsteadily, pitched across the car like
a boat reeling under the influence of the sea, and now made
a dash at Rackstraw with a keen knife.

"Whatever are you up to?" Rackstraw demanded, warding
off the blow and getting on his feet.

"Hi knew you, you 'ound!" the Englishman gurgled, again
lifting the knife.  "You 'ave followed me henough, Hi tell
you!"

It was plain he recognized Rackstraw, and believed him to
be an enemy; though at first Rackstraw did not know who the
Englishman was, so greatly had the latter changed.

"You mean to 'ave me harrested, do you?" lunging with the
knife.  "You think me ha murderer, do you?  Hi will be, Hi
tell you before Hi'm through!"

"Stand off, you scoundrel!" the sailor roared, again
brushing aside the knife and giving the Englishman a
stinging blow.  "Stand off, or I'll knock you out of the
car!"

The women had sprung up in fright and were screaming.

It was an exciting and novel situation; this fight in the
car of the Ferris Wheel, more than two hundred feet above
the earth.

The screams of the women were heard on the ground below,
and drew all eyes upward.  The fact that such a fight was in
progress seemed to become instantly known, for a surging
crowd of excited humanity collected on the moment.

With his ardor in nowise dampened by Rackstraw's stinging
blow, which had purpled one of his cheeks, Fisher again
lifted the knife, swaying most unsteadily.

At this the sailor's blood came up.

"Take that, will you!" he said, delivering another
right-hander.

Then, clutching the knife hand of his assailant, the two
came to the floor in a struggling heap.

The Englishman fought like a tiger, striving again and
again to free the hand and deliver a blow with the knife,
and for a time it was as much as Rackstraw could do to keep
him from accomplishing this purpose.

The crowd below was roaring out its excitement; and the
women, cowering in one end of the car, were uttering little,
terrified screams.

All the while the car was descending, with its even,
unjolting motion.

Getting a firm clasp of Fisher's massive throat,
Rackstraw crushed it with his powerful grip, until the
waving knife-hand ceased its eccentric and threatening
movement, and the Englishman's face began to change from
purple to bluish black.

"You infernal scoundrel!" Rackstraw hissed, taking a good
look at the discolored face and recognizing the man.  "I
ought to kill you fer that!"

The fight seemed to have developed in him an unexpected
ferocity.  Usually kindhearted, he appeared to have been
changed by this encounter into a man of tigerish
inclinations.

He drew Fisher half erect, by an immense exertion of
muscular power, and held him thus for a moment, as if he
contemplated hurling him through the nearest window.

Then his grasp relaxed and his face brightened.  He let
the limp form slip to the floor.

"Bah, I'm a fool!  You did make me most thunderin' mad,
though.  What in the dickens did ye mean by jumpin' onto me
that way?  I've never been botherin' you!"

A reply was not expected, for Fisher was too nearly
senseless to make any.

Then the car reached the earth, the crowd surged forward,
and Rackstraw turned toward a police officer, who had
elbowed his way in.

One of the women had fainted.

"Have some one take care of her," Rackstraw requested.
"Then, I'm ready to go with you.  Hain't done nothin' that
I'm ashamed of.  That feller jumped onto me with a knife.  I
wouldn't let him stick me.  That's all!"

Other policemen advanced, and Rackstraw left the car in
charge of one of them.

With some difficulty Fisher was helped out, and placed in
an ambulance.  Then a Columbian Guide sprung away to clear a
path for the ambulance, whose warning gong was already
sounding; and almost before Selwyn Fisher knew what had
occurred he was lying on one of the clean, white beds in the
hospital sub-station on Midway Plaisance.

On examination he was found to have no injuries of a
serious character, though the severe choking had left him
temporarily helpless.

When dismissed from the hospital, which dismissal
occurred about half an hour later, he found himself under
arrest for his attempt on the life of Jack Rackstraw, and
was borne away to a police station.

There Rackstraw, who had followed, again met him.

Rackstraw was anxious to get at the reason of his strange
conduct; and was not a little mystified when Fisher raved
out, almost as soon as his eyes fell on the sailor's face:

"Why 'ave you sent me 'ere?  Hi did not kill John
Malcomb!  Hi'm an innocent man, sir!"

"Who in Jeremiah ever said you did kill him!" Rackstraw
demanded.

The sailor knew of John Malcomb's murder, certainly, but
he had not been made acquainted with all the developments of
Chicago Charlie's shadowing.

"Why ham Hi 'ere then, sir!  Hi tell you Hi'm innocent!
Why 'ave you been 'ounding me?"

His excitement grew every moment; until Rackstraw saw
that, if the conversation was continued, another fight would
be precipitated.

"Crazy as a loon!" was his comment.

Then he turned away, considerably puzzled, and with
mingled feelings of pity and disgust.

It was plain to him that Fisher was on the borderland of
that terrible form of insanity induced by alcoholic
indulgence.

CHAPTER XXXIII. RACKSTRAW IN THE TOILS OF CUPID.

CHICAGO CHARLIE WALKED with earnest tread along the street
toward the kindergarten establishment, kept now by Miss
Lilly Lilac.  He anxiously desired to see Jack Rackstraw,
and he thought that the place where the sailor was most
likely to be found.

The Andy Johnson had returned from its short and
unsuccessful cruise; and Billy Stubbs had been again
assigned the task of shadowing the wily Gypsy, Zel Magruder.

The mystery of the murder of John Malcomb--if he had been
murdered!--and the disappearance of Daisy, oppressed Chicago
Charlie like an unpleasant dream.

Just now he was thinking of the statement of Gypsy Nell,
that somewhere on the Michigan shore the smugglers had
established a "den."

If that den could be found, these mysteries might be laid
bare.  Could it be found?  No doubt it was in a secluded and
hidden place, not easily discoverable, and seldom visited by
man.  Rackstraw was familiar with the shores of the great
lake.  Possibly Rackstraw could assist in determining its
location.

This was the thought impelling the detective, as he
strode up the street.

But no thought was further, at that moment, from the mind
of Jack Rackstraw.

Rackstraw had been caught in the toils of Cupid.  He was
a lover, "sighing like furnace."  Sitting on a small
drygoods box, which Miss Lilly had covered with a
crazy-patchwork cushion, he awkwardly caressed his chin with
the fingers of his right hand, and stared first at the girl
and then at the Infant Wonder.

The children had long departed for their respective
homes; or, rather, each individual mother or elder sister
had come for the child in which she was most interested and
had borne it away, made happy by the fact that the day's
toil was ended and that that particular Infant Wonder was to
gladden the little room or cottage through the
quickly-speeding hours of the night. 

All had been pleased that Mrs. Tonguegrass had gone out
and Miss Lilly Lilac had come in, for there was as much
difference in the two women as there is between the taste of
acid cider and the pleasant sweet of an orange.  Miss Lilac
was held in great favor by the children and the patrons of
this institution.

Perhaps no one thought more of her than did the Infant
Wonder, or took more pains to show it than he, except--Jack
Rackstraw.

Miss Lilly called him the biggest baby of the lot; and it
must be confessed that if Rackstraw could have had his way,
and had not been ashamed to do so infantile a thing, he
would probably have enrolled himself as one of the Infant
Wonders and remained there as many hours out of each
twenty-four as the rules of the institution allowed.

Truly Jack Rackstraw was in the toils of Cupid.

"I say, Miss Lilly, you wouldn't want to adopt twins,
now?" and Rackstraw made a grab at the Infant Wonder and
drew him to his side.  "Hyer's two of us, and we're a hand
to draw to.  The knave and the king!  Hain't it a strong
hand?  Well, if it ain't, you won't lose anything in a game
of hearts.  What do you say?"

Rackstraw was getting his references slightly mixed,
perhaps; but he was sure Miss Lilly could not misunderstand
him.

"I reckon you're the knave, Jack Rackstraw," and the girl
jabbed the needle into the sewing in a vicious manner.

Rackstraw laughed.

"Likely I am.  I'm willin' to be most anything, Miss
Lilly, and will call myself anything in the world if----"

He looked at her shyly.

"If what?"
     
   He seemed to hesitate about replying, and churned the
Infant Wonder up and down in a vigorous manner, probably to
hide the flush that had come unbidden to his tanned cheeks.

Miss Lilly gave the sewing another savage stab.

 "If you'd only call me--Oh, dod rot it! of course you
wouldn't!--if you'd only call me--husband?"

Miss Lilly laughed outright, for Rackstraw had squeaked
the important word in a most awful and suggestive manner. 
Not only did Miss Lilly laugh, but Miss Lilly blushed redder
than the reddest rose.

What she might have answered may not be known; for, at
that moment, a step was heard mounting the stair; and Miss
Lilly, blushing furiously, quickly caught up her sewing; and
Rackstraw, lifting the Infant Wonder high in the air, began
to waltz crazily about the room.

Then there came a knock on the door; and when Miss Lilly,
striving vainly to hide a very red and suspicious-looking
face, opened it, the Columbian Detective stood on the
threshold.

If Chicago Charlie suspected anything of the real state
of the case--and it is very likely that he did--he managed
very well to hide the suspicion.  Indeed, his words and
manner were so natural that Miss Lilly soon forgot her
blushes, and Rackstraw ceased his waltzing and put down the
Infant Wonder to hear what the Columbian Detective might
have to say.

"You should have been with us last night," Chicago
Charlie began, accepting the chair Miss Lilly placed for
him, and directing his words to Rackstraw.  "We had a lively
chase after a vessel of the Leaguers.  But she cleared out,
leaving us badly.  It is thought the smugglers have a den in
a cove somewhere on the Michigan shore."

The statements were of a character to make Rackstraw
almost forget the disappointment he had felt at the coming
of Chicago Charlie.  He could say those words to Miss Lilly
Lilac again--and he resolved he would at the first
opportunity--and keep saying them until he had received an
answer--an affirmative answer.

"We were sorry you were not alone, but we couldn't find
you!"

Then Chicago Charlie rehearsed the saying of Gypsy Nell
concerning Zel Magruder and the den of the smugglers.  He
also told of the ghostly manifestations, and of how he was
puzzled by them.

Rackstraw could throw no light on this latter mystery;
neither could Lilly Lilac, who trembled at the merest
mention of ghosts.

"As to that there cove or den I 'low I know jist where it
is!  At least, I know of several sich places, any of which
could be used in that way.  I've calculated all along that
Youngblood's fellers were bringin' them things from
north'ards; but they could bring 'em from Michigan jist as
well, likely.  Likely easier; though they'd have to carry
'em acrost the peninsula--an' that's a thing I shouldn't
think they'd want to do.  Perhaps they believe it's the
safest way.  'Tany rate, I kin take ye to them coves, or I
kin pilot the vessel to 'em.  Which way was the sloop
holdin' when ye seen her last?"

Chicago Charlie gave him the desired information, or as
nearly as he could.

"I thought she might 'a' took the back track, but she
didn't!  The coves don't lay that away."

Miss Lilly jumped again, being still nervous from the
start given them by the Columbian Detective.  Another
footstep was heard coming up the stairs!

CHAPTER XXXIV. THE FLASHING OF A RING.

BILLY STUBBS WAS AGAIN SPRAWLED in the shadows of the
buildings of the Cairo Street.

But a few feet away, and dimly revealed by the light from
an electric lamp, sat Zel Magruder and the Ghawazee.

He had seen them come out of one of the buildings, and
had succeeded in diving into the shadows in time to escape
discovery.

Much of their conversation was carried on in a Gypsy
patois, difficult of speech for both.  Zel was more familiar
with English, the language of the country of his nativity
and of his adoption, and the dancing-girl spoke better than
any other the dialect of the land of the Pyramids and the
Sphinx.  Hence they occasionally, because it pleased Zel to
do so, dropped into English;--which was much to Billy's
delight, for the boy felt that if they kept up their
"gibberish," as he called it, he would be no wiser when
he went away than when he came.

"Unless you can go with me I will have to leave you,
Malma!" he heard the Gypsy say, in squeaky tones that were
intended to be affectionate.  "I have got to leave the
city!"

Her reply was a carcass of pleading tenderness.

"I have got to 'git up and git'! as they say in this
country."

"Why shall you leaf me?" was the inquiry.

"Well, hang it, Malma! you'd ought to know.  That John
Malcomb job, for one thing!"

Billy Stubbs, watching with the keen sight of a rat,
thought he observed a shudder convulse her.

"They've been after me for that, all the while, as I've
told you!" Zel went on.  "And have made it confounded
unpleasant for me, too, I can tell you.  These off'cers air
regular bloodhounds, when they git to trackin' a feller. 
They're purty shore to pull me for that, one of these fine
days, if I don't cut out.  So you see, I've got to go.

"I hate to leave Chicago most mightily, while the World's
Fair is on and there's scads o' money to be made, but it
ain't my choosin'!"

"Oh! eef you had not that doan!" she murmured.  "I warn
you, you know.  I to you say, you know: Eef you-a that man
keel, you will-a have what you call?--trooble.  That what I
say."

"How many more times you goin' to tell me that, Malma?"
Zel growled.  "You're 'most as bad as Nell.  I 'low I was a
fool for doin' a job of that kind; but it's done, now, an'
can't be undone.

"That ain't the only thing, though, that's going to make
me leave Chicago.  I've been spotted in that other business.
That infernal boy--blast 'im--has been after me again!  He
must 'a' tracked me out into the lake last night; though I
thought I'd shorely throwed him off my track, when I took
that cat-boat of Westover's, what I'd never used before.

"But he spotted the cat-boat, just as he had done the
others, and he put the off'cers onto my little game. 
Consequence was, they come mighty nigh scoopin' in the
sloop.  Curse him, anyway!  And now the boss says I'd better
clear out fer awhile. 

"The boss is skeered, you see, and he's afeared to have
me hangin' 'round any more.  I used to be the mascot of the
gang; now it seems I'm the Jony!  Hang it all, anyway!"

The Ghawazee was much impressed by this account, and by
Zel's manifest danger; and she was not backward in showing
the fact.  And Zel, pleased by this exhibition of affection,
continued in the same tone:

"Yes, I've got to cut out; an' what I'm worryin' 'bout
most, is the leavin' of you.  Some o' these here Columbian
guides or guards will be waitin' to run off with you, I'm
afeared."

"Does my little crocodile loaf hees dancin' girl?" she
playfully asked, tapping his whiskerless cheeks.  "Does he
loaf her eez I loaf the Nile?"

"You may bet that I jist do!" Zel averred.

Never before had he succeeded in gaining the heart of any
member of the gentler sex, and it tickled him immensely. 
All previous attempts in that direction, and they had not
been few, had been scornfully regarded, because of his scant
stature and womanish appearance.

"You jist bet I do, my red rose of Egypt!" he avowed. 
"There ain't any girl in this whole Chicago that I'd turn my
finger over to get, exceptin' of you!"

Zel was slightly treading on the domains of falsehood, in
making this sweeping statement, for there was more than one
girl in Chicago on whom he had looked with adoring eyes, and
who, by a slight nod, might have brought him to her feet. 
But Zel had never regarded the truth highly, when a lie
served him better.

"I love you well enough, to want you to go with me, when
I cut out o' here!" he asserted.  "Do you think you----"

The rest of the sentence was spoiled for Billy by Zel's
attempt to snatch a kiss.

The question and reply must have been eminently
satisfactory, however, for a moment later Billy Stubbs saw
him produce an odd-looking ring and slip it on the girl's
finger.

Billy's eyes opened wide with renewed interest.  He knew
he had seen that ring, or its counterpart; but for the
moment he could not recall where.

The Ghawazee looked pleasedly at the shining bauble,
turning it round and round on her finger to the better
admire its beauty.

It was a handsome ring, of queer design.  Of engraven
gold, it held two clasped hands upbearing a broken heart. 
In the center of the heart, like a drop of blood, was a
ruby.  In addition, the ring was massive and suggestive of
oriental workmanship.

Where had he seen that ring?

Again and again the question came to torment the boy, as
he listened to the further talk of the lovers.

"That means that you will go with me!" said Magruder,
bending on her a tender look.  "That's what it means, don't
it?  You may bet I want you to bad enough!"

"Where the Ghawazee's heart is, she will-a there go!" the
girl asserted, with burning cheeks and bright eyes.  "With
her crocodile she will-a go!"

"That'll be our weddin' ring!" said Zel, beamingly.  "I
do'no' who the bu'sted heart b'longs to, but yourn and
mine'll be the clasped hands."

Like a flash came to Billy Stubbs the recollection of
where and under what circumstances he had seen that
ring--no, no! not that ring--he was sure it could not be the
same; but another like it, which was its mate.

Daisy Malcomb had had such a ring, and John Malcomb
another.

He had seen Daisy wearing her ring once, when he had been
sent to her home with a note by the Columbian Detective; and
its queer design had then impressed him.  But in the
excitement of more recent things he had forgotten all about
it.

He had casually spoken of this ring to the detective; and
then Chicago Charlie had told that there was another like
it, that belonged to Daisy's father, but which was missing
when Malcomb was found dead.

Had this ring, now on the Ghawazee's finger, been taken
from the hand of John Malcomb or from that of his daughter?

Daisy, according to Gypsy Nell's statement, was now held
by the Leaguers.  Being one of them, might not Zel Magruder
have taken or stolen it from her?

Billy Stubbs had long believed that Zel Magruder was John
Malcomb's murderer.

The ring that had been on Malcomb's finger almost
constantly for many months previous to his death had not
been there on the morning of the discovery of the murder. 
What had become of it?  Who had taken it?

The more Billy Stubbs thought it over, the stronger grew
his belief that the ring which the dancing-girl was admiring
was the one that had belonged to Malcomb;--and with this
came the added certainty that Zel Magruder was Malcomb's
slayer.

"I've got to git to Chicago Charlie with this hyer little
item!" Billy told himself, anxious now to be up and gone. 
"If he could ketch 'em with that ring, it'd be a stunner!  I
wish't Magruder would git a move on him!"

CHAPTER XXXV. CROWDED INTO A CORNER.

THE FOOTSTEP ON THE STAIRWAY, which so startled Lilly
Lilac, was that of Billy Stubbs.

Zel Magruder had failed to "get a move on him;" but Billy
Stubbs, unwilling to remain longer in the Cairo Street, had
succeeded in extricating himself without alarming the Gypsy
lovers.  He had not done it without difficulty, nor without
much sly crawling and creeping; but he had accomplished it,
and now he was searching for Chicago Charlie.

When admitted into the room, his eyes were shining with
excitement and it was very evident he had a story to tell.

He told it quickly; and there was an immediate
adjournment of the meeting in that upper room of the
kindergarten establishment.  Lilly Lilac and the Infant
Wonder remained; and Chicago Charlie, Jack Rackstraw and
Billy Stubbs hastened into the street, and as fast as steam
would carry them toward the Columbian Exposition.

On reaching the grounds, a number of police officers were
collected, and the Cairo Street was entered for the purpose
of placing Zel Magruder and the Ghawazee under arrest--the
belief and hope being that a confession would be thus forced
from one or both of them.

But when the Cairo Street was entered, the birds were
found to have flown.

"To the Gypsy camp!" said Chicago Charlie, turning back
into Midway and walking toward the nearest exit gate. 
"Perhaps we may find them there."

It was plain that Magruder had induced the girl to leave
her employers and go with him in his flight from the city. 
Still, there was a chance that they might be found in the
Gypsy tent.  Zel would probably wish to visit that place
before taking a final departure.

The Gypsy camp was approached with great caution, though
they found it too large and spread over too much territory
for the successful accomplishment of their plans.  Chicago
Charlie had not a sufficient number of men with him to throw
a cordon completely around it.

However, at the suggestion of Billy Stubbs, they
approached the tents in the vicinity of the one occupied by
Gypsy Nell, for in that neighborhood Magruder had always
been found by the boy.

The plan worked to perfection; for Zel Magruder and Malma
Nareen, the Ghawazee, were found in the tent of the Gypsy
crone, engaged with her in earnest conversation.

Now and then Magruder stopped his talk and made search
for some articles, which Malma was tying up in a bundle for
him.

The Columbian Detective instructed some of the officers
to pass to the rear of the tent for the purpose of
preventing Zel's escape in that direction; but in executing
this movement, Magruder, whose ears were of the keenest,
heard them.

Like a flash he leaped to the half-finished bundle, and,
seizing it, threw up the tent canvas and bounded out into
the night; leaving Malma Nareen and Gypsy Nell bewilderedly
staring.

His exclamation had been:

"Scat!  I've got to slide!"

Instantly a revolver cracked in the darkness without,
startling the women still more.

But Zel Magruder had sped on unharmed; and, in spite of
the utmost exertions of the officers, he succeeded in making
his escape.

Malma Nareen, much excited and alarmed, was also on the
point of flying from the tent, when she was confronted by a
number of blue-coated men, who were headed by Chicago
Charlie.

She dropped back with a gasp, to the straw seat on which
she had been sitting, and her eyes took on a hunted look.

Gypsy Nell turned about with a smile that was hard to
fathom.

"Blood of the Gypsy blood!" she cackled, bending a glance
on Billy Stubbs.  "And blood is--is it thicker than water?
That's what the Gypsies say!"

She nodded and smiled and courtesied; and, beckoning to
the men, said blandly:

"I do not often have the honor of seeing so many
gentlemen come to have their fortunes told.  One, two,
three, four--" running her eyes over them--"how many dollars
will it be to me, anyway?  Fifty cents apiece, gentlemen! 
Fifty cents apiece, for a true, good fortune!"

Her face was wrinkling and puckering, and she continued
to courtesy in a most obsequious manner.

"She's a witch!" thought Billy Stubbs.

And, as if she had caught the thought, she declared:

"I'm a witch, gentlemen.  The modern Witch of Endor! 
What is it you would have me show you?  Would you see the
past, or the dead of the past?  Or, do you prefer the
future?"

The Ghawazee was twisting and fidgeting uneasily, and
edging toward the wall as if she contemplated making a dash
for liberty; and Chicago Charlie interrupted the words of
Gypsy Nell by pushing hurriedly forward.

"We must place this young lady under arrest," he
observed, stepping in front of Malma Nareen and thus
interposing to prevent her escape.  "We think she will be
needed."

At this the dancing-girl sunk down in a cowering heap. 
At first her attitude had been that of fright, but holding a
crouching and subdued fierceness.  Now this was changed. 
The fierceness was swept away by hysterical sobs.

The Columbian Detective stretched out a hand as if he
would take her by the arm.

"No!  No!" she shrieked, drawing back.

Gypsy Nell cackled aloud.

"Do not harm her, gentlemen.  Her heart is like water. 
It is as soft as that of her beloved crocodile."

There was something so gloating in the words that Chicago
Charlie could not but look at the old woman, wondering what
she meant.

"We do not intend to harm her," the detective avowed. 
"We only want to know the truth.  If she will tell us what
she knows, in answer to our questions, perhaps we will let
her go."

The Ghawazee had put up her hands beseechingly, and her
attitude and evident distress were extremely touching.

"We don't intend to hurt you," the Columbian Detective
reassured.  "All you need to do is to answer our questions. 
What has become of Zel Magruder?"

"I doan' know!" she asserted.  "He leaf me!"

"You were going away together?"

She nodded.

"Why?"

"I doan' know."

"But you do know!  This boy----" indicating Billy
Stubbs--"heard you and him talking to-night, in the Cairo
Street.  So, you see, there is no use to deny anything; and
we'll get along better if you'll just speak the truth.

"Why did Zel Magruder kill John Malcomb?"

This was a random shot, fired at a venture.

Immediately the girl began to cry.

"I doan' know!" she wailed.  "I doan' know!"

"Then he killed John Malcomb?"

She did not instantly reply.

Chicago Charlie repeated the inquiry.

"He--a-what you call?--stab-a heem with the knife!"

A look of triumph came to Chicago Charlie's face.  This
was a confession of moment.

"Where did he get that knife?"

Again she shook with convulsive sobs.

"Oh, I doan' know!  I doan' know!"

Chicago Charlie repeated the question, with considerable
sternness.  He thought he could see why the girl should fear
to implicate herself.

"I-a geet it for heem!"

"Ah! you got it for him!  Where did you get it?  Tell me
all about it.  It will be the better for you.  You needn't
fear to tell us."

Still she hesitated.

"Whose knife was it?"

"A woman's knife!"

"Whose?"

"I-a doan' re'lect the-a name."

"Did you not get the knife from a girl whose fortune you
told?"

She nodded an assent.

"And you went there, pretending to want to tell her
fortune, for that purpose?"

Again the Ghawazee indicated an affirmative.

Gypsy Nell was bending intently forward, one of the most
interested of the listeners.

Then, bit by bit, Chicago Charlie forced the confession
from the cowering Ghawazee.

It was as he had thought.  She had gone to the house of
John Malcomb, at the instigation of Zel Magruder, and had
there purloined Daisy Malcomb's knife for the bloody deed
which Zel purposed to commit.

The dancing-girl was constant in her declarations,
however, that she did not know what Magruder wanted to do
with the knife, until afterward, or she would not have
stolen it for him.  She asserted that he had said he wanted
it because it was of great value and had been the property
of a friend; that he could not purchase it, and that she
must thus get it for him.

She had found it lying on the table in Daisy's room, and
had abstracted it without difficulty, while Daisy was
absorbed in the fortune that was being told her.

Afterward, when it was too late to recall the act, Zel
had shown her an account of the murder in the papers, and
had confessed to her that he had committed the murder with
that knife; to the Ghawazee's great fear and horror, as she
averred.

"Where did you get that ring?" the Columbian Detective
suddenly questioned, pointing to the ring that glittered on
the girl's finger.  "It is the ring of the murdered man!"

Instantly Malma Nareen slipped it off and gave it to him.

"Take eet!" she gasped.  "I-a vear eet no longer."

She glanced at the ruby and shuddered.  Perhaps it was
too suggestive of blood--blood murderously spilled.

She was crying again most bitterly; and Chicago Charlie,
chancing to look round, saw that Gypsy Nell was rocking
herself to and fro in seeming high glee.

The actions of the crone puzzled him, even though he had
heard so much from Billy Stubbs concerning her odd character
and oddity of manner.  He was forced to the conclusion that
the occurrences of that hour were extremely pleasing to
Nell; and he determined to apply to her the inquisitorial
pump, as soon as he found time.

Then he turned back to the Ghawazee, and once more plied
her with apparently endless questions.

He found, however, that he had already extracted almost
all she knew.  She knew very little of the Leaguers, and
nothing at all of the location of the den on the Michigan
shore.  She was in a manner, acquainted with Solon
Youngblood, regarding him as Zel's best friend; and had
taken the trouble to warn him of peril, whenever she could;
and had transmitted messages between him and her lover, for
which they had come to the Cairo Street.

But all this did not implicate her in the many crimes
committed by the Lakeside League.  She had been used as a
tool, it was clear; but seemingly as an ignorant tool.

However, Chicago Charlie thought it the part of wisdom to
detain her for a further hearing; and placed her in charge
of an officer; while he sought to obtain some information
from the croaking old Gypsy woman.  The officer was not as
alert as he should have been.

He turned to converse with another for a moment, and
walked toward the door of the tent.  It was the opportunity
long sought by the Ghawazee.

She lifted the flap of the tent, and was outside and
speeding away in the darkness, before a hand could be raised
to detain her.

CHAPTER XXXVI. THE INFANT WONDER HAS AN ADVENTURE.

"I DO'NO' AS I'LL GIT BACK," Jack Rackstraw solemnly averred
looking earnestly at Lilly Lilac.  "So, if you'd only answer
that question I asked you last night?"

Miss Lilly's face, which had been covered alternately
with smiles and blushes, darkened with anxiety.

"What do you mean Jack?" she asked.

"Hain't I told ye?  I've been runnin' on so, blamed if I
know what I have said.  Thought I mentioned it, while I was
a-tellin' of what happened down at the Gypsies' camp last
night!"

They were in the same upper room of the kindergarten, but
the time was a night later than that which saw them together
there last.

The Infant Wonder, neglected by his sailor crony, was
playing near the door that opened on the stairway, building
houses out of blocks and knocking them down again in great
glee; thus working to as little purpose as some men.  But it
brought him pleasure, which cannot always be said of the
men.

"What do you mean by saying you don't know that you'll
get back?  Where are you going?" Miss Lilly anxiously
inquired.

"That's jist what I was tryin' to explain.  You see, the
Andy Johnson has been ordered on a cruise, and sails exactly
at midnight.  Likely there'll be a fight before the cruise
is over.  Captain Stebbins don't want to put out till that
time, because he's afeared of the spies of the Leaguers.  He
thinks he can make a sneak of it about midnight, and git out
without bein' seen."

It always took honest Jack Rackstraw a long time to tell
what he had to say; and this was so when he was engaged in
conversation with Miss Lilly.  Perhaps on this occasion he
was slow for a purpose; as his eyes twinkled pleasedly
beneath his shaggy brows, when he observed that Miss Lilly
had drawn closer to him.

"A fight!" she was gasping.  "You don't mean a fight on
the lake!  A fight with a ship?"

"Mebbe not on the lake.  More likely on the shore.  More
likely, yit, in a cove.  I hain't no prophit.  Wheres'ever
we find them Lakeside Leaguers, there we're a-goin' to jump
onto 'em, teeth an' toenail; and if somebody don't git hurt,
then it won't be the fault o' the crew of the Andy Johnson. 
They've worried with them there scoundrels tell they've got
their mad up, and would as lief fight as eat, and a good
deal liefer!"

He was apparently not looking at Miss Lilly Lilac, yet
his pleased glances saw her every attitude.

"So, not knowin' what may come out o' that fight, I says
to you that I don't know whether er not I'll git to see you
ag'in; an'--well, if you'd only answer that question that I
asked you last night!--if you'd only--I'd go 'way feelin' a
heap sight better."

Miss Lilly's face was changing from red to pale and from
pale to red, though she held it so that Jack Rackstraw could
not see it, even by the most intent peering through his
bushy eyebrows.  But Rackstraw saw that she was twisting
nervously at her apron, and that her fingers had a
suggestive tremble.

If Jack Rackstraw--the rascal!--could have been soundly
thrashed at about that time, probably it would have served
him right; for he was making a base pretense of his fears. 
There was not a braver man on the Andy Johnson than this
same Jack Rackstraw, nor a man who thought less of what the
results of such a cruise might be.  It had even been said of
him that he rushed to battle as to a feast.

Yet Jack Rackstraw was a kind-hearted man, not given to
blood-thirstiness, nor to vainglorious boastings.  He was
naturally a warrior, trained to battle on the seas. 
Fighting as the warriors of old, for his king and
country;--which king and country were the flag and soil of
his native land, America.

To do him justice, however, it may be admitted that his
love for Lilly Lilac may have made him more than ordinarily
concerned on such points; and he may really have felt
something of what he was saying.  But his twinkling eyes
belied this.

"I'd go 'way feelin' a heap sight better," he continued,
"if you'd only answer me that there question?"

The Infant Wonder tumbled down the Tower of Babel at that
moment, and Miss Lilly gave the child a grateful look.

"What was the question?" she next innocently asked.

"Why--why----" and a great lump got in Rackstraw's throat
and almost choked him.  "I--I asked you, if you--if you
wouldn't be--if you wouldn't be my--husband?"

Miss Lilly got redder than any beet, stuffed her
handkerchief so deeply into her mouth that she could hardly
keep from coughing, and shook more violently than ever;
while Rackstraw feeling that he had hopelessly ruined
himself and committed a blunder beyond all pardon, was so
much mortified that he nearly fell over.

"I'm a dod-rotted idiot!" he at last blurted out,
struggling again to the top of the waves that were engulfing
him.  "I'm a teetotal, flabbergasted oyster without any
brains, er a head to put 'em in if I had a bushel.  I'm
a----"

"What was it you said?" Miss Lilly interrupted, having
got the better of her emotions and pulled the handkerchief
from her mouth.  "What was it you said awhile ago?  I didn't
get the last of it?"

Miss Lilly, it will be seen, was showing herself quite as
violently in love with honest Jack as he was in love with
her.

Rackstraw swallowed the lump in his throat and rose still
further out of the wrangling flood.  If Miss Lilly had not
caught that awful--that inexcusable blunder, there was hope
yet.

"I said would you--would you be my--wife?"

He dwelt a long time on the final word, to be sure that
it was the right one before letting it slip.

"You don't really mean it, Jack!" Miss Lilly protested;
and another Tower of Babel fell thunderingly to the floor.

Rackstraw looked up with uncommon boldness, and saw that
she was blushing like a peony.

His courage grew with the sight; and, feeling his feet
touch the firm earth once more, he clasped her hand and drew
her down against his heart.

"Mean it?" he ejaculated, in a high-keyed whisper.  "May
I be cut into bits and fed to the fishes, if I don't mean
every word of it!  I want you to marry me, Miss Lilly; an'
if you'll only say you will, I'll be the happiest man
between the oceans."  His tongue was regaining its fluency.

Whether Miss Lilly was blushing or not, Rackstraw could
not tell.  She had hidden her face against his breast.

Thinking this a good indication, he drew her closer, in a
firm embrace; and was startled by a sob.

"You're not mad at me, Miss Lilly?" he pleaded, his voice
shaken by fears.

"Of course not, Jack!"

"What ye cryin' fer, then?"

"Because, Jack, I do love you, and I'll marry you, if you
want me to!"

"Hear that, Infant Wonder?  Hip!  Hip!"

The Infant Wonder heard something else, just then, that
concerned him more directly.

The door had opened softly, and a man reached over and
clasped him about the shoulders and drew him into the
stairway.

His frightened yell smote the air, causing Rackstraw and
Miss Lilly to spring asunder.

Rackstraw caught a glimpse of the man, with Christopher
Columbus Stubbs in his arms.  The man was turning about to
descend.  Then the sailor echoed the cry of the Infant
Wonder, and leaped in instant pursuit.  Either the man was
John Malcomb, or the kidnapper was John Malcomb's ghost.

Rackstraw believed it a veritable man, for ghosts do not
usually play such pranks; and, as he leaped for the
stairway, the small revolver he carried in a hip pocket came
out with a swing.

The "bang" of the weapon quickly followed.

The would-be kidnapper had reached the foot of the
stairway, and was on the point of bounding into the street.

The shot must have taken effect, for the fellow pitched
forward, and the child was dropped, howling, to the floor.

Rackstraw was following the bullet down the stairway, two
steps at a time.

It may be that no wound had been made; for, before
Rackstraw could reach him, the man scrambled up and plunged
headlong into the street.

Christopher Columbus Stubbs was making the air vocal with
his screams of fright and indignation, and the voice of Miss
Lilly was calling anxiously from the head of the flight.

Unheeding them, Rackstraw bounced through the door, still
swinging the revolver.

The street was almost deserted, and the would-be
kidnapper was not to be seen.

With a smothered curse, honest Jack retraced his way,
picked up the still yelling Infant Wonder, replied as best
he could to Miss Lilly's hysterical questions, and toiled
up-stairs.

"Ghosts a-ragin' round like that!" he snorted, setting
the Wonder down gingerly and looking to see that none of the
Stubbs bones were fractured.  "Tell that to the marines! 
John Malcomb's alive this minute, I don't keer a fig what
them there Gypsies says.

"But what in the land o' the livin', did he want with
Christopher Columbus?"

CHAPTER XXXVII. IN THE WOODED COVE.

THIS WAS THE SENSATIONAL and utterly bewildering story that
Jack Rackstraw carried to Chicago Charlie on board the Andy
Johnson, not an hour later.

Rackstraw had not left Miss Lilly defenseless, however. 
He had secured a policeman to watch at the foot of the
stairs opening on the street, and had left with Miss Lilly
the revolver that had been instrumental in saving
Christopher Columbus Stubbs from the kidnapping ghost;
though Miss Lilly had vowed over and over that she would
not--could not--touch the weapon, if a dozen ghosts, on
kidnapping bent, should mount the stairs and enter the room.

Not the least excited, when the tale was rehearsed, was
Billy Stubbs.  It alarmed him for the safety of the Infant
Wonder, and so unsettled all his preconceived notions, that
he hardly knew whether he was on the deck of a vessel or on
the land.  Surely, he thought, it could not be!--it could
not be possible that John Malcomb was alive.

Sure that the idea was foolish, he fell back on the
theory that the man must have been, for some inexplicable
reason, disguised to look like John Malcomb.  But why did he
seize on the Infant Wonder?

To that he could find no reply.  It was as unsolvable as
the riddles of the ancient Sphinx.

Chicago Charlie's talk with the Gypsy crone had not been
barren of results.  She had readily told him all she knew,
and had given him a roughly-drawn chart of the lake, which
she had stolen a few days before from Zel.

It contained some markings that were thought to be routes
of the smuggler sloop, and a point was indicated on the
Michigan shore that was presumed to represent the "den."

Rackstraw examined the chart with great care, and decided
that it was too crude to be of much benefit.  It helped in
one way, however; by showing that the den was toward the
southern end of the lake.

Rackstraw was acquainted with several coves, any of which
might have been meant by the dot, and it was determined to
steer for the most southern of them, and then to sail
northward, making a close search of every suspicious-looking
inlet.

At midnight, according to previous arrangements, the
Andrew Johnson was got under way, and steamed as quietly
from the wharf as possible.

No lights gleamed from her decks, and no signals were
shown.  One lone fisherman, tacking lakeward, was perhaps
the only man that beheld her thus putting to sea, and he
stared his amazement, wondering what it meant, and not
knowing that she had been privileged to so depart.

The run across the lake was of no great interest, save to
Billy Stubbs, who was making his longest, as it was his
first, voyage.

But the interest intensified when, the next night, the
Michigan shore was approached, and it became known to all
that the search had begun.

Still, there came of it nothing to produce any undue
excitement.  The deserted coves that were entered held
nothing to indicate that they were, or had ever been, the
den of a band of smugglers.

But the ensuing night there came an event to arouse every
man.

A light was seen displayed on a lonely part of the shore
line; and it flashed out and disappeared at such regular
intervals that there was no doubt it was meant as a signal
for some person or vessel.

The Andy Johnson was lying well out in the lake at the
time but the light was distinctly visible to those on board.

After waiting an hour or more for the vessel to run in,
should one have been signaled, the Andy Johnson was put
about, and a short southernly run was made, which brought
the steamer close to land at a point where heavy forest
growth came quite down to the water.

Rackstraw knew of no harbor, so the anchor was let go
there, and several boats' crews went ashore, in charge of
Captain Stebbins and Chicago Charlie.  They were heavily
armed, in anticipation of a fight should the smugglers be
discovered, and Rackstraw and Billy Stubbs were of the
number.

The boats were landed on the sandy, wooded point, and
left there in charge of a few men; while the others stole
through the woods in the direction in which the light had
been seen.

When it was thought the place must be near, Chicago
Charlie and Jack Rackstraw crept on in advance, leaving the
men, under command of Stebbins, to await the results of
their investigations.

They were gone a long time--so long that Stebbins almost
lost his proverbial patience.

And this is what they saw, and what they heard:

At the extreme end of the cove, almost hidden from view
by the heavy timber and dense undergrowth, was found a small
camp of log houses.

The smuggler sloop lay in the cove.  It had been the
vessel for whose benefit the signal lights had been
displayed, and it had been not long at anchor.

There were but few lights in the log houses, but most of
the members of the Lakeside League were grouped about a
small fire near the water's edge.

Chicago Charlie was almost beside himself with
excitement.  He seemed so near a solution of the mysteries
that had so vexed and puzzled him; so near, perhaps, to the
woman he loved, and who had treated him so strangely, that
he was on the point of losing his head and bringing
discovery on himself and companion.

"Jist take it cool, mate!" Rackstraw urged.  "I know how
you feel, I reckon, sence I've got a girl now t'other side
the lake what's a-waitin' an' watchin' for me!  But
a-rushin' and hustlin' hain't the things that's goin' to win
in this here game.  Coolness is the little joker what'll
rake in the pot."

The advice and caution was altogether so good and
sensible that the Columbian Detective strove to control his
excitement and to regain his old-time caution.

Bit by bit, they worked round the border of the fringing
trees, until they reached a point to the rear of the log
cabins.

Selecting one of these, from which there came both a
light and the sound of voices in conversation, they drew
near.  Something in the tones--though the words were still
indistinguishable--sent an unwonted thrill to the
detective's throbbing heart.

They saw that, though they might crawl up to the walls of
the house, it would be difficult to look in, for the window
was high set; and, therefore, they sought better to
accomplish their purpose, which was to see as well as to
hear, by mounting a small tree.

A large limb of this extended toward the window, giving
them a fairly good view, as well as enabling them to hear
all that was being said, for the window was open to the
night air.

As soon as Chicago Charlie looked through that window and
beheld the faces of the occupants, he started so violently
that he came near falling from the branch.

"Steady, mate!" came Rackstraw's warning whisper.  "I
sympathizes with you, fer I've got a girl----"

The sentence was not completed; for at that moment,
Rackstraw, hitching forward, saw what Chicago Charlie saw.

There were two persons in the little room.

One was Daisy Malcomb, and the other was John Malcomb.

They were talking in low tones, but the words could be
readily understood.

The subject of their conversation was quite as
bewildering.

"Why won't you tell me that, father?" Daisy was heard to
beg.  "I've asked it so many times.  It seems to me an
explanation is surely due by this time!"

Chicago Charlie drank in the tones with almost pitiful
eagerness.  How long it seemed to him since he had heard the
music of that voice!

"That's what I want to talk about!" they heard Malcomb
declare.

The voice was the voice of John Malcomb, even as the form
was his.  He had not been murdered!  He was not dead!  More
than that one fact concerning him, Chicago Charlie could not
hold in his mind at that moment.

"There is an estate in New York," Malcomb was heard to
continue, "which is tied up in the most singular manner.  I
shall tell you about that estate, and then see if you are a
true daughter to me!"

"Oh! father, can you doubt it, after what I have done?"
came the reproachful question.

"That estate belonged to my father, who has been dead for
several years.  He took a dislike to me--to me, his only
son!  The only child, I should have said.  The property is
worth now two hundred thousand dollars; and it would be
mine, every cent of it, but for a nonsensical provision in
his will. 

"As I said, he took a dislike to me.  He cast me off.  He
said I should no more be considered his son, and all because
I would not order my life in accordance with his wishes."

There was a growing pain in the eyes of the girl.

Chicago Charlie had already observed how thin and pale
she was--how like a shadow of her former self.

John Malcomb did not notice this look, or, if he did, he
did not care to heed it.

"His treatment of me I always thought unjust and cruel. 
The provision of the will cut me off without a penny, and
gave to my children the entire estate but not until after my
death!  You see, he thus showed that he feared if they got
possession of it during my lifetime, I might get some
benefit from it.

"If that was not an outrageously cruel thing for a father
to do, then I don't know what to call cruel!  He was
determined that not a cent of all that money should ever
pass through my hands."

Daisy Malcomb had bowed her head and was picking
nervously at the chair.  No comment passed her lips.

For a moment the silence was so great it might almost be
felt.  John Malcomb was apparently studying her, and
thinking how best to proceed with his narration.

"That will serve as an explanation; and will tell you why
I wanted the world to think me dead!"

She glanced up inquiringly.

"Of course the fortune would go to you, Daisy, at my
death!  But not before.  I might live a long time--ten,
twenty years!  I proceeded to hasten the matter.  Not by
slaying myself, nor by having another slay me; but by making
the world believe I had done the latter.

"You have so often told me how you loved me.  I believed
that you would be willing to appear in the courts as my
daughter, obtain possession of the money; and then we could
go away and enjoy it together!"

She bent her head again and did not reply, and once more
he anxiously studied her attitude.

"Did you think I could do a thing like that?"

She glanced up, as she put the question, and her hot,
tearless eyes held a horrified light.

"Why not?" he demanded; and there was a snarl in the
intonation.

"It would be perjury!  Not even for my father would I
perjure myself!"

"Bah!  Nothing of the kind.  You would not have to prove
me dead.  That has already been done.  The coroner's record
shows that, and all about my untimely taking-off.  Those
records would make a case.  All you need to prove is that
you are my daughter!"

The look of horror fled, to be replaced by one of
indignant anger.

"And this is why you induced me to come with you, and to
write the letter that has forever wrecked my life?"

Chicago Charlie's pulses leaped.

"Is it asking too much?"

"It is asking what I will never do.  Never!  Never! 
NEVER!"

Her voice rose to a shriek.

Then she flung herself at Malcomb's feet, crying out,
bitterly: 

"Oh, papa! take back those words.  Tell me you never said
it.  Tell me that I have been mistaken in you.  That you
would not--could not do so base and wicked a thing!  Let me
trust in you again! Let me believe that you are honest and
true!"

"And you refuse to do what I ask you?" he demanded, his
anger getting the better of him.  "Have I schemed for this? 
Do you refuse to obey me, your father?"

"Oh! I cannot believe that my father asks me to do a
thing like that!  That he could for a moment harbor the
idea!  Please tell me it is not so!"

"I ask again, if you will do what I want you to?" he
furiously questioned.  "I have had quite enough sniffling
and tears.  You must do what I command! You have been in
this sort of temper, half the time since leaving Chicago. 
Am I to be obeyed or not?"

The Columbian Detective found it difficult to restrain
the inclination to launch himself through the window at the
scoundrel's head.  But Jack Rackstraw's hand was on his arm,
held there restrainingly.

"I'm afeared to leave you hyer," Rackstraw whispered,
"but don't you think I'd better slide out an' bring up the
boys?  I'll do it, if you think you can hold yer temper that
long!"

"Go, for God's sake!" the Columbian Detective pleaded. 
"Go!  Go!  I'll not be able to control myself much longer. 
Bring 'em up on the run!"

Jack Rackstraw "crawfished" back to the body of the tree,
then slid quickly to the ground and disappeared in the dense
shadows.

All unconscious of this little scene and dialogue,
Malcomb asked again:

"Am I to be obeyed or not?"

"I will never do so base a thing!" Daisy declared getting
on her feet, and stiffening with inherent pride.  "Never! 
_Never_!"

"Then, you are no daughter of mine!" was the assertion.
"Begone from here! You never were my daughter, and I refuse
to have anything further to do with you."

She seemed petrified.

"Oh, don't stare at me that way!" was the brutal command.
"It is the truth.  I loved you, or thought I did, as a man
should love his own daughter.  But that is gone!  No; you
are not my daughter.  So clear out!"

He was beside himself with rage.

"Is it true?" she asked, in tones that were so hollow
they made the listening detective shiver.  "Tell me again,
is it true?"

"Yes, it's true!  You are not my daughter.  You never
were my daughter; and I thank God for it!"

"I thank God, too!" was the solemn and fervent
declaration.  "My father could never have been so base a
thing!"

CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE CRASH OF THE THUNDERBOLT.

JOHN MALCOMB, DRIVEN TO FURY by this declaration, lifted
his hand to strike the girl he had taught to call him
father.  The sight drove the Columbian Detective to madness.

Grasping an overhanging branch, he swung himself through
the window and struck Malcomb to the earth with a furious
blow.

At the same instant, almost, there came the crack of a
rifle; and the men under Captain Stebbins, who had been
hurried up by Rackstraw, gave their charging cheer.

The scene that ensued baffles description.  The smugglers
about the fire, among whom were Solon Youngblood, seized
their weapons, and, retreating toward the shore, attempted a
resistance.

But they were scattered at the first volley of the men
from the steamer, and broke for the cover of the underbrush.

Rackstraw gave them no heed, but made a wild dash for the
cabin occupied by John Malcomb and the girl.  There were
sounds coming from it that made him anxious.  He had heard
the shout of the Columbian Detective, when the latter had
precipitated himself to the cabin floor; and now screams
arose.

Thrusting open the door, he saw Chicago Charlie engaged
in tying the hands of the archconspirator, and again heard
the cries of the bewildered and scared girl.

He sprung toward her, but Chicago Charlie was the first
to gain her side.

And, Rackstraw, remembering his own experiences in
meetings and partings from the idol of his bosom, discreetly
turned away, giving his undivided attention to the fallen
man.

Malcomb glared up at him like a caged beast.  The
scoundrel had not been hit by the bullet sent speeding after
him down the stairway, as Rackstraw was quick to discover. 
No doubt he had stumbled and dropped the Infant Wonder,
through fright.

"Needn't look at me as if you wanted to eat me!"
Rackstraw commented.  "I hain't no sugar man."

Then, he bent to an investigation of the knots made by
Chicago Charlie, to be sure they were strong and secure.

Outside, a lively scene was being enacted.

Solon Youngblood, who was no coward, was leading such of
his men as had not bolted from his side, in a desperate
counter-charge, in the hope of gaining the sloop.  There
were a few men on board the vessel, and these were climbing
wildly around, trying to hoist the anchor and to set sail,
for a breeze was springing up from off the land.

Captain Stebbins rallied his followers to repel the
charge of Youngblood's force, and for a time a desperate
combat raged on the sandy shore of the lonely inlet.

But the rascally crew of the smuggler was no match for
the trained men under command of Stebbins.  Inch by inch,
they were forced back, until they broke again; and
Stebbins's men scattered them like chaff.

Two or three had been killed, and one of the men of the
steamer was said to be mortally wounded.  In addition, there
were stabs and minor injuries; and pistol wounds, without
number.

Youngblood was among the prisoners taken; and, when he
saw that he could not escape, one of his first questions
concerned Mrs. Youngblood.  She had been in one of the log
huts, but had not been seen since the beginning of the
attack; nor was she ever afterward seen by any who might
have desired her arrest.

John Malcomb had been dragged into another house, away
from the sight of Daisy, and there he was raving out his
fierce anger and venomous hate.

Rackstraw's was the command that caused the removal of
the miserable prisoner, whose wicked scheming and unhallowed
plans had so suddenly come to naught.

As for Daisy and the Columbian Detective, the former was
hysterically happy and unhappy by turns, while the latter,
with pulsing exultation, held her in an embrace that he
almost hoped might last forever, and listened to her
incoherent attempts to explain why she had written that
awful letter and afterward fled with the man whom she
believed to be her father.

To follow and record her halting sentences, and Chicago
Charlie's rapturous and pitying exclamations, would require
pages.  But the substance can be compressed into a few
paragraphs:

She had thought her father dead, until one night, when he
walked into her room; frightening her sorely.  Then he
explained that he had not been killed, or even injured, but
that all that had been done had been only a pretense.  He
claimed that he had got into trouble, which would force him
to leave the city, and to remain in hiding for some time;
that it had been brought about by some business
transactions, which had been perfectly fair and honorable so
far as he was concerned; but to which he had been instigated
by partners and agents, of whose criminal deeds he had no
previous knowledge.  That they had charged him with being an
accomplice; and so he must fly.

He said he had sold his city property to Solon
Youngblood, who was ready to take immediate possession.  And
he had begged Daisy to accompany him; and by systematic
lying had induced her to do so.

He also made her think the idea was abroad that she had
killed her own father; and had caused her to promise that
she would leave no trace or letter by which the officers
could follow her.

It was a pitiful story, pitifully told; of confidence and
daughterly love abused.

She had been taken first to Detroit, and afterward to the
cove; where she had since remained, shocked by the
companions which Malcomb had seen fit to gather about him. 
In addition, she had been depressed by his reticence, and
had wondered more than once if his representations had been
as true, and his business dealings as honorable, as he had
maintained.

CHAPTER XXXIX. A DEFIANT DEVIL.

"I DEFY YOU to do your worst.  You can only imprison me!  I
haven't murdered anybody!--no, nor I haven't been murdered!"

The scene was a cell in a city prison, whither John
Malcomb had been borne after the return from the Michigan Cove.

Chicago Charlie was present, and so was Jack Rackstraw;
and also another, who was a prison guard.

John Malcomb had grown defiant, obstinate and
self-willed.  No doubt he realized that the hopes of his life were
blasted, and that no worse could come to him than had already come. 
His carefully-laid plans had failed.  He would never have the
handling of the fortune he had so cunningly schemed to obtain; and
when he should go from prison a free man again, his record and the
knowledge of his crimes would turn the hand of every man against
him.

Realizing this to its full, he was bitter and insolent;
and inclined to glory in a past which held only shame.

"You can't more than jail me!" he snarled again, "and I
reckon I can stand a few months or years of that if I have to.  As
for those who helped me, they're beyond your reach.  All except
Youngblood.  And he would have been if he hadn't made that last
fool flight.  As for me, I wasn't given any show."

The look he bent on Chicago Charlie was withering in its
hate, but the latter only smiled good-humoredly.

"We are prepared to admit your cleverness, Malcomb.  You
were deucedly clever.  Too clever for me, I must confess."

The statements were made with a purpose; that purpose
being to flatter John Malcomb into a further confession.

Malcomb laughed harshly, and with a sort of satanic glee.

"You police think you are very smart, but you are only a
set of wooden-heads, after all.  And the great, blustering
Columbian Detective!--he can't tell a dead man when he sees one!"

He laughed again, showing his teeth in a cruel way.

His face had grown thin and hatchety, and his eyes were
so bright and hollow that he was not a pleasant sight to
contemplate.  Deep down in the depths of each eye there lurked a
dancing devil, that now and then took on a shape of fire.

"How did you do it, anyway?" Chicago Charlie ventured to
question.

"Easy.  Why, it was the easiest thing in the world.  I
wanted that fortune of two hundred thousand, and I had to die to
get it.  If I'd 'a' died really, you see, it wouldn't have done me
any good.  So I just pretended to die.  Magruder and some more of
the boys helped me, for which they were to have had half of the
fortune, if the scheme had worked.

"Well, it didn't work, though that was no fault of mine! 
The scheme was a good one.  Magruder knew of a drug, which he'd run
across in some of his Gypsyish wanderings, that would give to
whoever swallowed it the semblance of death.  He secured it, got a
cup of blood from a slaughtering establishment, and then we were
ready for the trick."

A scowl flitted for a moment across his face.

"Curse that fool Magruder!  I'd like to choke him, yet. 
He had to muddle things straight from the start, instead of obeying
orders!  He thought he knew more about it than I did, who was the
most interested.  I think, too, he was a little afraid of the
police.

"So he got that dancing-girl from the Cairo Street to
steal the knife from Daisy's room.  If it hadn't been for that
visit of the girl to Daisy's room, and the ring he took from my
hand, you'd never have got on the trail of the thing."

The scowl faded to be followed by a smile.

"I thought that fool of an Englishman would never go away
that night; and he wouldn't, likely, if I hadn't claimed to
be mad over that betting offer and ordered him into the street. 
Poor old Walesey!  How the boys did bleed him! And they kept it up
after my supposed death, and got thousands and tens of thousands
out of him, I guess, with which they pretended to bribe policemen
and detectives who were said to be wanting to arrest him for
murdering me.  I think, if I was Walesey, I'd kill Youngblood for
that, yet!"

The recollection was so exceedingly pleasing that he
laughed aloud.

Then the scowl came back, and he continued:

"When we were all ready, I dipped my finger in the blood
and scratched that nonsense on the wall, to mislead you smart
fellows of the police force; and then Magruder got in his artistic
work on my back, painting a place to look like a wound with blood
crusted round it.  After which we sopped my clothing in the blood;
poured the balance of it on the floor; and I laid down in it, with
my finger pointed toward the nonsense on the wall; and Magruder
gave me the drug.

"I was a little bit afraid to swallow it, not being right
sure there mightn't be a dead man found there, sure enough, in the
morning; and I shouldn't have taken it, I reckon, if I hadn't known
that Magruder was as much interested in having me pull through all
right, as I was in pulling through all right.

"You see, if the drug had finished me, that two hundred
thousand wouldn't have been among the possibilities, and
Magruder would have lost all chance of sharing it.

"So I swallowed the stuff.  And it was powerful enough to
kill, seems to me; for I hadn't much more than downed it than I
began to feel the numbing effects; and in ten minutes I couldn't
have moved a hand or batted an eye for the life of me.

"And that's the way you and Walesey found me in the
morning!"

"But the coroner and his jury?  I confess I didn't look
closely at the supposed wound.  But how did you manage to deceive
them?"

Malcomb winked unpleasantly.

"I didn't deceive them.  They deceived you and the
public.  They--every mother's son of them--were Lakeside Leaguers;
and those were the men who were to share with the Gypsy chief the
half of the fortune."

"And the undertaker?"

"Another Leaguer!" chuckling in horrible glee.  "Oh, it
was a daisy lay-out, and a scheme to fool the Old Boy! I don't
wonder you were deceived.  But you can't get them!  They have all
skipped."
 
   "Then you weren't buried, nor anything of the kind?"

"I went into the coffin, but I didn't go into the ground. And a
deuced unpleasant night I spent in that box, too.  It gives me the
creeps, yet, to think of it.

"When the coffin went to the cemetery, there was a
counterfeit John Malcomb in it; and I was looking out from a window
to see that the solemn cortege wound all right on its way.  The
Gypsy had come in the night, stolen me away and brought the bloom
back to my erstwhile faded cheek, and Richard was himself again!"

He laughed, as if he felt the clever trick to have been
one worthy of honor; and his utter heartlessness was
unpleasantly revealed by the fact that he could thus treat the girl
who believed
in and loved him.

  "The only thing that troubled me," he laughingly
commented, "was that I dared not tell any of you wise officers how
far you were off the track;--but it did me good to know that you
were thrashing this way and that, hunting for my supposed
murderer."

CHAPTER XL. A SINGULAR REVELATION.

THE MORNING that witnessed the return of the captured
Lakeside Leaguers found Selwyn Fisher dead in his room; he
having died, as the doctors said, of alcoholism.

Not much had been seen of Walesey since his attack on
Rackstraw in the Ferris Wheel.  He had been given a
preliminary hearing on the charge of assault with intent to
kill, and had been released under bond to await a regular
trial.

It was known that he had been drinking heavily;--even
more heavily than before, if that were possible.

There were few or none to mourn his demise, except
certain members of the sporting fraternity.  He had lived a
fast life. 

When his effects were searched, a most singular letter or
confession was discovered in his trunk.  It had been written
some time before; and, as it seemed, in anticipation of
death. 

The confession covered a number of foolscap pages, and
was, therefore, too long to quote.

It began by giving a short history of his life, stating
that he was born in England and was forty-five years of age. 
He had come unlawfully in the possession of a large sum of
money, three fourths of which was already dissipated.  There
were only twenty or thirty thousand dollars of it left; and
he considered himself on the brink of poverty.

To a man of his habits and style of living it probably
appeared to be a very small sum, for he had spent more than
half that much in the year preceding his death.

The points of most interest to the readers of this story,
concerned the fortune.  It had been inherited, according to
English custom, by his elder brother, who was also his only
brother.

This brother, having become wildly infatuated with a
Gypsy woman, had wandered off and had married her. 
Afterward he had died; though not till two children had been
born to this marriage.

It was not known to the public that there were such
children, though the fact was well known to Selwyn Fisher;
for his brother had written to him at various times.

Selwyn Fisher saw, as he thought, an opportunity to
acquire his brother's fortune.  In the absence of children
he would have been the next of kin; and the temptation came
to him to pretend ignorance of these children and to take
the property.

When an investigation showed him that the mother was also
dead--she having died shortly after the father--the
temptation became irresistible.  Selwyn claimed the
property; and, having converted it into cash sailed for
America.  What remained of the fortune was now in one of the
Chicago banks.  He had never invested any of it, nor done
anything except to draw freely on his bank account.

He stated that he wrote this confession to do justice to
the heirs, though he had not sufficient strength of will or
manhood to give up the money while he lived.

Then came the startling statement:

"I have been acquainted with one of these heirs for more
than a year.  She is the girl known as Daisy Malcomb, and
commonly supposed to be John Malcomb's daughter.  The other
heir I have not known so long.  He is the newsboy, Billy
Stubbs!

"I once saw my brother's wife, the Gypsy woman.  She was
exceedingly handsome, and I don't wonder that my brother
fell in love with her.  I know I should have done so, if in
his place.  The girl called Daisy Malcomb is her living
image.  That was the fact which first attracted my attention
to her.

"One day, in conversation with Solon Youngblood, he told
me she was not Malcomb's daughter; and then I knew that she
was my brother's child.  Malcomb had found her in an
almshouse or orphanage, or some such place.  Malcomb was a
married man at the time, and had no children.  He desired an
heir; and so he took the girl, and called her his daughter. 
But when I first knew him, he had no living wife.

"Billy Stubbs, whose real name is Marlton Fisher--and the
name of the girl is Gertrude Fisher!--looks as much like my
dead brother, except as to age, as the girl resembles her
dead mother.  Zel Magruder says the boy is a Gypsy.  Of
course, I cannot be sure that he is my brother's child,
though I am sure of it as I am of anything I can't plainly
prove.  If he is a Gypsy, I know he is my nephew, for his
face is my brother's face.

"John Malcomb never had a child by his wife; though he
did, or rather has, a child by another woman.  He told me
that, himself, one day as we were driving through the
streets.  We saw the newsboy, Billy Stubbs, leading a small
boy by the hand.

"'Do you see that brat?' said Malcomb to me.  I told him
I did; and then he said the 'brat' was his; but that he
didn't care just then to own it.  He said he would have
taken it home and acknowledged it as his, only he was sure
Daisy would kick up a row.  These are his words as near as I
can remember them."

But a small part of the confession--which was a record of
the man's life--has been quoted.  Only that part pertaining
to the characters of this story.  For the rest, there is not
space; nor would it be of great interest.

It was evident, though, that the dead man had set down
only truths.  The statement that Christopher Columbus Stubbs
was John Malcomb's son, explains why Malcomb had desired to
kidnap the boy from the kindergarten; and when Malcomb was
approached on the subject and shown the words of Selwyn
Fisher, he acknowledged their correctness.

"I didn't really want the boy," he declared, "only as he
would help me.  I thought if Daisy went back on me, I could
have the boy put forward by some one as the heir, and
through him I could get hold of the fortune.  Yes, I told
Fisher the boy was mine; and of course, in the absence of
other heirs, he would have come in for the fortune left by
that fool father of mine.

"As for Daisy, I knew she was dark, but I never knew she
was a Gypsy.  Fisher never breathed that to me.  No doubt he
was afraid, for I would have been wanting her to have the
money he was fingering.  I don't suppose there's much of it
left, and I don't care.  I got a good deal of it while it
was going!

"Fisher was not one of the Leaguers.  He was too big a
fool to have been admitted there.  I must give the fellow
credit, though.  I didn't really believe he was such a
rascal as he makes out.  You can't always tell a man by the
way he looks.  I thought he was only a fat whisky and beer
guzzler, and a sucker of the greenest sort.

"If he was alive, I'd beg his pardon for thinking so
poorly of him!"

CHAPTER XLI. CONCLUSION.

THE SCENE SHIFTS AGAIN, and for the last time.

This time it reveals Zel Magruder, with body
water-swollen, and sightless eyes staring up at the dirty
peak of the tent, in whose interior he had been temporarily
placed.

He had rowed and sailed for the last time on Lake
Michigan.

The tent was that of the crone, Gypsy Nell, and the crone
was bending moaningly above him.  She had not loved him,
even though he had been distantly related to her, but she
was realizing now that after all "blood is thicker than
water."

They had had many quarrels, had bickered constantly, had
nurtured the demon of hate, and the woman had even turned
against him and sought to injure him by causing his
arrest--still he was a Gypsy, blood of the Gypsy blood; and
because of that she wrung her hands and poured out her
lamentations.

There were others in the tent: Chicago Charlie, Jack
Rackstraw, Billy Stubbs, a policeman and a Columbian guide.

Zel's boat had been overturned that morning on the lake,
in front of the Exhibition grounds.  The accident had been
seen, but not in time to effect his rescue.  And at the
request of Chicago Charlie the body, when taken from the
water, had been borne to the Gypsy encampment, instead of to
a morgue.

He felt it was the proper place for it, as that was the
Gypsy's home; and, besides, he had a purpose to serve in
making the request.  He desired further light thrown on the
parentage of Billy Stubbs; and hoped the crone, who had
grown sullen and uncommunicative, might be driven by the
fate of Magruder into making further statements.

It will be seen that Zel Magruder had not left the city,
as he told the dancing-girl he meant to do.

He had basely deceived the Ghawazee in many things. 
Thinking to impress her with his prowess, he had made her
believe he had killed John Malcomb; and the theft of the
knife he had more than once held over her head as a menacing
club to bend her to his will.

Yet, in spite of it, she had loved him.  So strange a
thing is love!

She had been guilty of no evil intentions, doing what she
did through a desire to aid the Gypsy and his friends.  It
was this that had caused her to become the bearer of
mysterious and warning messages between Magruder and
Youngblood, and had caused her to commit other
indiscretions.

She had returned to the Cairo Street, when she knew she
was not to be punished, and when it became certain that Zel
Magruder had lied to her.  This lying deceit of the Gypsy
had been made plain, at a surreptitious interview between
them on the night of their flight from the officers in the
Gypsy tent.  Zel still claimed then to love her, but he did
not want her to accompany him, and she departed from him in
disgust.  She was not only a Gypsy, but she was oriental in
her changeful fickleness.

Chicago Charlie questioned the crone, who had ceased her
moanings and turned to the men who had brought in Zel's
body.

"Yes," she admitted, in reply to his questions, "what I
said about the newsboy being a Gypsy, is all true.  I don't
know about the girl that you call Daisy, though I had
suspicions about her when she came here to have her fortune
told.

"But the boy was once, for a short time, with this band
in England.  He was a little chap, but I am sure I am not
mistaken.  His father came to visit us one day, bringing the
boy with him.  The father was not Gypsy, but he said the boy
was half Gypsy.  I thought I recognized the boy's face when
I first saw it, though that visit was so long ago.  The face
hadn't changed much.  He looks like the man, now, more than
he did then; but it is the same face.

"Yes, I am sure he is of the Gypsy blood!"

The proof--what additional proof was needed--was secured
to give to Daisy and the newsboy their inheritance; and it
was secured through the exertions of the Columbian
Detective.

He is Daisy's husband, now, and Billy Stubbs makes his
home with them.  Likewise, the Infant Wonder, who is the
richest of the lot, for he has come into possession of the
magnificent New York estate which his father, John Malcomb,
schemed so hard and vainly to obtain.

As Jack Rackstraw said, when he heard it: 

"The Infant Wonder forever! 'Rah! 'Rah! Hip!"

Rackstraw expects to marry pretty Lilly Lilac at no
distant day, and in consequence there is no happier man
above ground.

He and Chicago Charlie, and the newsboy--who is a newsboy
no longer, but who is still called Billy Stubbs--are rapidly
becoming a famous trio of detectives, and a terror to the
evil-doers of Chicago and the harpies of the great World's
Fair.

Solon Youngblood and John Malcomb--perhaps the least
said of them the better!--are in prison garb, learning the
sad and old, old lesson, so difficult for mankind to
learn--that "the way of the transgressor is hard!"

THE END