Henry Bowen was a young artist of moderate talent, who had abandoned the farm on which he had labored as a boy, for the sake of pursuing his favorite profession. He was not competent to achieve the highest success. But he had good taste and a skillful hand, and his productions were pleasing and popular. He had formed a connection with a publisher of prints and engravings, who had thrown considerable work in his way.
Have you any new commission to-day? inquired the young artist, on the day before Ida's discovery that she had been employed to pass off spurious coin.
Yes, said the publisher, "I have thought of something which may prove attractive. Just at present, pictures of children seem to be popular. I should like to have you supply me with a sketch of a flower girl, with, say, a basket of flowers in her hand. Do you comprehend my idea?"
I believe I do, answered the artist. "Give me sufficient time, and I hope to satisfy you."
The young artist went home, and at once set to work upon the task he had undertaken. He had conceived that it would be an easy one, but found himself mistaken. Whether because his fancy was not sufficiently lively, or his mind was not in tune, he was unable to produce the effect he desired. The faces which he successively outlined were all stiff, and though beautiful in feature, lacked the great charm of being expressive and lifelike.
What is the matter with me? he exclaimed, impatiently. "Is it impossible for me to succeed? It's clear," he decided, "that I am not in the vein. I will go out and take a walk, and perhaps while I am in the street something may strike me."
He accordingly donned his coat and hat, and emerged into the great thoroughfare, where he was soon lost in the throng. It was only natural that, as he walked, with his task uppermost in his thoughts, he should scrutinize carefully the faces of such young girls as he met.
Perhaps, it occurred to him, "I may get a hint from some face I see. It is strange," he mused, "how few there are, even in the freshness of childhood, that can be called models of beauty. That child, for example, has beautiful eyes, but a badly cut mouth. Here is one that would be pretty, if the face were rounded out; and here is a child--Heaven help it!--that was designed to be beautiful, but want and unfavorable circumstances have pinched and cramped it."
It was at this point in the artist's soliloquy that, in turning the corner of a street, he came upon Peg and Ida.
The artist looked earnestly at the child's face, and his own lighted up with sudden pleasure, as one who stumbles upon success just as he had begun to despair of it.
The very face I have been looking for! he exclaimed to himself. "My flower girl is found at last."
He turned round, and followed Ida and her companion. Both stopped at a shop window to examine some articles which were on exhibition there.
It is precisely the face I want, he murmured. "Nothing could be more appropriate or charming. With that face the success of the picture is assured."
The artist's inference that Peg was Ida's attendant was natural, since the child was dressed in a style quite superior to her companion. Peg thought that this would enable her, with less risk, to pass spurious coin.
The young man followed the strangely assorted pair to the apartments which Peg occupied. From the conversation which he overheard he learned that he had been mistaken in his supposition as to the relation between the two, and that, singular as it seemed, Peg had the guardianship of the child. This made his course clearer. He mounted the stairs and knocked at the door.
What do you want? demanded a sharp voice.
I should like to see you just a moment, was the reply.
Peg opened the door partially, and regarded the young man suspiciously.
I don't know you, she said, shortly.
I presume not, said the young man, courteously. "We have never met, I think. I am an artist. I hope you will pardon my present intrusion."
There is no use in your coming here, said Peg, abruptly, "and you may as well go away. I don't want to buy any pictures. I've got plenty of better ways to spend my money than to throw it away on such trash."
No one would have thought of doubting Peg's word, for she looked far from being a patron of the arts.
You have a young girl living with you, about seven or eight years old, have you not? inquired the artist.
Peg instantly became suspicious.
Who told you that? she demanded, quickly.
No one told me. I saw her in the street.
Peg at once conceived the idea that her visitor was aware of the fact that the child had been lured away from home; possibly he might be acquainted with the cooper's family? or might be their emissary.
Suppose you did see such a child on the street, what has that to do with me?
But I saw the child entering this house with you.
What if you did? demanded Peg, defiantly.
I was about, said the artist, perceiving that he was misapprehended, "I was about to make a proposition which may prove advantageous to both of us."
Eh! said Peg, catching at the hint. "Tell me what it is and we may come to terms."
I must explain, said Bowen, "that I am an artist. In seeking for a face to sketch from, I have been struck by that of your child."
Of Ida?
Yes, if that is her name. I will pay you five dollars if you will allow me to copy her face.
Well, she said, more graciously, "if that's all you want, I don't know as I have any objections. I suppose you can copy her face here as well as anywhere?"
I should prefer to have her come to my studio.
I shan't let her come, said Peg, decidedly.
Then I will consent to your terms, and come here.
Do you want to begin now?
I should like to do so.
Come in, then. Here, Ida, I want you.
Yes, Peg.
This gentleman wants to copy your face.
Ida looked surprised.
I am an artist, said the young man, with a reassuring smile. "I will endeavor not to try your patience too much, or keep you too long. Do you think you can stand still for half an hour without too much fatigue?"
He kept her in pleasant conversation, while, with a free, bold hand he sketched the outlines of her face.
I shall want one more sitting, he said. "I will come to-morrow at this time."
Stop a minute, said Peg. "I should like the money in advance. How do I know you will come again?"
Certainly, if you desire it, said Henry Bowen.
What strange fortune, he thought, "can have brought them together? Surely there can be no relation between this sweet child and that ugly old woman!"
The next day he returned and completed his sketch, which was at once placed in the hands of the publisher, eliciting his warm approval.
Jack set out with that lightness of heart and keen sense of enjoyment that seem natural to a young man of eighteen on his first journey. Partly by boat, partly by cars, he traveled, till in a few hours he was discharged, with hundreds of others, at the depot in Philadelphia.
He rejected all invitations to ride, and strode on, carpetbag in hand, though, sooth to say, he had very little idea whether he was steering in the right direction for his uncle's shop. By dint of diligent and persevering inquiry he found it at last, and walking in, announced himself to the worthy baker as his nephew Jack.
What? Are you Jack? exclaimed Mr. Abel Harding, pausing in his labor. "Well, I never should have known you, that's a fact. Bless me, how you've grown! Why, you're 'most as big as your father, ain't you?"
Only half an inch shorter, answered Jack, complacently.
And you're--let me see--how old are you?
Eighteen; that is, almost. I shall be in two months.
Well, I'm glad to see you, Jack, though I hadn't the least idea of your raining down so unexpectedly. How's your father and mother and your adopted sister?
Father and mother are pretty well, answered Jack; "and so is Aunt Rachel," he continued, smiling, "though she ain't so cheerful as she might be."
Poor Rachel! said Abel, smiling also. "Everything goes contrary with her. I don't suppose she's wholly to blame for it. Folks differ constitutionally. Some are always looking on the bright side of things, and others can never see but one side, and that's the dark one."
You've hit it, uncle, said Jack, laughing. "Aunt Rachel always looks as if she was attending a funeral."
So she is, my boy, said Abel, gravely, "and a sad funeral it is."
I don't understand you, uncle.
The funeral of her affections--that's what I mean. Perhaps you mayn't know that Rachel was, in early life, engaged to be married to a young man whom she ardently loved. She was a different woman then from what she is now. But her lover deserted her just before the wedding was to have come off, and she's never got over the disappointment. But that isn't what I was going to talk about. You haven't told me about your adopted sister.
That's the very thing I've come to Philadelphia about, said Jack, soberly. "Ida has been carried off, and I've come in search of her."
Been carried off? I didn't know such things ever happened in this country. What do you mean?
Jack told the story of Mrs. Hardwick's arrival with a letter from Ida's mother, conveying the request that her child might, under the guidance of the messenger, be allowed to pay her a visit. To this and the subsequent details Abel Harding listened with earnest attention.
So you have reason to think the child is in Philadelphia? he said, musingly.
Yes, said Jack; "Ida was seen in the cars, coming here, by a boy who knew her in New York."
Ida? repeated the baker. "Was that her name?"
Yes; you knew her name, didn't you?
I dare say I have known it, but I have heard so little of your family lately that I had forgotten it. It is rather a singular circumstance.
What is a singular circumstance?
I will tell you, Jack. It may not amount to anything, however. A few days since a little girl came into my shop to buy a small amount of bread. I was at once favorably impressed with her appearance. She was neatly dressed, and had a very honest face. Having made the purchase she handed me in payment a new dollar bill. 'I'll keep that for my little girl,' thought I at once. Accordingly, when I went home at night, I just took the dollar out of, the till and gave it to her. Of course, she was delighted with it, and, like a child, wanted to spend it at once. So her mother agreed to go out with her the next day. Well, they selected some knick-knack or other, but when they came to pay for it the dollar proved counterfeit.
Counterfeit?
Yes; bad. Issued by a gang of counterfeiters. When they told me of this, I said to myself, 'Can it be that this little girl knew what she was about when she offered me that?' I couldn't think it possible, but decided to wait till she came again.
Did she come again?
Yes; only day before yesterday. As I expected, she offered me in payment another dollar just like the other. Before letting her know that I had discovered the imposition I asked her one or two questions with the idea of finding out as much as possible about her. When I told her the bill was a bad one, she seemed very much surprised. It might have been all acting, but I didn't think so then. I even felt pity for her, and let her go on condition that she would bring me back a good dollar in place of the bad one the next day. I suppose I was a fool for doing so, but she looked so pretty and innocent that I couldn't make up my mind to speak or act harshly to her. But I am afraid that I was deceived, and that she was an artful character after all.
Then she didn't come back with the good money?
No; I haven't seen her since.
What name did she give you?
Haven't I told you? It was the name that made me think of telling you. She called herself Ida Hardwick.
Ida Hardwick? repeated Jack.
Yes, Ida Hardwick. But that hasn't anything to do with your Ida, has it?
Hasn't it, though? said Jack. "Why, Mrs. Hardwick was the woman who carried her away."
Mrs. Hardwick--her mother?
No; not her mother. She said she was the woman who took care of Ida before she was brought to us.
Then you think this Ida Hardwick may be your missing sister?
That's what I don't know yet, said Jack. "If you would only describe her, Uncle Abel, I could tell better."
Well, said the baker, thoughtfully, "I should say this little girl was seven or eight years old."
Yes, said Jack, nodding; "what color were her eyes?"
Blue.
So are Ida's.
A small mouth, with a very sweet expression, yet with something firm and decided about it.
Yes.
And I believe her dress was a light one, with a blue ribbon round the waist.
Did she wear anything around her neck?
A brown scarf, if I remember rightly.
That is the way Ida was dressed when she went away with Mrs. Hardwick. I am sure it must be she. But how strange that she should come into your shop!
Perhaps, suggested his uncle, "this woman, representing herself as Ida's nurse, was her mother."
No; it can't be, said Jack, vehemently. "What, that ugly, disagreeable woman, Ida's mother? I won't believe it. I should just as soon expect to see strawberries growing on a thorn bush."
You know I have not seen Mrs. Hardwick.
No great loss, said Jack. "You wouldn't care much about seeing her again. She is a tall, gaunt, disagreeable woman; while Ida is fair and sweet-looking. Ida's mother, whoever she is, I am sure, is a lady in appearance and manners, and Mrs. Hardwick is neither. Aunt Rachel was right for once."
What did Rachel say?
She said the nurse was an impostor, and declared it was only a plot to get possession of Ida; but then, that was to be expected of Aunt Rachel.
Still it seems difficult to imagine any satisfactory motive on the part of the woman, supposing her not to be Ida's mother.
Mother or not, returned Jack, "she's got possession of Ida; and, from all that you say, she is not the best person to bring her up. I am determined to rescue Ida from this she-dragon. Will you help me, uncle?"
You may count upon me, Jack, for all I can do.
Then, said Jack, with energy, "we shall succeed. I feel sure of it. 'Where there's a will there's a way.'"
I wish you success, Jack; but if the people who have got Ida are counterfeiters, they are desperate characters, and you must proceed cautiously.
I ain't afraid of them. I'm on the warpath now, Uncle Abel, and they'd better look out for me.
The first thing to be done by Jack was, of course, in some way to obtain a clew to the whereabouts of Peg, or Mrs. Hardwick, to use the name by which he knew her. No mode of proceeding likely to secure this result occurred to him, beyond the very obvious one of keeping in the street as much as possible, in the hope that chance might bring him face to face with the object of his pursuit.
Following out this plan, Jack became a daily promenader in Chestnut, Walnut and other leading thoroughfares. Jack became himself an object of attention, on account of what appeared to be his singular behavior. It was observed that he had no glances to spare for young ladies, but persistently stared at the faces of all middle-aged women--a circumstance naturally calculated to attract remark in the case of a well-made lad like Jack.
I am afraid, said the baker, "it will be as hard as looking for a needle in a haystack, to find the one you seek among so many faces."
There's nothing like trying, said Jack, courageously. "I'm not going to give up yet a while. I'd know Ida or Mrs. Hardwick anywhere."
You ought to write home, Jack. They will be getting anxious about you.
I'm going to write this morning--I put it off, because I hoped to have some news to write.
He sat down and wrote the following note:
"DEAR PARENTS: I arrived in Philadelphia right side up with care, and am stopping at Uncle Abel's. He received me very kindly. I have got track of Ida, though I have not found her yet. I have learned as much as this: that this Mrs. Hardwick--who is a double-distilled she-rascal--probably has Ida in her clutches, and has sent her on two occasions to my uncle's. I am spending most of my time in the streets, keeping a good lookout for her. If I do meet her, see if I don't get Ida away from her. But it may take some time. Don't get discouraged, therefore, but wait patiently. Whenever anything new turns up you will receive a line from your dutiful son, JACK.""
"Jack had been in the city eight days when, as he was sauntering along the street, he suddenly perceived in front of him, a shawl which struck him as wonderfully like the one worn by Mrs. Hardwick. Not only that, but the form of the wearer corresponded to his recollections of the nurse. He bounded forward, and rapidly passing the suspected person, turned suddenly and confronted the woman of whom he had been in search.
The recognition was mutual. Peg was taken aback by this unexpected encounter.
Her first impulse was to make off, but Jack's resolute expression warned her that he was not to be trifled with.
Mrs. Hardwick? exclaimed Jack.
You are right, said she, rapidly recovering her composure, "and you, if I am not mistaken, are John Harding, the son of my worthy friends in New York."
Well, ejaculated Jack, internally, "she's a cool un, and no mistake."
My name is Jack, he said, aloud.
Did you leave all well at home? asked Peg.
You can't guess what I came here for? said Jack.
To see your sister Ida, I presume.
Yes, answered Jack, amazed at the woman's composure.
I thought some of you would be coming on, continued Peg, who had already mapped out her course.
You did?
Yes; it was only natural. What did your father and mother say to the letter I wrote them?
The letter you wrote them? exclaimed Jack.
Certainly. You got it, didn't you?
I don't know what letter you mean.
A letter, in which I wrote that Ida's mother had been so pleased with the appearance and manners of the child, that she could not determine to part with her.
You don't mean to say that any such letter as that has been written? said Jack, incredulously.
What? Has it not been received? inquired Peg.
Nothing like it. When was it written?
The second day after our arrival, said Peg.
If that is the case, said Jack, not knowing what to think, "it must have miscarried; we never received it."
That is a pity. How anxious you all must have felt!
It seems as if half the family were gone. But how long does Ida's mother mean to keep her?
Perhaps six months.
But, said Jack, his suspicions returning, "I have been told that Ida has twice called at a baker's shop in this city, and when asked what her name was, answered, Ida Hardwick. You don't mean to say that you pretend to be her mother."
Yes, I do, replied Peg, calmly. "I didn't mean to tell you, but as you've found out, I won't deny it."
It's a lie, said Jack. "She isn't your daughter."
Young man, said Peg, with wonderful self-command, "you are exciting yourself to no purpose. You asked me if I pretended to be her mother. I do pretend, but I admit frankly that it is all pretense."
I don't understand what you mean, said Jack.
Then I will explain to you, though you have treated me so impolitely that I might well refuse. As I informed your father and mother in New York, there are circumstances which stand in the way of Ida's real mother recognizing her as her own child. Still, as she desires her company, in order to avert suspicion and prevent embarrassing questions being asked while she remains in Philadelphia, she is to pass as my daughter.
This explanation was tolerably plausible, and Jack was unable to gainsay it.
Can I see Ida? he asked.
To his great joy, Peg replied: "I don't think there can be any objection. I am going to the house now. Will you come with me now, or appoint some other time."
Now, by all means, said Jack, eagerly. "Nothing shall stand in the way of my seeing Ida."
A grim smile passed over Peg's face.
Follow me, then, she said. "I have no doubt Ida will be delighted to see you."
I suppose, said Jack, with a pang, "that she is so taken up with her new friends that she has nearly forgotten her old friends in New York."
If she had, answered Peg, "she would not deserve to have friends at all. She is quite happy here, but she will be very glad to return to New York to those who have been so kind to her."
Really, thought Jack, "I don't know what to make of this Mrs. Hardwick. She talks fair enough, though looks are against her. Perhaps I have misjudged her."
Jack and his guide paused in front of a large three-story brick building. The woman rang the bell. An untidy servant girl made her appearance.
Mrs. Hardwick spoke to the servant in so low a voice that Jack couldn't hear what she said.
Certainly, mum, answered the servant, and led the way upstairs to a back room on the third floor.
Go in and take a seat, she said to Jack. "I will send Ida to you immediately."
All right, said Jack, in a tone of satisfaction.
Peg went out, closing the door after her. She, at the same time, softly slipped a bolt which had been placed upon the outside. Then hastening downstairs she found the proprietor of the house, a little old man with a shrewd, twinkling eye, and a long, aquiline nose.
I have brought you a boarder, she said.
Who is it?
A lad, who is likely to interfere in our plans. You may keep him in confinement for the present.
Very good. Is he likely to make a fuss?
I should think it very likely. He is high-spirited and impetuous, but you know how to manage him.
Oh, yes, nodded the old man.
You can think of some pretext for keeping him.
Suppose I tell him he's in a madhouse? said the old man, laughing, and thereby showing some yellow fangs, which by no means improved his appearance.
Just the thing! It'll frighten him.
There was a little further conversation in a low tone, and then Peg went away.
Fairly trapped, my young bird! she thought to herself. "I think that will put a stop to your troublesome appearance for the present."
Meanwhile Jack, wholly unsuspicious that any trick had been played upon him, seated himself in a rocking-chair and waited impatiently for the coming of Ida, whom he was resolved to carry back to New York.
Impelled by a natural curiosity, he examined attentively the room in which he was seated. There was a plain carpet on the floor, and the other furniture was that of an ordinary bed chamber. The most conspicuous ornament was a large full-length portrait against the side of the wall. It represented an unknown man, not particularly striking in his appearance. There was, besides, a small table with two or three books upon it.
Jack waited patiently for twenty minutes.
Perhaps Ida may be out, he reflected. "Still, even if she is, Mrs. Hardwick ought to come and let me know. It's dull work staying here alone."
Another fifteen minutes passed, and still no Ida appeared.
This is rather singular, thought Jack. "She can't have told Ida I am here, or I am sure she would rush up at once to see her brother Jack."
At length, tired of waiting, Jack walked to the door and attempted to open it.
There was a greater resistance than he anticipated.
Good heavens! thought Jack, in consternation, as the real state of the case flashed upon him, "is it possible that I am locked in?"
He employed all his strength, but the door still resisted. He could no longer doubt that it was locked.
He rushed to the windows. They were two in number, and looked out upon a yard in the rear of the house. There was no hope of drawing the attention of passersby to his situation.
Confounded by this discovery, Jack sank into his chair in no very enviable state of mind.
Well, thought he, "this is a pretty situation for me to be in. I wonder what father would say if he knew that I had managed to get locked up like this? I am ashamed to think I let that treacherous woman, Mrs. Hardwick, lead me so quietly into a snare. Aunt Rachel was about right when she said I wasn't fit to come alone. I hope she'll never find out about this adventure of mine. If she did, I should never hear the last of it."
Time passed. Every hour seemed to poor Jack to contain at least double the number of minutes. Moreover, he was getting hungry.
A horrible suspicion flashed across his mind.
The wretches can't mean to starve me, can they? he asked himself. Despite his constitutional courage he could not help shuddering at the idea.
He was unexpectedly answered by the opening of the door, and the appearance of the old man.
Are you getting hungry, my dear sir? he inquired, with a disagreeable smile upon his features.
Why am I confined here? demanded Jack, angrily.
Why are you confined? Really, one would think you didn't find your quarters comfortable.
I am so far from finding them agreeable, that I insist upon leaving them immediately, returned Jack.
Then all you have got to do is to walk through that door.
You have locked it.
Why, so I have, said the old man, with a leer.
I insist upon your opening it.
I shall do so when I get ready to go out, myself.
I shall go with you.
I think not.
Who's to prevent me? said Jack, defiantly.
Who's to prevent you?
Yes; you'd better not attempt it. I should be sorry to hurt you, but I mean to go out. If you attempt to stop me, you must take the consequences.
I am afraid you are a violent young man. But I've got a man who is a match for two like you.
The old man opened the door.
Samuel, show yourself, he said.
A brawny negro, six feet in height, and evidently very powerful, came to the entrance.
If this young man attempts to escape, Samuel, what will you do?
Tie him hand and foot, answered the negro.
That'll do, Samuel. Stay where you are.
He closed the door and looked triumphantly at our hero.
Jack threw himself sullenly into a chair.
Where is the woman that brought me here? he asked.
Peg? Oh, she couldn't stay. She had important business to transact, my young friend, and so she has gone. She commended you to our particular attention, and you will be just as well treated as if she were here.
This assurance was not calculated to comfort Jack.
How long are you going to keep me cooped up here? he asked, desperately, wishing to learn the worst at once.
Really, my young friend, I couldn't say. I don't know how long it will be before you are cured.
Cured? repeated Jack, puzzled.
The old man tapped his forehead.
You're a little affected here, you know, but under my treatment I hope soon to restore you to your friends.
What! ejaculated our hero, terror-stricken, "you don't mean to say you think I'm crazy?"
To be sure you are, said the old man, "but--"
But I tell you it's a lie, exclaimed Jack, energetically. "Who told you so?"
Your aunt.
My aunt?
Yes, Mrs. Hardwick. She brought you here to be treated for insanity.
It's a base lie, said Jack, hotly. "That woman is no more my aunt than you are. She's an impostor. She carried off my sister Ida, and this is only a plot to get rid of me. She told me she was going to take me to see Ida."
The old man shrugged his shoulders.
My young friend, he said, "she told me all about it--that you had a delusion about some supposed sister, whom you accused her of carrying off."
This is outrageous, said Jack, hotly.
That's what all my patients say.
And you are a mad-doctor?
Yes.
Then you know by my looks that I am not crazy.
Pardon me, my young friend; that doesn't follow. There is a peculiar appearance about your eyes which I cannot mistake. There's no mistake about it, my good sir. Your mind has gone astray, but if you'll be quiet, and won't excite yourself, you'll soon be well.
How soon?
Well, two or three months.
Two or three months! You don't mean to say you want to confine me here two or three months?
I hope I can release you sooner.
You can't understand your business very well, or you would see at once that I am not insane.
That's what all my patients say. They won't any of them own that their minds are affected.
Will you supply me with some writing materials?
Yes; Samuel shall bring them here.
I suppose you will excuse my suggesting also that it is dinner time?
He shall bring you some dinner at the same time.
The old man retired, but in fifteen minutes a plate of meat and vegetables was brought to the room.
I'll bring the pen and ink afterward, said the negro.
In spite of his extraordinary situation and uncertain prospects, Jack ate with his usual appetite.
Then he penned a letter to his uncle, briefly detailing the circumstances of his present situation.
I am afraid, the letter concluded, "that while I am shut up here, Mrs. Hardwick will carry Ida out of the city, where it will be more difficult for us to get on her track. She is evidently a dangerous woman."
Two days passed and no notice was taken of the letter.
"It's very strange," thought Jack, "that Uncle Abel doesn't take any notice of my letter."
In fact, our hero felt rather indignant, as well as surprised, and on the next visit of Dr. Robinson, he asked: "Hasn't my uncle been here to ask about me?"
Yes, said the old man, unexpectedly.
Why didn't you bring him up here to see me?
He just inquired how you were, and said he thought you were better off with us than you would be at home.
Jack looked fixedly in the face of the pretended doctor, and was convinced that he had been deceived.
I don't believe it, he said.
Oh! do as you like about believing it.
I don't believe you mailed my letter to my uncle.
Have it your own way, my young friend. Of course I can't argue with a maniac.
Don't call me a maniac, you old humbug! You ought to be in jail for this outrage.
Ho, ho! How very amusing you are, my young friend! said the old man. "You'd make a first-class tragedian, you really would."
I might do something tragic, if I had a weapon, said Jack, significantly. "Are you going to let me out?"
Positively, I can't part with you. You are too good company, said Dr. Robinson, mockingly. "You'll thank me for my care of you when you are quite cured."
That's all rubbish, said Jack, boldly. "I'm no more crazy than you are, and you know it. Will you answer me a question?"
It depends on what it is, said the old man, cautiously.
Has Mrs. Hardwick been here to ask about me?
Certainly. She takes a great deal of interest in you.
Was there a little girl with her?
I believe so. I really don't remember.
If she calls again, either with or without Ida, will you ask her to come up here? I want to see her.
Yes, I'll tell her. Now, my young friend, I must really leave you. Business before pleasure, you know.
Jack looked about the room for something to read. He found among other books a small volume, purporting to contain "The Adventures of Baron Trenck."
It may be that the reader has never encountered a copy of this singular book. Baron Trenck was several times imprisoned for political offenses, and this book contains an account of the manner in which he succeeded, after years of labor, in escaping from his dungeon.
Jack read the book with intense interest and wondered, looking about the room, if he could not find some similar plan of escape.
The prospect certainly was not a bright one. The door was fast locked. Escape from the windows seemed impracticable. This apparently exhausted the avenues of escape that were open to the dissatisfied prisoner. But accidentally Jack made an important discovery.
There was a full-length portrait in the room. Jack chanced to rest his hand against it, when he must unconsciously have touched some secret spring, for a secret door opened, dividing the picture in two parts, and, to our hero's unbounded astonishment, he saw before him a small spiral staircase leading down into the darkness.
This is a queer old house! thought Jack. "I wonder where those stairs go to. I've a great mind to explore."
There was not much chance of detection, he reflected, as it would be three hours before his next meal would be brought him. He left the door open, therefore, and began slowly and cautiously to go down the staircase. It seemed a long one, longer than was necessary to connect two floors. Boldly Jack kept on till he reached the bottom.
Where am I? thought our hero. "I must be down as low as the cellar."
While this thought passed through his mind, voices suddenly struck upon his ear. He had accustomed himself now to the darkness, and ascertained that there was a crevice through which he could look in the direction from which the sounds proceeded. Applying his eye, he could distinguish a small cellar apartment, in the middle of which was a printing press, and work was evidently going on. He could distinguish three persons. Two were in their shirt sleeves, bending over an engraver's bench. Beside them, and apparently superintending their work, was the old man whom Jack knew as Dr. Robinson.
He applied his ear to the crevice, and heard these words:
This lot is rather better than the last, Jones. We can't be too careful, or the detectives will interfere with our business. Some of the last lot were rather coarse.
I know it, sir, answered the man addressed as Jones.
There's nothing the matter with this, said the old man. "There isn't one person in a hundred that would suspect it was not genuine."
Jack pricked up his ears.
Looking through the crevice, he ascertained that it was a bill that the old man had in his hand.
They're counterfeiters, he said, half audibly.
Low as the tone was, it startled Dr. Robinson.
Ha! said he, startled, "what's that?"
What's what, sir? said Jones.
I thought I heard some one speaking.
I didn't hear nothing, sir.
Did you hear nothing, Ferguson?
No, sir.
I suppose I was deceived, then, said the old man.
How many bills have you there? he resumed.
Seventy-nine, sir.
That's a very good day's work, said the old man, in a tone of satisfaction. "It's a paying business."
It pays you, sir, said Jones, grumbling.
And it shall pay you, too, my man, never fear!
Jack had made a great discovery. He understood now the connection between Mrs. Hardwick and the old man whom he now knew not to be a physician. He was at the head of a gang of counterfeiters, and she was engaged in putting the false money into circulation.
He softly ascended the staircase, and re-entered the room he left, closing the secret door behind him.