On the return of the prisoner and friends to the station house, Marcus was gratified to find a number of old business acquaintances waiting for him in the ante-room. They were men whom he had known in his Wall-street epoch, and had always set down as good-enough friends in prosperity, but cold-shouldered creatures in an hour of trial. He was mistaken, as many men are mistaken, in judging the hearts of business men from their white and careworn faces. They came with warm hands, sympathetic words, and offers of bail money and other aid, if wanted. There were short notes from two or three other old fellows whom he had not seen for years, telling him that they were at his command.
These expressions of good will touched Marcus to the heart. He learned that, in the self-conceit of his retired and studious life, he had done injustice to these citizens of the whirling world. With a thousand thanks for the kindness of his callers, he told them that their friendly services were not needed; that his innocence would surely be made to appear; and that, to the day of his death, he should never forget them. Upon this assurance, repeated two or three times, his business friends withdrew with characteristic business impetuosity, wishing him a speedy release from his disagreeable position--which is the roundabout phrase for prison.
A policeman, who had charge of the station house during the absence of his superior officer, here informed Marcus that an old lady and a young one, an old gen'leman and a lad, had called. The old gen'leman and the lad would drop round again during the evening. The old lady and the young one were waiting for him in the captain's room.
He entered the captain's room--his companions staying outside--and saw, as he expected, his half-sister Philomela, and a young woman dressed in the height of cheap fashion, who was no other than Mash, the cook.
His sister rose, and extended her hand to him severely, and said, with a solemn voice:
"Brother Marcus, I am sorry to see you here. I hope you are not guilty of this crime?"
"Hope?" said Marcus, stung to the quick. "Why not say at once that I am guilty? It is strange that the only relative I have on earth should be the first to doubt my innocence."
"Oh, no, Marcus! You do me injustice there. I do not for a moment doubt your innocence. But you know I always advised you to give up your moping habits at home, and go into active business, like other men of your age. If you had been in business now, you wouldn't have had time to get mixed up in the affairs of this old man Minford and his daughter, and would have escaped this disgrace. I trust, Marcus," she added, emphatically, "I trust this will be a lesson to you."
Poor Mash, the cook, had been playing with her bonnet strings, and trying to check her tears. But the unnatural effort was too much for her, and she burst out crying.
"Oh, Mr. Wilkeson!" she said, between her sobs, "I--I'm so sorry to see you here; b-but I--I know yer innocent. Boo-boo-hoo!"
"Thank you, Mash," replied Marcus, quite affected at this sudden outbreak of sympathy. "You speak like a true woman. But don't cry any more, my good girl. I shall be released to-morrow." Marcus said this confidently--though he had not the least idea how his acquittal was to be obtained.
"Oh! I hope so--I--hope so, Mr. Wilkeson. Boo-boo-hoo--I--I wish I could g-go to prison in your place. Boo-boo-hoo!"
Mash had derived this preposterous idea of vicarious imprisonment from the story of "The Buttery and the Boudoir," which was now drawing near its conclusion, and gradually killing, or marrying off, its heroes and heroines.
Marcus could not help smiling at the romantic notion. Miss Philomela laughed sarcastically, and exclaimed:
"You must take pattern from me, girl, and control your feelings. My brother doesn't want crying women about him at this time."
"Don't be too sure of that, sister. Tears come naturally from a woman. They are her best evidence of sympathy, and therefore precious to one who needs it."
Mash, the cook, gave vent to a fresh shower of tears at this encouraging remark, and made Miss Philomela shrug her shoulders in disgust.
"Oh! don't be silly. Mash!" said Miss Philomela, losing all patience with the cook.
"I--I--boo-boo-hoo!--can't help it, marm."
"Nonsense!" said the superior female. "As for you, Marcus, you should not encourage such folly, when you have troubles that demand our sober and earnest attention. With reference to the past, I might say a great many things, but I forbear. To be serious, now--for once in your life--what can I do for you?"
"Will you do what I ask, faithfully?" asked Marcus.
"Yes, faithfully. I promise."
"Then, my sister, be so good as to go home immediately, and send me a spare shirt and a change of clothes. Mash can bring them. And, lest another interview should prove too severe a trial for your female sensibility, I beg that you will not come here again. If I want you very much, I can send for you."
"You are very unkind--very unkind. But I will not make any remarks. You know that nothing would give me greater pleasure than to serve my brother. For, though you have faults--I suppose you will not deny that you have some little faults--you are still my brother."
Marcus smiled, and thought how foolish it was to quarrel with the whimsical but not bad-hearted woman. "Well, sister Philomela, you can see for yourself that I am not ill used here. Comfortable bed, rousing fire, and warm meals from the restaurant round the corner! The lieutenant[1] who is in command of this station house turns out to be an old friend of my boyhood, and treats me more like a guest than a prisoner. And I must say, that, but for the idea of a prison, I could live as pleasantly here as at home. Even you can do nothing to lighten my captivity. But I promise, that if I am held by this coroner's jury--which, of course, I shall not be--and am sent to the Tombs, then I will tax your sisterly affection to the utmost."
[1] Called sergeant of police under the recent Metropolitan Act.
At the mention of that dreadful place, the "Tombs," Mash broke into sobs again. The touching experiences of Gerald Florville in that house of despair--as set forth in "The Buttery and the Boudoir"--were poignantly brought to her mind.
Miss Philomela looked serious as the Tombs loomed up in her mind, and she would have said something condoling, but for the irritating conduct of the cook, who annoyed her so much that she decided to leave. She abruptly shook hands with her half-brother. "It is very easy," said she, "to point out how certain mistakes might have been avoided. But let the past go. If you are not acquitted to-morrow, I shall call here again, notwithstanding you don't seem very desirous to see me. Now, good-by. Come, hurry up, Mash!"
Marcus shook hands with his half-sister, and also with Mash, who wept afresh.
In the ante-room, Miss Philomela saw Overtop and Maltboy, upon whom she bestowed a half smile, and Tiffles, whom she treated to a cordial grimace, not unmingled with a blush. Tiffles, on his part, was profoundly polite, and inquired if she were going home. Learning that she was, he remarked that he had occasion to walk in the same direction, and accompanied her as she left the station house. Mash followed at a short distance behind, not because she did not think herself fully as good as Miss Philomela, but because she wished to indulge unchecked in the mild luxury of tears.
A new visitor was now announced. He was a curly-headed, neatly dressed boy of nineteen years. His face was one that is handsomer in promise than in fact. Marcus recognized him as the boy Bog, whom he had not seen for several weeks. The boy had developed a remarkable talent for making money honestly. For two months he had attended a night school, and was fast correcting his awkward English, and attaining to other knowledge. Prosperity and schooling together had given him quite a polish. The rough boy was coming to be a presentable youth.
He advanced timidly toward Marcus, who shook hands with him. He sat down before the fire, and commenced fumbling his cap in the old way. "With the exception of that trick, and his shyness, there was little of the original boy Bog about him,
"Mr. Wilkeson," said he, giving his cap a twirl, "I am very sorry to see you here; because, I may say, I know you are innocent."
The positive manner in which the boy asserted this, charmed Marcus, "I thank you, my dear Bog," said he; "but how do you know it? For, though I am innocent, I may have some trouble in proving it."
The boy drew a small folded note from his pocket. "I'll explain, sir," said he.
Marcus here called in his counsel, Messrs. Overtop and Maltboy, and his good friend the lieutenant of police, who had just arrived in the outer room, in order that they might hear the explanation.
The boy was embarrassed by his audience; but the anxious look of Marcus, and a few kind words from the lieutenant of police, reassured him. Bog then proceeded to tell what he knew of the strange young man's acquaintance with Miss Patty Minford--which was very easily told, since it did not amount to much--and concluded by opening the letter given to him by the young man for delivery to Miss Minford, and handed it to Marcus.
Marcus glanced at the writing, expecting that it would resemble that of the first anonymous letter addressed to Mr. Minford, which he drew from his pocket for comparison. But the writing was totally different in inclination, thickness of the downward stroke, and all other respects. He read it aloud, his counsel and the lieutenant of police listening attentively.
"I don't know much about the case yet," said the lieutenant, "but, jumping at a conclusion, I should say that this sneaking chap was jealous of your intimacy with the Minford family; that he wrote the anonymous letters to the old man, in a different hand, and that he either committed the murder, or knows something about it. His motive for annoying Miss Minford I can understand--for this city is full of just such well dressed scoundrels; but the motive of the murder I can't comprehend. But mark me--- this fellow has some knowledge of it; and we must hunt him up. And, first, let us compare the letters."
Marcus handed the two letters to the lieutenant, who, with Overtop and Maltboy, gave them a close examination. One was written on faint blue paper in a buff envelope; the other on white paper in a white envelope. Every curve, cross, and dot was minutely compared; but not the faintest resemblance between the two letters could be discovered. "No more like than chalk and cheese," said the lieutenant. "My theory is knocked on the head."
"Let me examine the envelopes again," said Overtop. They had inspected them less carefully than the contents.
As soon as Overtop had placed the two envelopes side by side, his eyes lighted up with the pleasure of a great discovery. "What fools we are!" he exclaimed. "There it is! Don't you see? Don't you see? A regular Hogarthian line of beauty under the name on each."
All stared at the envelopes, and at once recognized the similarity between the graceful curved lines. They looked somewhat like the letter S laid on its side; and more like the arm of a rocking chair.
Marcus had a sudden inward vision of the writer. One of those convictions which defy all logical analysis flashed upon his mind.
"Do you know where this strange young man lives, Bog?" asked Marcus.
"No, sir. I follered--I should say followed--him two or three times, because I thought he wasn't acting just right toward Miss Minford (here Bog blushed). He always went into drinking houses and billiard saloons, and once into a place where they say the worst kind o' gambling is allers--I mean always--going on. But he knew me by sight, and I was afraid he would ask me about that letter which I didn't deliver for him. So I had to follow him a good piece behind; and sometimes I lost track of him. Then, again, he would keep a tramping round from one drinking place to another--but never getting drunk that I could see--till twelve or one o'clock at night. By that time I felt I ought to go home, and so I never tracked him to his lodgings, if he has any. But it's my belief he travels in the night, and sleeps in the daytime, like the cats."
"Good, so far," said Marcus. "You have already given us a general description of this fellow's dress and appearance. Now, tell me whether his face is pale, his mustache small and curved up in points, his eyes light gray, and never looking straight at you; his nose small, thin, and sharp; and, now I think of it, has he not got a small scar on one of his cheeks?"
"Why, Mr. Wilkeson," exclaimed the boy Bog, "that's the very chap!"
"Who is he?" asked the lieutenant of police, "that I may have him arrested at once."
"He is the son--"