Shadow, the Mysterious Detective Part 1

CHAPTER I.

A MURDER.

It was a dark and stormy night. The rain fell heavily and steadily, and what wind there was roamed through the streets with a peculiar, moaning sound.

It was after the midnight hour.

Not a light was to be seen in any of the houses, nor was there any sound to be heard save that produced by the falling rain, and that soughing of the wind—not unlike the sighs and moans of some uneasy spirit unable to rest in the grave.

It was as disagreeable a night as I ever saw. And I could not help shuddering as I hurried homeward through the storm, with bent head, for I felt somewhat as if I were passing through a city of the dead.

This heavy silence—except for the noises mentioned—was very oppressive; and, while I gave a start, I was also conscious of a sense of relief, when I heard a human voice shouting:

"Help—help!"

I paused short.

My head having been bent, the cry coming so unexpectedly, I could not locate its direction.

Presently it came again.

"Help, for Heaven's sake, help!"

Off I dashed to the rescue.

Crack!

Then came a wild wail.

Crack!

Then I heard a thud, as of a human being falling heavily to the sidewalk. And as the person uttered no further cries, one of two things must be the case—he was either insensible or dead.

I increased my pace, and presently turning a corner, saw a burly fellow just dragging a body beneath a gas-lamp, the better to enable him to secure the plunder on his victim's body.

The assassin had already secured most of the stricken man's valuables, when my rapid approach alarmed him, and jumping up, he sprang along the street at a break-neck pace.

Crack!

Crack!

I had drawn a revolver, and I sent a couple of bullets after him, hoping to wing him, as well as to extend the alarm which his shots must already have raised.

A policeman put in an appearance some distance down the street, but the flying murderer took a running leap at him, tumbled him head over heels into the gutter, and then succeeded in making his escape.

When I compared notes with the policeman, I found that neither of us had distinctly enough seen the murderer to be able to give any description of him whatever, save that he was a chunky-built man, and seemed roughly dressed.

We were not surprised, on examining into the prostrate man's condition, to find him dead.

Right in the center of his forehead was a small hole, edged with drying, clotted blood, which mutely said:

"Here entered the fatal messenger from a death-dealing weapon."

The body was conveyed to the station-house, there to remain until it was claimed or conveyed to the morgue.

An examination of the pockets resulted in our learning that his name was Tom Smith. As to his residence, we could find no clew from anything he had on his person, or by consulting the directory.

About two o'clock the next afternoon, a wild-eyed woman entered the station-house, and, in trembling tones, asked to see the body.

I was present at the time, and my heart went out in pity to the pale-faced woman—or perhaps I should say girl, for she certainly had not seen her twentieth birthday.

She disappeared into the inner room where the body was lying, and a few seconds later I heard a low and anguished cry. Then I knew that she had recognized the poor fellow as some one who was near and dear to her.

Kindly hands drew her away from beside the body, and when I saw her again her face was convulsed with anguish, and tears were streaming from her eyes.

For fully half an hour she continued weeping, and not a man of us was there who did not feel uncomfortable. We did not venture to console her, for it seemed like sacrilege to intrude on her during the first period of her sorrow.

Then her sobbing became less loud, and gradually she subdued the more demonstrative expressions of grief.

She finally lifted her head, and in a hollow voice asked to hear the story of his death.

The captain briefly outlined what was known, and she calmly listened to the tale.

"Can I see the person who first reached him?" she asked, when the captain had finished.

"Yes," was the reply. "Detective Howard here is the man you want."

She wished to see me alone, and I conducted her into another room.

Arrived here, she begged me minutely to relate what had happened; and, exhibiting a singular self-control, asked for as close a description of the assassin as I could give.

"You knew him very well?" said I, when an opportunity occurred.

"Yes."

"Perhaps he was your brother?"

"No," she said, and a faint flush flitted into her pallid face for an instant. "No," and then her voice sank to a whisper, "he was to have been my husband."

"Ah! And now, miss, you don't suppose that the assassin could have been an enemy of his? Did he have any enemies, who might rob him, as a blind to cover up their real motive?"

"Tom have an enemy? No—no—he was too good and kind for that. It was done by some murderous wretch for the sake of plunder. Tom must have resisted being robbed, and the ruffian killed him."

"That is my own theory. And—I do not wish to pain you, miss—but what about the body? Has he any family or relations?"

"No, none in this world. He and I were all in all to each other," and the eyes of the girl became moist again; but she fought back the tears, and quite calmly said:

"I will take care of the body."

Then a troubled expression crossed her face; and, to make a long story short, I gained her confidence, learned that she had not enough to properly inter her lover, and loaned her the money.

With tears of gratitude in her eyes, she thanked me, and every word came straight from her heart.

Her name was Nellie Millbank, she said, and she was utterly alone in the world. Until several days before, she had been employed in a store, but had then been discharged.

Tom was a clerk, but had only a small salary, as soon as which was raised they were to have been married. He had been to see her on that fatal night, to tell her he had obtained a day off, and was going to take her on an excursion on the morrow.

She had been dressed and waiting for him, but he had not come.

Alarmed, for he had always kept his word, she knew not what to do, nor what to think, until, having bought an afternoon paper, she saw an account of the shooting.

This was her simple history.

After the inquest, the body was delivered to her, and then she faded from my sight and knowledge for a long while. Exactly how long, the ensuing chapters will inform you.

 CHAPTER II.

MAT MORRIS.

"I've been discharged, mother."

"What?"

"I've been discharged."

The face of Mrs. Morris became very grave, and presently her eyes were turned on the boyish yet manly face of her son Mat. Earnestly she gazed at him for several seconds, and then her lips parted with a smile which, wan as it was, expressed satisfaction.

"It was no fault of yours. You did nothing wrong, my son?"

"No, mother, it was not through any fault of mine that I was discharged. Business has fallen off so very much of late that they were compelled to reduce the number of hands. And as I was one of the newest, I was among those laid off."

"Of course I am sorry," said poor Mrs. Morris, "but we must do the best we can."

"I'll not act the part of a sluggard, mother, you can depend on that. I'll try and find something to do to keep the wolf from the door. And my boss gave me a splendid recommendation, and said if business got better he'd send for me at once."

Mat was a good son.

Few better were to be found.

His worst fault, perhaps, was in being a little reckless, or over-brave and independent.

None could insult him with impunity, nor could he nor would he stand by and silently witness anybody being imposed upon. He invariably took the part of the under dog in the fight.

Hardly had Mat finished speaking, when the door opened and a girl entered; a girl whom both mother and son greeted with glances of affection.

Her name was Helen Dilt.

Five years before, when the circumstances of the Morris family had been better, they had taken her from the street—found starving and freezing there on a cold winter's night—and had cared for her.

Mr. Morris had died only a year later, since which time Helen had clung to them, doing what little she could to keep the roof above their heads.

She was not yet sixteen—a slight and winsome little creature; not beautiful, but with a sweet face that when lighted by a smile was remarkably winning.

Of her history she knew nothing.

Her knowledge of herself could be summed up in a few words.

For years cared for by a drunken old hag, with only a faint remembrance of a sweet, sad face before that, she had lost even such a squalid home as she had when the hag died.

Then she had come with the Morris family.

And well did they love her.

Mrs. Morris loved her like a daughter, and Mat loved her much better than a sister. And Helen returned the latter's deep regard.

While no word had openly been spoken, it was tacitly understood by all three that some day, when Mat and Helen were old enough, and the circumstances permitted, they were to be married.

Mat was of slight build, of lithe and willowy frame, in which, however, resided an amount of strength which few would have dreamed possible.

He was just eighteen.

There is an old saying—"that it never rains but it pours."

It seems true sometimes.

Helen, employed in a situation bringing her three dollars a week, had also come home with the news of having been discharged.

It was a grave little trio that gathered about the supper table that night.

Latterly they had been getting along comfortably, but now destitution and want again stared them in the face, and must inevitably take up quarters in the household, unless some one obtained work of some kind to bring in some money.

Mat was up and away early the next morning, and for many mornings thereafter, but although he honestly searched all day long for employment, none was to be found.

And Helen, too, sought for work, but failed to find it, and day by day their slender stock of money diminished, until at last they had eaten the last meal, and had no money wherewith to buy another.

That evening Helen left the house and was gone for a short while, and when she came back she did not say where she had been.

But she had gone with her shawl to a pawn-shop, and hid away in her dress was the pittance which had been loaned on it.

In the morning she stole out unheard, not long after daylight, and invested her capital in newspapers.

Her cheeks were flushed with shame as she stood on the street, offering her papers for sale. But she fought back her pride. They had been very kind to her, and she should be only too glad, she told herself, to make the sacrifice for their dear sakes.

And how happy she was when she hastened to their home, and put her morning's earnings into the hand of Mrs. Morris.

In vain Mat protested against Helen's selling papers. Let him do it, he said.

"It will need all we can both make to live and pay the rent," Helen quietly returned.

"But you must not go on the street to sell papers, Helen," protested Mat.

"I am young and can afford better to do this than that our good mother should work," said Helen, bravely, casting an affectionate glance toward Mrs. Morris.

And Mat said no more.

It was one day several weeks subsequent to the time when she first began selling papers, that a gentleman stopped to purchase a Herald of Helen.

He had paid for it in a mechanical way, and was turning away when he chanced to glance at the face of the newsgirl.

He started slightly, then cast a keen glance at her, paused, and then in a tone of assumed carelessness, asked:

"Haven't I seen you somewhere else, my girl? You have not always sold papers?"

"No, sir."

"Where can I have seen you?"

"I don't know, sir," was the only reply, for Helen did not care to talk to him.

But she saw that he was an elderly man, his hair was streaked with gray, and in clothing and manner he bore the impress of apparent respectability.

"What is your name?" he inquired.

"Helen."

"What!" with another start. "Your name is Helen, is it?" recovering himself. "Helen what, my girl?"

"Helen Morris," was the reply, for she had now for a long time used the name of her benefactors as her own.

Again the gentleman glanced keenly at her, and then moved away slowly, muttering to himself:

"Morris—Morris! I can't understand it. That likeness is wonderful, and cannot exist as a mere accident. I must investigate this, and I'd bet anything that that is not her name."

The gentleman entered a large building on Broadway, ascended in the elevator, and opened the door of an office, on which was lettered the legend:

"Joseph Brown,⁠
Attorney at Law."

Having written a note, he dispatched his office boy with it to a liquor saloon, it being directed to James McGinnis, in care of the saloon's proprietor.

Late that afternoon a beetle-browed and forbidding-looking individual entered Brown's office.

"Well, I got your letter and I've come!" was the rather sullen salutation he gave Brown. "What's up now? Want to badger me again?"

"Don't talk to me in that manner!" said Brown, quietly, yet in a grim tone. "Remember that I saved your neck from a halter, which I can again put around it at any moment."

The man shuddered, and became meek as a lamb.

"What do you want?"

"That's better," and Brown smiled. "I don't want much of you just now," and then he sank his voice to a whisper.

"That's easy enough," McGinnis said, a few minutes later. "I can let you know to-morrow morning, I think."

"Very well."

When McGinnis put in an appearance the next morning, it was evident from his expression that he had been successful in the task required of him by Brown.

"I've found out that her name isn't Morris. That's the name of the people as she lives with. She's a kind of an adopted daughter, and they said as how her real name was Dilk, or something like that."

"Ha! I thought so," Brown exclaimed, inwardly. And then he bade McGinnis sit down, and for nearly half an hour they conversed in low tones.

Then Brown put a roll of bills into his confederate's hands, and the latter withdrew, saying:

"I'll do the job nately, and there'll be no trouble after it."

And that night Helen did not return home. Half-crazed with alarm, Mat and his mother awaited her coming until nine o'clock, or a little after, and then the young fellow could stand it no longer, but went in search of Helen.

He could not find her.

She did not return during the night, nor even the next day, nor when night again fell.

Mat had scoured the city for her, had visited the places where she usually sold papers, and had questioned all the boot-blacks and newsboys, but had only obtained the meager and unsatisfactory information from one little fellow that he had seen Helen in company with a man just after dusk.

She had disappeared completely, had vanished as utterly as a mist that is dissolved by the sun's warm rays.

"She is gone from us, mother," Mat at last said, in a choking voice. "You remember, mother, what Helen has told us—her impressions concerning her early childhood. And, mother, I believe there is money at the bottom of the thing, that Helen stood in somebody's way, and has been spirited off by this person's orders."

"It is possible."

"Possible! I feel it to be the truth. And I shall not rest night or day, mother, until I have found her. Good-bye, mother, for I am going. Heaven in mercy assist you and care for you until I can come back to do so. Good-bye!"

Mrs. Morris did not wish him to go, but she could not thwart him, for she knew how much he loved Helen. But her face was very pale and anguished as she saw him go.

CHAPTER III.

SHADOW—WHO WAS HE?

Mat Morris was grimly in earnest in his determination to find the missing Helen.

He had no clew to follow, no starting-point from which to begin his search, but he would not permit himself to think about it in this light, for fear he would become discouraged.

Helen was alive—was somewhere—could be found—and must be found!

First of all, he paid a visit to police head-quarters, and described the man who had been seen with Helen, as the boy had described him.

From one detective to another he went, giving the description, and inquiring if any could say who tallied in appearance with it.

Among the others he came to me, but, like the others, I could not even guess who the person might be, so meager was the description.

I asked him if he intended turning detective himself.

"I do," he firmly said; "and I shall never give up until I have found her, and unearthed the rascal who has done this."

"Who is this 'her' you speak of?"

"A girl whom I love dearer than my life itself!" was the earnest reply—not given in a mawkish and sentimental tone, but in a manly way that won for the speaker my good opinion.

"Perhaps I can help you," I said. "Tell me your story."

He did so, but so little did it contain that I could see no advice to give him, and told him so frankly.

"I like you for your frankness," said Mat; "but say no more or you may discourage me."

I asked him his name, and when he had told me what it was, I found that I had known his father.

"I hope you may be successful—I sincerely hope so," I told him, as we shook hands at parting.

Mat Morris went his road and I went mine, and in the busy details of my life soon forgot him.

One afternoon, a lot of us detectives were grouped together, discussing an offer of a reward of one thousand dollars for the discovery of some stolen bonds and the person who had made free with them.

The known facts of the case were in our possession, and when I sat in my room that evening, recalling them one by one, it struck me that a certain criminal might have had a hand in the affair, for the method of making the robbery was in his style.

Singular as it may seem, nearly every professional thief has a method of working up his "jobs," and a detective very frequently can positively say: "Such and such a person had a hand in that affair," merely because they know the style and method of the work.

I put on my coat and hat and went out, my footsteps turned in the direction of this person's haunts.

As I drew near to a saloon which he was accustomed to frequent, I caught sight of the very individual, and followed him.

He passed the saloon, and going on, turned the next corner.

I hastened forward, was about to turn the corner, when a slight thing brought me suddenly to a halt.

It was nothing more nor less than a simple shadow, cast on the walk by a gaslight. It was the shadow of a slender figure, in male attire, a cap on the head, one hand raised, while the index finger was being shaken after somebody in the distance.

Simple as the circumstance was it impressed me, and I stood still and waited.

My eyes wandered from the shadow for an instant, and when my eyes sought the spot where it had been, it was gone.

I sprang to the corner.

The criminal whom I had been following was out of sight, and the person who had cast that shadow was nowhere visible.

And yet I had heard no footsteps, and the time anyhow was too brief for the person to have gone more than a dozen feet.

I was deeply puzzled.

Soon after I turned my steps toward home, for I was balked for the present, whatever else might be the case. I remember just before leaving the spot that I muttered, rather loud, perhaps:

"Where did that shadow disappear to so suddenly?"

The next day these words were recalled to my mind when a note was handed to me, and I had opened it.

"The bonds are hidden under the dock at the foot of —— street. The person who stole them will recover them to-night. Capture him. Claim the reward; keep half, and be ready to give the other half at an instant's demand to

Shadow."

"Let the word answer as a countersign."

This note puzzled me not a little, and I hardly knew what to do in regard to it; for I did not wish to be made a fool of, as well as the laughing-stock of the other detectives.

I finally determined to tack my faith to this unknown person who signed "Shadow," and that night took a couple of men to the spot designated, and captured the bond thief after he had taken the bonds from their hiding-place.

I got the reward, and kept five hundred myself, reserving the other five hundred until it should be demanded of me, when, where, or how, I had not the slightest idea.

Several weeks later, after the midnight hour, I was suddenly brought to a halt as I drew near my house, for across the walk was cast that shadow.

I knew it must be the same one, and belonging to the same person, for the hand was raised, and the index finger shaking.

Determined that this shadow should not disappear so suddenly and mysteriously again, I kept my eyes on it as I hastily sprang forward.

The shadow moved, and its owner suddenly stood before me—a lithe figure, in male attire, with a large-peaked cap.

I glanced keenly at the face.

It was a boyish-looking face, with eyes very deep-set, it seemed to me, and a face, besides, that lacked expression.

"Shadow!" was uttered by a low voice, evidently disguised, and then a hand was extended—for the money, as I well knew.

"Who are you? What do you want?"

"Shadow!" was the single word of reply.

"What do you want?"

"You know perfectly well. If you are villainous enough to keep it all, why, do so!" and he would have glided away.

"Hold on! Here is your share. And now, who are you?" and I bent closer to the mysterious being, and then discovered that I did not see a real face, but a closely-fitting mask, which defied all but the closest scrutiny.

"I am Shadow."

"A detective?"

"Yes. Now go—leave me alone—cease your questioning. And, as you value my friendship (which may be worth much to you) never speak to me again, but act simply as I shall write. You have compelled me to break an oath—be satisfied and go; and never cause me to break a new oath, which I now again make, or I swear solemnly that you shall regret it."

Thus spoke Shadow, and then he went swiftly away, with the most noiseless steps of any human being I ever saw.

I took a few steps in the same direction, but I paused when he turned and shook that index finger at me in that peculiar way.

He was a deep mystery to me.

"Who was he?"

Disguised as a sailor just arrived in port, I shadowed a man into a low dive some nights later.

Two professional burglars, well known to me, passed near me as I crossed the room.

"Could that little chap have overheard anything we said?" one rather anxiously asked of the other.

"No," was the careless reply. "I've seen him before, and know that he's deaf and dumb. If it hadn't been for that, I'd a told you of his being near us."

Thus much I heard, and then distance swallowed up the sound of their voices.

I glanced around in quest of the little chap alluded to, and my eyes lighted on—Shadow!

Was he playing deaf and dumb?

I got near him after a while, and managed to whisper into his ear:

"I know you now. I detected you from the way you carry your head—you are Mat Morris."

Shadow's hand was resting on the table. Without even glancing up to see if I was looking, his index finger began forming letters on the table—letters, of course, that were invisible.

My eyes followed the finger carefully, and I read the words:

"Fool! Your folly may cost us both our lives. I am Shadow—nothing else. Do not seek to penetrate my disguise. Go."

I turned away rebuked.

If he wished to conceal his identity, it certainly was none of my business.

As I was turning about, a genuine tar—a regular son of Neptune—staggered against me. He was half seas over, and I tried to avoid him.

But he grasped me by the shoulder, gave me a shake, and—

"Come along and have some grog, you son of a sea-cook!"

I tried to get away from him, and to keep up my assumed character was foolish enough to attempt using a sailor-like phrase.

No sooner had the tar heard my words than he bellowed out:

"Hurroo—hurroo! Shiver my timbers if ye ever smelt salt water! You're no tar—smash my headlights if ye are! Can't play that game on me," following his speech with a hearty guffaw.

He raised his hand to slap me on the shoulder, and his fingers caught in and dragged off the bushy whiskers I had put on for a disguise.

All eyes had been drawn to us by the drunken sailor's words, and when my face was seen there was a start of alarm on all sides.

Some one recognized me.

"A detective—a detective!"

And then a hoarse and angry murmur was heard on every side, and I was slowly hemmed in by a crowd of scowling-faced villains.

CHAPTER IV.

OUT OF THE LION'S JAWS.

Things looked remarkably squally where I was concerned, when, on my exposure by the genuine tar, the inmates of the den gathered threateningly about me.

I attempted to draw my shooting-irons, but desisted as a measure of prudence when I saw that I should be killed before being allowed to do so.

It might have gone very hard with me, had it not been for the quick-wittedness of the mysterious being known as Shadow.

Several empty beer-glasses were on the table in front of him.

These he caught up, and swiftly and accurately hurled them at the lights—lamps being used in the place instead of gas.

Crash!

Crash!

Crash!

Ban-n-n-g!

One of the heavy beer-glasses had smashed the bottom of one of the lamps, the oil had ignited, and there came an explosion, followed by the burning oil being scattered in every direction.

Instantly ensued a scene of confusion and consternation.

The oil had set fire to the clothing of several persons, and they cursed and screamed and shouted, as they wildly strove to smother the flames.

Now was my opportunity.

Toward the door I made my way through the surging and excited crowd, some of whom were madly grasping at each other, thinking they were laying hold on me.

By the fluttering blaze of the burning, oil-soaked clothing of the persons on fire, I saw which way to go; and I had nearly reached the door, when some one cried:

"Be careful, boys! Look out for the door; don't let him escape!"

I made a bolt for the door, and reached it just after another person had done so.

I up with my clenched fist and toppled him over, and then dashed into the street and took to my heels, and did not halt until I was a block from the place.

This was not caused by fear, for I could easily have summoned half a dozen policemen to my assistance.

No matter how wicked a man may be, he has rights under the law as well as anybody else, and unless I knew or suspected him (for good reasons) to be guilty of some particular crime, I had no business to interfere with him.

So I did not wish to make any further move by making any arrests of the inmates of the dive.

Nor, on the contrary, did I wish to give them an opportunity of putting a surreptitious bullet in me.

And again, I had begun to consider Shadow as an ally of mine, and did not wish to run the risk of upsetting or balking any scheme he might be working up through his presence in that place.

Nevertheless, I naturally felt resentful toward the men who, for a moment, had my life in their power, and who seemed inclined to use their power. But I knew them all, and I would have my revenge when, some day—as they surely would—they fell into the strong grasp of the law.

I hung around the vicinity for an hour or more, but as I saw nothing of Shadow, I concluded to turn my steps homeward, and did so.

And Shadow?

He, too, had started toward the door, but had been too slow in his movements to reach it before it was barricaded.

Made aware that he could not pass through it, he quietly made his way back to where he had been sitting, and there sat down again, just before a lamp was hastily lighted.

By this time the ignited clothing had all been extinguished, with no more results than a few painful burns, and consequently the first thought of everybody was concerning the detective.

But he was gone.

That somebody had escaped they knew, but had clung to the hope that it was one of the tars, who had been frightened and bolted out.

But, no, the half-drunken sailors were all huddled together, gazing stupidly about them, not knowing what was to come next.

Some of them had drawn the tar's never-absent companion, their dirk-knives, and were prepared to make resistance in case all this row was but a blind to cover up an attack on them for the purpose of robbing them.

But robbing the tars was the thing furthest from the minds of that rascally crew just at that moment.

They had threatened the life of a detective, he had escaped, and they thought the consequences would be a descent on the place, as soon as enough blue-coats could be gathered for the purpose.

"Now—who fired those beer-glasses?"

The bullet-headed proprietor of the "ranch" asked this question in a gruff tone.

Instantly they began eying each other, and slowly but surely pair after pair of eyes were fastened on Shadow.

"Run out these Jacks."

Immediately the tars were told to "vamose"—"vacate"—"skip"—and the door being held open for them, they lost no time in giving the place a wide berth.

The proprietor sharply eyed those who remained.

All were friends.

Making a sign to a couple, they separated from the rest, who were then told to "skip and lay low."

Shadow made no attempt to leave with this departing crowd.

He knew that it would be useless, in addition to which it would have implied that he had heard and understood, which would not have been in keeping with his assumed character of a deaf and dumb person.

"Now, then," said the bullet-headed proprietor, when none but a trusted few were left in the place, "into that 'cubby' of ours with him!" indicating Shadow.

The latter eyed them with blank astonishment when they laid hands on him, and signed to know what it meant. And when they commenced running him across the floor, he struggled to prevent them.

But he became quiet when one of them placed the muzzle of a revolver to his temple.

He made no further resistance, but allowed them to gag him, and shove him into a little black cubby-hole or closet, whose door was a segment of the wainscoting, undiscoverable to a person unaware of its existence, save by the closest scrutiny.

The door was banged shut, and Shadow was left to his own reflections in the cramped confines of the dark and moldy-smelling closet.

He was left here until all danger of a raid was thought by the proprietor to be past.

Then he was brought out.

"What did you mean by smashing the lamps and putting them out?" was sternly demanded of him.

Shadow looked vacantly at them.

"Come, come!" and he was given a cuff alongside of his head. "Come, give us an answer, or I'll 'liven you up with something heavier than my hand."

While looking wonderingly and inquiringly at them Shadow pointed first to his mouth and then to his ear.

One of them held a revolver close to the back of his head, unseen by him, and then cocked the weapon, thinking that at the click Shadow would certainly give a start if he was not really deaf.

Not a muscle of face or body could be seen to even twitch.

"It's straight, I guess," said this fellow, as he let down the hammer of the weapon and returned it to his pocket.

They now repeated the question by writing it on a sheet of paper.

Shadow looked at it, his face brightened, and seizing the pencil, he scribbled the reply:

"I knew him for a detective! I thought you'd rush in on him in the dark and slug him!"

The villains looked at each other. There was reason in it. Darkness might easily have proved an aid to them, although, as it chanced, it had really opened the way for the detective's escape.

Then they scrutinized Shadow closely, and tried to intimidate him by saying they did not believe it. But when they wrote this on paper, Shadow only shrugged his shoulders on reading it.

Then they discussed the advisability of letting him go or putting him out of the way.

"There's no good in killing him, as I can see," one said finally. "It might easily be a bad thing, for there's no tellin' who may show up here afore the body could be got rid of," and in this view all at last concurred.

Shadow was led to the door and pointed out. He hastily gained the street—and disappeared.

CHAPTER V.

HELEN DILT.

There are thousands of people in New York, to whom some portions of the metropolis are as much of a mystery as Paris, or Bagdad, or Calcutta, or Cairo in Egypt.

This may seem like a singular statement, yet it is a perfectly true one.

Along the East River front of the city many sights are to be seen, which could not but be as surprising as interesting to those to whom this section of the city is a sealed book.

Here junk-shops flourish in all their glory, side by side with old iron and old chain shops.

Groggeries of the lowest kind abound, and here is the lair of the river-pirate.

Sometimes blocks occur on which not a single building is to be found, save small offices in connection with iron or lumber yards.

At night no section of New York is more lonesome, or more inviting to the performance of deeds of darkness.

Just opposite a tumble-down pier, not far from Grand street ferry, stood, and still stands, a little shanty, built in the rudest manner, only one story in height.

Into this shanty we wish to convey the reader, at least in imagination.

There are but three rooms in the shanty, the front one being about half of the entire floor, and two smaller rooms, answering as bedrooms, took up the other half.

In the outer or larger room an old acquaintance—McGinnis—may be seen, seated at a deal table, before him a half-emptied soda-bottle and a glass. The bottle, however, did not contain soda, but what may well be termed "liquid fire."

"Well, that was a good job," McGinnis was saying to his wife, who was bustling around to get him something to eat. "A bully good job, and no mistake. I don't know as I ever had one before that paid so well for so little trouble."

"That Brown is a foine, liberal gintleman, I'm a-thinkin'," remarked Mrs. McGinnis, as she turned the slice of ham in the frying-pan.

"He doesn't throw any money away, ye can depind on that," McGinnis abruptly rejoined. "Whin he pays me that sum of money jist to capture the girl, yez can jist bet your life he's a-goin' to make more money by the operation than he gives me."

"Ah, McGinnis, you're a sharp one, that's what ye are," said his wife, admiringly. "Now, shure, I'd never a-thought of the likes of that. It's an alderman ye'd ought to be, instead of what ye are."

"Whist!" interrupted McGinnis, bringing her to a halt. "Niver mind mentioning me occupation. Walls sometimes have ears, so they do. But, I say, be lively, old woman, for the boss is a-comin' to-night to have a look at the gal."

The ham had been discussed, and McGinnis had just lighted his pipe, when a low knock came at the door.

"That's him!" exclaimed McGinnis, as he started for the door. "He's on time, jist."

Surely enough, it was the highly respectable-looking lawyer, who had asked Helen if he had not seen her somewhere before, and also what her name was.

As the door was opened, he glided in swiftly, and himself hastily closed the door, and stood by until it was secured.

"Well," said he, as he advanced into the center of the apartment, rubbing his hands, "well, you were successful?"

"That I was!" with a hoarse laugh.

"This is your wife?"

"It is, sor."

"She can be depended on?"

"Every bit as much as meself, sor. No fear of her—not a bit."

"And the girl?"

"Is below," was the reply, as McGinnis pointed downward, to signify that Helen was somewhere beneath the floor.

"Good! Excellent!" and the rascally lawyer laughed quietly.

"Would ye be after wantin' to see her?" McGinnis now inquired.

"Yes."

At a sign from her lord and master, Mrs. McGinnis lighted a candle, then took a look at the two small windows to see that the curtains were closely drawn, and then handing the lighted candle to McGinnis, she bent and raised a trap-door.

This disclosed a dark-looking hole, up from which came a rush of damp, cold air, which almost chilled the marrow in the lawyer's bones.

But he must descend, if he wished to see the girl, for it would hardly be safe to bring her up.

An idea that flashed across his brain just as he was about to descend caused him to suddenly pause and bend a keen gaze on the rascally pair.

The life of McGinnis was in his hands.

Suppose the villain should take this opportunity of putting it forever out of his power to again threaten him?

It was a startling reflection.

Brown had come there secretly; nobody knew of where he was going, nobody had seen him enter this shanty—facts concerning which McGinnis was as well posted as himself.

But in the faces of man and wife no sign of treachery was to be seen.

He could trust them.

"There is no danger," Brown mentally said. "They will not kill the goose that lays the golden eggs—they are too avaricious for that."

He judged them rightly.

Brown descended into the sort of half-cellar beneath the house, of so little depth that it was necessary to bend the head to move about.

"Careful, sor," said McGinnis, who was ahead. "Bad cess to it——"

Splash!

"There ye go!" McGinnis went on; "I forgot that the tide is up, and that the hole was filled with water."

"Deuce take it!" growled Brown. "I'm wet up to my knees. Does the water rise in here with the tide?"

"It do, sir. In the spring tides the water comes up close to the flure of the rooms above."

A few steps further, and then the villainous abductor of Helen Dilt said:

"Here we are, sir!"

They had reached one corner of the cellar, and when McGinnis held up the light, Brown saw the fair young girl, stretched on a pallet of straw, which kindness even the cruel McGinnis had not been able to deny her.

"Is she dead?" asked Brown, in a hoarse whisper.

"I think not. She wasn't less than two hours ago when the old woman brought down some grub to her."

So very still did Helen lie that the lawyer thought she surely was dead, until having drawn very close it became evident that she was only sleeping.

Poor Helen!

It was the first time that her eyes had closed in slumber in the three days which had elapsed since she had been forcibly brought to this place.

Approached by McGinnis, he had told her some plausible story, and led her away from the more public thoroughfares, and then had suddenly turned on her, and putting a revolver to her head had threatened to kill her did she make any outcry.

He had hurried her into a "ranch" where he was known, had kept her there until after midnight, and then had forced her through the deserted streets to his own shanty.

The flashing of the light into her face woke her up.

One moment she seemed confused in mind, and then appeared to recognize her surroundings.

She did not know, could not guess, why she had been brought here at the expense of so much trouble and risk, but she could not but feel certain that it was for the furtherance of some evil design.

She started to a sitting position and glanced at her visitors.

The light of the candle shone across Brown's face, and before he could turn and hide his features in shadow she had recognized him.

"Sir, what have I done to you that you should persecute me thus?" she asked, in a tone that trembled with a mixture of indignation and fear. "I know you; you bought a Herald of me once, and asked my name."

"Curse the luck! I had not intended this," muttered Brown. "All I wanted was to see the girl and make sure he had abducted the right one. Well, since you know me, then, let me ask you a question: What do you know of your early life?"

For a minute Helen was silent.

Why this peculiar question?

Earnestly she gazed at him, but she could find no clew from his face, for he kept it in the shadow.

"I know nothing at all of it," she finally answered.

"Positively nothing?"

"Nothing whatever, save that a sad, sweet face seems sometimes to rise before me, as if seen through a mist. But it never lasts long, for the mists thicken until it has disappeared again."

An evil and exultant smile flitted across the lawyer's face.

"Come," he said, and he and McGinnis ascended to the rooms above, leaving Helen alone in that dark and damp and dank place—left her there alone to encounter a terrible ordeal.

It was a time of neap or spring tide, besides which the wind was in the right direction to make the water rise very high.

Helen slept again. And so heavily that she was not awakened by the water which crept up around her and saturated her clothing, until it reached her lips, and partially strangled her by being drawn in along with a breath.

She started up with a wild shriek.

"Quiet down there!" bellowed the harsh voice of McGinnis, as he raised the trap-door a little. "Quiet, I say, or I'll keep my word and murder you if you make any noise."

And Helen was silent, even though so horrified, and stood there trembling, with lips pallid and heart at almost a standstill, as the cold and treacherous tide mounted higher and higher.

It reached her knees, her waist, her arm-pits, and even here did not stop. Higher still it mounted, until it reached her pallid lips.

CHAPTER VI.

THE REMEMBERED BILLS.

Some few days subsequent to my adventure in the dive I met a lady on the street, at sight of whose face I gave a slight start.

I had seen the face somewhere before; in fact, felt that I had once been quite familiar with it.

Ah!

"Mrs. Morris!" I said.

The lady turned swiftly, not a little startled at being thus addressed. Then I saw her face light up with a look of recognition.

"I thought I was not mistaken," I said. "You remember me, I hope?"

"I do. You are Howard, who became a detective after I last saw you."

"Right," I rejoined, and then I walked along beside her towards her humble home.

I had not thought of Mat in some days, but at sight of her he flashed into my mind.

I finally inquired about him.

"I have not see him in some time," Mrs. Morris said, in reply.

I told her of my having seen him, and then she told me about Helen.

We reached her humble home.

She then told me that she had heard from Mat, although she had not seen him. Several mornings before she had awakened to find an envelope thrust beneath the door, on opening which she found its contents to be five hundred dollars.

"Five hundred dollars!" I exclaimed, in surprise. "Will you let me see the money, Mrs. Morris?"

"Certainly."

The amount was precisely that which I had paid Shadow. I remembered some of the bills, and was curious to see if they were contained in the money.

They were.

Every bill that I had specially noted was in the roll of bills she handed to me in response to my request.

The last lingering doubt as to Mat Morris and Shadow being one and the same person was swept from my mind by this circumstance.

I said nothing, however, to Mrs. Morris of where and how I had last seen Shadow—or Mat—for I knew it could only make her more anxious on his account.

While wondering where Mat could have obtained so large a sum of money, the mother's confidence in her son was so great that she felt it had been come by in none other than a proper and honest manner.

"Will you not do what you can toward finding our Helen?" Mrs. Morris asked at parting.

"I will," was the reply; and, indeed, I kept the subject constantly before me, and my ears always open, when I visited the many haunts of vice in the pursuit of my duties.

But weeks glided away and I found no clew, nor had I heard or seen aught of Shadow.

Yet he was not idle, and I now know that though I did not see him he saw me many times, and avoided me on purpose.

Steadily, although slowly, he pursued the one object of his present mode of life.

Any man who was known to be "crooked," and who at all resembled a certain description, he would persistently shadow until he knew that the person was not guilty of that particular crime.

Again and again was he disappointed.

But he would only make a dissatisfied gesture with his hand, and then in thin air write the words:

"Try, try again! Success must come at last!"

And then he would go relentlessly on, pursuing some unknown person who was even more shadowy than himself.

Besides searching for this one person, Shadow had devoted himself from a feeling of resentment toward the whole tribe of evil-doers, to the exposure of villainy whenever and wherever he found it.

The two burglars whom I had overheard talking about some "job" on entering the dive, were being cared for by Shadow.

Supposed to be deaf and dumb they had talked freely before him—it was destined to be to their sorrow.

They laid their plans for the robbery of a bank with the most consummate skill.

Having rented a vacant store adjoining the building in which the bank was located, they opened an oyster saloon, but rather discouraged than encouraged trade.

With the fall of night they would descend to the cellar, and until break of day would work at cutting through the foundation wall.

It was thick and strongly built, but this they had expected, and were prepared for. Digging out the mortar between the bricks, first one and then another was pried out, until at last only one layer of four inches in thickness remained, which a single blow from the blunt end of a crowbar would knock out.

This was accomplished on Friday night.

They now quit work until the following night, when they intended entering, knowing that in all probability they would have until Monday morning to "tap" the vault and safe.

But, safe as they felt themselves, a pair of keen eyes were upon them.

They were those of Shadow.

Late on Sunday afternoon a note was handed me. It was from the mysterious being, whom I felt sure was none other than Mat Morris.

The note was very brief.

It simply said:

"Be at the corner of —— street and —— avenue at eleven o'clock to-night, with a dozen men. You must be in citizens' clothes.

Shadow."

This time I did not hesitate about getting ready to act upon the communication of the mysterious detective.

Promptly at the hour indicated I was at the designated spot, while the required number of men were scattered about in the concealment of various doorways there, and waiting, but out of sight.

I had not long to wait.

It seemed as if Shadow had arisen out of the ground, for I had not seen or heard him approach, yet on turning on feeling my elbow touched, found him at my side.

Holding up his hands between me and the light of the nearest lamp, so that I could plainly see what he was about, he asked me in the deaf and dumb alphabet:

"Can you understand this?"

There are few school-boys who have not at some time learned the art of thus talking with the fingers, and I have once been able to do almost as well as the mutes who are compelled to converse in this way.

Making an effort I found that I could recall the alphabet, and answered:

"I can understand."

"Pretend to be drunk, and follow me. When I cough, quietly capture the man you will see."

Side by side we reeled up the avenue, and several blocks away I saw a fellow coming in the opposite direction.

"The lookout," I mentally said, and placed my revolver in a handy position.

I was not mistaken.

Just as we were about to pass the fellow, Shadow coughed. Quick as a flash, I wheeled and planted the muzzle of my weapon to the lookout's head, sternly saying:

"Not a word—not a bit of noise—or I'll put a bullet in your noddle!"

Surprised completely, the fellow caved, and I ran him along to where the men were walking, handcuffed him, and sent him to the station in charge of two men, but not until after Shadow had gone through his pockets.

We now all followed Shadow.

"Wait here," he finally spelled on his fingers. "In five minutes, at the farthest, I will return."

From the lookout's pocket he had taken a pass-key, which admitted him to a hall connecting with the bogus oyster saloon, and leaving the door unlocked, disappeared from sight.

Five minutes passed, lengthened into ten, twelve, fifteen, and still Shadow had not returned.

Had he been detected and murdered?

I could wait no longer. I opened the door and entered, followed by my men.

We heard stealthy steps, and paused.

Then the slide of a dark lantern was opened by some one, and in the big strong patch of light it threw we saw Shadow.

There was a rush of feet, the light was covered, and we—the silent witnesses—heard a low cry and a heavy fall.

Had Shadow's boldness cost him his life? I thought of Mrs. Morris, and my heart was saddened.

CHAPTER VII.

A HAPPY MOMENT.

When Shadow left us outside and entered through the door which he opened by aid of the pass-key taken from the captured "lookout," he turned aside from the hall, into the store.

As before stated, one marked peculiarity of his was his light tread, so light that none but a suspicious and very acute ear could detect it.

From his pocket he took a wax match and lighted it. Before it had burned so low as to necessitate his blowing it out, he had gained such additional knowledge as he required, which was principally that the movable articles in the room were in the same positions as when he had come here to eat oysters on several occasions.

The trap-door that had been cut through the floor behind the counter was open; to its head Shadow softly went.

Noiselessly as a cat he descended the stairs to the cellar, and there was guided forward by the light that shone through the breach in the foundation wall.

He soon reached the breach, without having aroused any suspicion of his proximity, and obtained a hasty although comprehensive glance into the vault beneath the bank.

The burglars had had easy work, and had already secured the "swag."

In fact, at that very moment two of their number were engaged in bringing loads of specie to the breach.

So close were they that Shadow could not retreat without discovering himself to them.

He shrank back against the wall, and edging away, paused only when a dozen or fifteen feet from the breach.

Through this the two burglars passed, entering the cellar beneath the store.

Shadow supposed that after depositing their loads both would return to the bank building. In this he was mistaken, for while one returned the other remained for the purpose of receiving the loads which now began to arrive.

The detective was in a box.

To attempt to retreat now was equivalent to detection: to remain, he would be spotted the very minute a light was brought into the cellar. While it was dark, and he even suppressed his breath, he was safe, but for no greater length of time.

Shadow at last determined on making an attempt to reach the stairs and mount them, so as to give us the word.

Holding his breath, he took a step, and then paused.

In a minute he took one more step and paused again.

He had not been heard.

Still another step.

And yet he was undetected.

Taking advantage of the bustle at the time of the delivery of each armful, he would glide along several feet. In this manner he had nearly reached the foot of the stairs, and so far as he could judge was unsuspected.

But as yet he had only had play when compared with the tact required to mount the stairs.

When half way up he overheard whispers. The words he could not comprehend, but, as he heard no movement toward the stairs, he thought they did not refer to him.

But they did.

The stairs had cracked and squeaked, notwithstanding his carefulness in stepping.

And the earth which had softened his footfalls so that they had not been heard, now performed the same kindly office for the burglars.

They were edging toward the stairs.

They reached the foot, as Shadow reached the head of them.

Any doubt which the burglars may have had was put to flight by hearing the sigh of relief which unconsciously fell from Shadow's lips as he took the last upward step.

At once there was a rush up-stairs by the villainous crew.

So promptly did they accomplish the ascent of the stairs that Shadow had no time to cross the store floor to the hall.

As already described, the bull's-eye flashed its light on him, after which there was a grand rush at him, followed by a low groan and the thud of a falling body.

"Poor fellow!" I inwardly exclaimed. "Poor Mrs. Morris—how her son's death will grieve her."

Meanwhile I was not idle.

My hand had dipped into my pocket, and now held a parlor match.

"Ready!"

So I lowly said to my men.

Then I suddenly struck the match, glanced around, sprang to the gas fixture my eye lighted on, turned on the gas, and in less than five seconds from the time of striking the match, the scene was lighted by a blazing gas jet.

"Surrender!" I sternly ordered, leveling a brace of revolvers, before the rascals had ceased to gasp in surprise at the sudden turn affairs had taken.

Then they turned and made a rush toward the trap-door behind the bar.

But with equal swiftness I sprang upon the counter, kneeling in a position to command the entrance to the cellar.

"The first man who tries to escape in that direction gets a bullet in his noddle!" I grimly told them, and they halted short in their stampede, and dumbly looked at each other.

"Close in, boys!"

This to my men.

"Now then, my hearties, you're fairly cornered, and the wisest thing for you to do is to cave."

"Don't give in, lads!" yelled a gruff voice. "We're almost as many as they are, and a good bold stroke will carry us out."

Thus encouraged, the desperate men made a wild, although irresolute and wavering charge.

"Stand firm!" I yelled to my men, and then aimed at the leader of the gang.

He had cocked his revolver, was aiming at my head with deadly intent.

It was my life or his, and I pulled the trigger.

Crack!

With a single groan, he sank to the floor, with a bullet in his brain.

"Close in now! And shoot every man who offers resistance!"

The men did as directed.

The charge had been only half-hearted anyhow, and the fall of their leader completely demoralized the remainder, and dropping their weapons, they flung up their hands in token of surrender.

In less than two minutes we had them all handcuffed.

When I had heard the last pair of bracelets click, I put up my revolver, but not before; and then I wiped the perspiration from my forehead.

It is singular how quickly a man begins to perspire in moments of excitement like this through which I had passed, but perspire he always does, and freely at that.

I had caught a glimpse of a body stretched on the floor at the farther side of the room from where I was perched on the counter.

"Poor Mat! Poor Shadow!"

So I muttered as I made my way toward the body. It laid just where I had last seen Shadow standing, in the full glare of the light from the bull's-eye lantern.

I reached the body, and—it was not that of Shadow!

I rubbed my eyes. No, it was not Shadow. I arose to my feet and glanced about the room. But naught was to be seen of the lithe figure of the mysterious detective.

Nobody had seen him go out by way of the hall. Then, I thought, he must have descended to the cellar.

But when we went down-stairs, we could find no trace of him there.

He had disappeared.

But how, or where to, not the wisest one of us could say.

Neither could I imagine how he had escaped with his life, when they made that wild rush at him.

CHAPTER VIII.

A NARROW ESCAPE.

Afraid to incur the anger of McGinnis, Helen made no further outcry after receiving his harsh command to be silent, but stood there, trembling with horror, as the treacherous waters continued to rise.

Tiny waves were rippling the surface of the water, and one of these at last sprang against her lips.

Panting, worn out, Helen felt like permitting herself to sink, and thus quickly end the horrors of her situation.

But the ripple receded, and she was again able to breathe.

She did not wish to die.

Above all, she did not wish to meet such an awful death as this.

She pictured her dead body floating in the water or stretched in the mud of the floor, and her frame was convulsed by swift-flying thrills of horror.

This mental picture nearly crazed Helen.

"No, no," she moaned. "No, no, I cannot, I will not, die in this terrible manner."

She beat the water with her hands, and clutched at it, and tried to push it back.

Slowly but softly the water continued to rise, and she could lift her head no higher, for it was even then against the under side of the floor above her.

The water was at her lips now—not a ripple, but the whole body was on a level with them.

She closed her lips, but a minute later it filled her nostrils when she breathed.

Out of her very desperation was now born a singular calmness and self-possession.

She was now able to think and reason as she could not have done before.

It is singular but true that in the face of death many people, in times of lesser danger absolute cowards, become brave and calm as any one can be.

So it was with Helen.

Whether or not she was to be drowned like a rat she did not know.

But she did know that her situation was a precarious one.

Calm now as she was, she was not long in striking on the only means whereby she could preserve her life a little longer, perhaps for a long time longer.

Throwing her head backward, she let it rest against one of the floor-beams, and thrust her face upward close to the floor.

She could now breathe again.

But she had played her last card, so to speak, and did the water rise another three inches her fate was unalterably sealed.

The position she had assumed was an uncomfortable one, but she did not allow her resolution to waver even though the tide continued to creep higher and higher, although not so rapidly as before.

At last—what a fervent prayer of thanks Helen uttered—at last she knew that the water had ceased to rise.

And then presently it began slowly falling.

At the expiration of a quarter of an hour she was able to move her head from the unnatural position in which she had placed it.

Lower and lower the water now went, in just the same regular, even pace with which it had arisen in the cellar.

Lower and lower—lower and lower—until Helen sank on her knees, her head remaining above the surface, and then she prayed as perhaps she had never prayed before.

As she was thus engaged she heard a heavy tread on the floor over her head.

McGinnis had just come in.

And he came with haste, for he had just heard of the remarkably high tide, and feared that his prisoner had fallen a victim to its cold embrace.

He now understood the meaning of Helen's cries, and their not having been repeated under such circumstances, he considered as indicating her death.

"I say—I say, down there!" he yelled. "Are you alive and kicking?"

Helen had nothing to gain by keeping silence, and as she arose from her knees, she replied in the affirmative.

"Good enough!" grunted her jailer, banging shut the trap-door.

When he afterwards brought Helen down something to eat, and saw the height to which the water had risen, he gazed at her in blank astonishment.

He could not understand how it was that she had preserved her life.

"Thunder!" he exclaimed. "How did you do it, gal? Why, there wasn't more'n an inch of space left between the water and the floor."

"I did it, though, with His assistance," said Helen, reverently.

"Whose assistance?" and McGinnis glared about him, as he asked the question, in an alarmed tone.

"His!" and Helen pointed upward as she uttered the one word in a solemn tone.

"Oh!" in a relieved tone, and the villain then laughed harshly.

He stayed by Helen while she was eating, and his evil eyes were lighted with admiration as they rested on her.

"I say," he remarked, when she had finished eating—"I say, you're a trump, even though you be such a young gal."

Helen's puzzled look was evidence that she did not comprehend at what he was driving.

"You're a smart one, too," said McGinnis. "And I think it's blamed tough on you to pen you in here."

"Then why did you do so?" demanded Helen.

"Orders, my sweet, orders—and orders must be obeyed. But, I say, how'd you like to take the place of the old woman up-stairs? You're a piece of good stuff, you are, and with a little edication, could take the shine out of any crooked woman I ever seen. As for the old crow up-stairs, jist say the word, and I'll put her out of the way, after which, orders or no orders, I'll take you outer this place."

The young girl was completely taken aback by this offer of McGinnis to make her his wife, after murdering the one he now possessed.

She was unable to say a word.

McGinnis construed her silence in another way, and advancing, would have kissed Helen, had not she retreated, holding up her hands to ward him off, her face expressive of horror and deep disgust.

He pursued her.

Helen faced him, her back to the wall.

"Keep away—leave me alone," she cried. "Keep away, or I will shriek until somebody hears me."

Her tone was a determined one, and McGinnis was shrewd enough to see that it would be foolish to bother her any farther, or her cries might be heard, and be the means of getting him into serious trouble.

He backed away, and, with an oath on his lips, went up-stairs, banging shut the trap-door behind him.

A number of times he brought her meals down to her, but never again attempted to renew his suit.

Then one night Joseph Brown paid him another visit, and they held a long conference together.

It was about Helen.

In the dead of night, not long after that, Helen was brought up from the damp and noisome place.

Some clothing was flung to her, which she was compelled to attire herself in while guarded by Mrs. McGinnis.

After being led several blocks away she was forced to enter a carriage, which was then rapidly driven away.

"Where am I being taken to?" asked Helen, in a tone that trembled as much as her body.

She felt that there were greater dangers to dread in this midnight ride than if she had remained in the cellar.

McGinnis only laughed delightedly for reply.

"I demand of you to tell me where I am being taken," and the girl spoke now more firmly.

"I'll tell you—ha-ha-ha! let me whisper," and bending forward the villain whispered a few words into her ear—words that caused the color to desert her face, that caused her to clasp her hands together, and to sink moaning into her corner of the conveyance.

CHAPTER IX.

IN THE BLACK HOLE.

Where had Shadow gone to?

At the instant that the murderous crew rushed at him, he quietly sank to the floor.

The first one to reach the spot where he had been standing struck his body.

The cry of surprise on his lips was changed into a death-groan, as the man nearest him grabbed at and stabbed him, under the impression that it was the strange, and to them, unknown person whom they had detected spying on them.

Shadow had seen us and knew that we would now take care of the gang, and he had edged toward the door communicating with the hall, and had disappeared unseen by my men, deeply interested just then in another quarter.

The villains were marched away and locked up, and to make a long story short were properly punished in due course of time.

The bank officials, grateful at having been saved a heavy loss, voted me a handsome sum in reward for my services.

This, I felt, belonged entirely to Shadow, and I kept it about me in the shape of a check, to be given him at the first opportunity.

From the fact that he had not been found anywhere around, I was assured that he had escaped, although the manner of it was then a mystery to me.

And I fully expected to hear something from or see him within a very few days.

But I did not.

He seemed to have disappeared from the face of earth.

I went around among the dens of the east side, but could neither see nor learn anything of him.

Again and again I made the tour of the dives, but always with the same result.

Then, put to work on a case, I plunged into it, became interested, and Shadow slowly faded from my mind.

It was a murder case.

The murder had been committed under peculiar circumstances, and I had not been long at work before I became convinced that it had been done by the hands of a regularly organized gang of evil-doers.

At last I struck a clew.

I became convinced that I knew the very individual who had committed the bloody deed, but I delayed arresting him, as by this time I had gained an inkling of greater work to be done at the same time.

I was ambitious of entrapping the whole gang, instead of this solitary member of it.

I laid my plans accordingly.

Disguise was always a forte of mine, and I proceeded now to conceal my identity as thoroughly as possible.

My next step was to ingratiate myself with a member of the gang.

I picked my man, and proved an apt student of human nature when I did so, for perhaps of all the gang he was the only one who could have been so easily gulled.

His confidence gained, I knew the rest would be easy enough.

By him I was made acquainted with several others belonging to the same gang, and on his guarantee of my trustworthiness, they talked freely before me.

One day Shadow was brought forcibly to my mind by a chance remark dropped by one of my new friends.

"Have you seen the young chap we've got in the Black Hole?"

This was the remark.

Could they mean Shadow?

At once I pricked up my ears.

"No," was the reply. "I want to see him, though. What does he look like?"

"A young fellow with a smooth face, not more than eighteen, and slender as a girl."

It tallied with Shadow's appearance.

"None know him?"

"So it seems; leastways, none as has seen him yet ever saw him before. We had Dick Stanton come in and take a peep at him, and Dick says he ain't a detective—that is, a regular detective, at any rate."

"He was caught nosing around, though?"

"Yes."

"Had he tumbled to anything much?"

"That we don't know, for he won't say a word—aye, yes or no."

"And what does the cap'n mean to do with him?"

"I give it up. One of the boys told me that in the end he meant to have him knifed."

"The best thing to do. 'Dead men tell no tales,'" remarked the other.

Here they let the thing drop.

I wanted to find out where this Black Hole was, but dared ask no questions, nor press the subject of the young fellow's captivity.

For the present I was compelled to adopt a waiting policy, or run the risk of killing the confidence I had already gained, by the asking of too many questions.

Still, it was a horrible thought to me that, while I was doing nothing, Shadow (otherwise Mat Morris) was in captivity in the Black Hole, a place whose name implied nothing but the horrible, and in hourly danger of being butchered like an animal.

In this dilemma I changed my disguise and took to tracking these men to find out where their head-quarters were, presuming that it would be there where the Black Hole would be found.

I tracked them finally to an old and ruined brick building near the East River.

It had once been a sugar-house, but had burned out, leaving only its walls standing.

The remains of the building had been turned to advantage—its walls squared on top and roofed over, leaving a structure in some places one story high, in other places two stories.

It was for the most part occupied by old junk and chain men, and among them were several well-known to the police, and suspected of being receiving shops for the "swag" of the river pirates.

Was the Black Hole only one of the vaults of the old sugar-house?

Was it located here?

I would have given a thousand dollars to have been sure of this.

In the dead of night I again drew near this old sugar-house, and stretched myself out alongside of a big piece of dock timber that chanced to lie in a good position.

About two o'clock I heard footsteps approaching from the direction of the river, and when the persons drew nearer I recognized one voice as that of the individual whom I had thus far bamboozled.

The scent was getting "hot."

They were carrying several heavy coils of rope, the result of their depredations on the river during a few preceding hours.

They passed me and approached the building, and I heard one of them whistle twice, very softly.

Then a peculiar knock was given on a particular door, which at once promptly opened to give them ingress.

At once a desperate scheme flashed across my brain.

I wanted to save Shadow, but still I did not wish to make a descent on the place with a body of officers, as it would make it impossible for me to carry out my original plan of bagging the whole gang.

I had heard mentioned the name of Dick Stanton. He was a detective, and, as I now knew, a false one, through whom had leaked out the intentions of the police on several occasions, rendering well-laid plans fruitless; so that the police had found empty nests when they expected a bag full of game.

I arose and went forward.

I whistled thrice, and knocked at the door as I had heard the others knock.

As the door opened I glided in.

The guard spotted me as a stranger at once, and laid his hand on his revolver.

"I am sent by Stanton," I promptly said. "He gave me the points, and told me to carry a message of warning to 'cap.'"

Closing the door, the guard conducted me into a large room, where was gathered an immense quantity of old junk and rigging of all descriptions.

"Cap!" he called.

"Yes," came from the distant side of the room, where a lot of men were gathered about a lantern.

"Somebody to see you," with which the guard went back to the door, leaving his lantern beside me.

A slight noise caused me to look around, and I was startled at seeing a human hand protruding up through a crevice in a junk pile. The hand held a bit of paper, at which I blankly stared, thinking it held by a dead hand.

But no—the fingers stirred, the note was shaken. It was clear that it was intended for me.

I took it.

Cap had not yet started toward me. I read the few words on the note by the aid of the guard's lantern.

"Fly! Although the guard does not know—Stanton is here! Your first word will betray you.

Shadow."

Here was a fix.

How could I pass the guard on the portal? Yet I must go.

CHAPTER X.

FAVORING FORTUNE.

In the course of my professional career I have been in many tight places, and among the tightest I count that night, when in the old sugar-house, converted into a "fence" for receiving the "swag" brought in by the river pirates.

Immediately on reading the note written by Shadow I commenced retreating, even while Cap was coming forward to see who wanted him, and what for.

I had pretended to have been sent with a message by Dick Stanton, who, as Shadow had informed me, was already there, a fact unknown to the guard, else I must have been roughly used before this.

To have told this to Cap would have at once betrayed me, and my heart swelled with gratitude to Shadow—for I considered that he had saved my life.

Did misfortune attend my efforts to pass the guard, it would not be Shadow's fault, but my own in venturing into this place.

And yet I had done so on his account, had done so because I had learned that a young fellow answering his description was kept close prisoner in a place significantly called the "Black Hole."

Toward the guarded portal I went as rapidly as I could without an appearance of noisy haste.

I reached it at last.

Cap had not yet reached the spot where he expected to see me.

I had now just as long to fool the guard as it would take Cap to grow impatient at not seeing me, and bellow out some question as to where I was.

"Here's your lantern, my friend, and I'm much obliged for it," I said, as I drew near the guarded portal.

"See him?"

"Yes."

"All right?"

"Yes."

"Cap's in one of his black humors to-night."

"Phew! I should say so."

"Nothing wrong, was there?"

"Nothing particular," I answered. "What's the matter with that bolt? Does it stick?"

"Like thunderation. There it goes. I've got it now. Now for another one—you see we keep this place well guarded—now another, and all that now remains is to turn the knob."

"Suppose you do it, then, as I've got one or two messages more to deliver yet."

"Kerect."

The guard's hand was on the knob.

He was in the act of turning it when he suddenly paused.

"Got the pass?" he inquired.

"The what?"

"The pass."

"What pass?"

"Why, every night the cap'n gives out a new pass, and none go through this door without giving it."

"He must have forgotten to give it to me," I returned, clenching my fists unseen by the guard. "It's all right, though, so let me out, as I'm in a hurry."

"Can't help it. Hurry or no hurry, you can't get through here until the cap'n gives me orders to let you, or you give me the password."

I set my teeth.

With liberty before me I was not going to be balked in this way.

"Let me out!" I ordered.

"I can't do it."

"Let me out, I say."

"I dare not, and I won't 'thout the cap'n's orders. So you might's well be easy."

From the interior of the densely dark place I now heard an angry oath.

"I say, where are you?" cap was impatiently asking.

There was no time to lose.

"Growler!"

"Aye, aye!" returned the guard.

"Didn't you say somebody was here to see me?"

Growler turned on me a glance filled with mistrust, and making a dive, tried to shoot several bolts.

Now was my last and only chance.

I raised my clenched fist.

Spat!

It took him squarely between the eyes, and felled him to the ground like a log.

"A spy—a spy!" he yelled, as he was falling.

Cap heard the cry.

Toward the door he came flying, drawing his revolver on the way.

But I was not slow in taking advantage of my opportunity, and seizing and turning the knob, I flung open the door and bounded out into the darkness.

Fearing pursuit, and knowing myself to be in a mighty hard neighborhood, where every man I might chance to meet would be more likely friends of the pirates than friends of mine, I dashed around the old building and flung myself down in a place of hiding.

I heard a door open on that side of the building, only a few seconds later.

The person who emerged was Dick Stanton, the false detective.

I recognized him by a peculiar snuffle that had long been a settled habit of his.

Quick to think and act, I sprang to my feet, and dropping all fears of pursuit, followed him.

When he had got into a section of the city where there was no chance of his being rescued by the pirates, I hastened my pace and finally reached his side.

"How are you, Dick?"

He gave a start as I called him by name, and turning swiftly, glanced keenly at me, pausing beneath a street lamp that he might see me better.

"Is my disguise so good, then?" I asked, with a laugh, speaking in my natural tone.

"Howard!"

"Correct."

"Your disguise is perfect."

"Would my own mother know me?"

"Not a bit of it. How in the world do you manage to get yourself up so thoroughly?"

"It's a knack of mine. I say, Dick, got anything on hand?"

"No."

"Lend me your revolvers, then, will you? Mine I forgot when I left the house."

"Did you? That's funny, for I forgot mine also. I haven't got so good a weapon about me as a jack-knife."

"Then," and I spoke very sternly, and quickly drawing a revolver, placed it to his temple, "then consider yourself my prisoner."

"Wh-what do you mean?" he gasped.

"I'll show you."

"This must be a joke of yours," said the trembling wretch.

"It will be a sorry joke for you," said I. "Hold out your hands."

"What for?"

"Hold 'em out."

I pressed the cold muzzle of the revolver against his temple a little harder.

He understood the significance of the movement, and loathfully put out his hands.

"Howard, I don't like this," he said, in an assumed angry tone, to carry out the idea that he considered it in the light of a practical joke.

"You'll like it less before I get through with you," as I snapped the handcuffs on his wrists. "To be a thief is bad enough, but to call yourself a detective and then be in league with a gang of cut-throats, river-pirates and burglars, is far worse, and I give you my word that I intend to shove you as hard as I can."

Stanton's jaw fell.

He was cornered and confounded.

"Lost!" he groaned.

And then, with bent head, he walked dumbly along at my side.

"Howard, will you not let up on me?" he pleaded, humbly, his tone trembling with fear.

"What will I gain by it?" I artfully said.

"Why, they always let the one go who turns State's evidence," he said, eagerly. "Give me a chance, won't you?"

How disgusted I was with Stanton!

A traitor to the force, he was no sooner found out than he was ready to turn traitor to his pals.

"I'll promise you nothing," I coldly returned. "You can tell me what you please, and if I then think your information worthy of mercy to you, you shall have it."

"You always were a good fellow," he said, fawningly, "and I'll trust you."

"You must do exactly as I say."

"I will," he promptly answered.

An idea had occurred to me.

It was, instead of taking Stanton to the police station—where I would have been obliged to enter a specific charge against him—to take him to a secret place of confinement, and there keep him until I had bagged the river-pirates, penetrated to the Black Hole, and bursted up the villainous den.

To reach the place I had in my mind's eye, it was necessary to retrace some of our steps, and we once again entered the rough precincts right along the East River.

As Stanton had been treacherous to the force of which he was a member, was willing to be treacherous toward his pals, so, now, in keeping with his character, he acted treacherously toward me.

While passing a low drinking place—"boozing ken" was its popular name in that locality—he suddenly pursed up his lips and whistled sharply in a peculiar way, repeated a given number of times.

I knew he intended it for a signal.

I was not mistaken.

Within half a minute a little squad of men dashed out of the "boozing ken" to rescue him who had given this signal.

CHAPTER XI.

IN THE MAD-HOUSE.

What were those whispered words of McGinnis' which so affected Helen Dilt?

Let them be what they might, there could be no doubt that they struck terror to her soul.

She sank back in the corner of the conveyance, and audibly moaned.

Poor girl!

She was a heroine in her way, and could have borne a great deal were it to advance some good cause, or because she merited it.

But to be compelled to endure untold horrors, why and wherefore she knew not, was terrible.

"Why am I persecuted?"

So she asked McGinnis a little later, appealingly, in a wavering voice.

"Can't tell you—don't know."

"You are employed by that monster whom I saw in that cellar?"

"I am. There's no good denying that."

"Has he no heart? Have you no heart, that you conspire with him to persecute a friendless girl?"

"I gets paid for it."

So McGinnis dryly replied.

"Paid for it? Then you lack conscience as well as heart. I beg of you, do not do this horrible thing. Release me, restore me to my friends, and I will pray for you as long as I live."

"Pray for me? Ha-ha!" laughed McGinnis. "That's a good one!"

Helen moaned bitterly.

Nothing could move the villain except money, and that Helen did not have.

McGinnis watched her for some time in silence, a gloating expression in his eyes.

He had something in his mind, and presently it came out.

"There is one way," he said to Helen, "to escape this thing which you appear not to hanker after very much.

"And that?" she exclaimed eagerly.

"Can't you guess?"

As he asked the question he leered at her in a meaning way.

The girl's heart sank.

She knew at once what he meant.

"What do you say?"

Helen made no reply, only shuddered and shrank away from the villain besides her.

"It's your last chance," urged McGinnis. "And you'll not get another, I kin tell ye. Once them doors close behind your back you're done for. Got any answer for me?"

"Mercy!" gasped Helen. "Anything but that. Pity me—spare me—do not stain your soul with a crime so dreadful as this."

"Yes or no, plain," growled McGinnis. "Come now, speak up right sharp and don't waste any time in palavering. Yes or no? And remember, it's your last chance. Say 'yes,' and yer gits McGinnis for a husband, McGinnis as is known to be one of the sharpest and best men on a 'lay' in the country. Say 'no,' and you're done for. Into the mad-house you'll go, never to come out until you're carried out, feet first."

She could never marry him, after he had imbrued his hands in the blood of the woman he now called his wife. She could never have married him anyhow. Better the mad-house, better death itself, than that.

There was nothing gained by attempting to fool him. Suppose she did say 'yes,' and by means of it staved off incarceration in the mad-house for several days, what would it amount to in the end? Nothing. Had there been any reason for her to expect a rescue, she might have tried on the game. But she knew of no efforts being made to find her.

Then a shudder convulsed her frame.

"Yes," she could not say, now that a new thought came to her, even though she knew it would lead to her rescue before such time as McGinnis claimed the fulfillment of her pledge.

The little word "yes" would be the death-warrant of a living human being—no matter how fallen and wicked, a human being all the same.

To say "yes" would seal the fate of the woman McGinnis now called his wife.

Poor Helen!

She bent her head and hid her face in her hands, and wept bitterly as the closed carriage rolled swiftly onward.

A strange fancy, a love for Helen had taken root in the evil heart of McGinnis.

That it possessed depth was evidenced by his being willing to brave the wrath of the man in whose hands his life rested, provided Helen would become his wife.

"It will be 'yes,' won't it, deary?"

His tone was softer, more affectionate, more tender than we could have expected from such a man.

He had leaned over toward Helen, and as he asked the question, he placed one arm about her.

With a shiver she sprang to her feet, wrenching herself from his grasp, and then she cried:

"No, no! I would sooner die than marry you! Help—help—HELP! Oh, Heaven! is there no one to help me?"

Like lightning came a change in McGinnis' tone and demeanor.

"Silence!" he hoarsely and angrily hissed. "Silence, I say! Do you hear me?"

"Help!" shrieked Helen.

"Silence!" and now the villain threw both arms about her to pull her down.

"Help!"

McGinnis wasted no more breath in senseless orders.

Down beside him he dragged the girl.

Bravely Helen battled, but her strength was insufficient to maintain the struggle long.

He seized her by the throat, and tightened his grasp on it.

She gasped for breath.

Her brain reeled.

Consciousness finally fled.

McGinnis now glanced from the carriage window. The driver perfectly understood his business, and at the instant of Helen's first cry had commenced winding a tortuous course through the crooked streets.

His prompt action prevented Helen's cries procuring for her the help for which she had shrieked.

"Get there as quick as you can," McGinnis told the driver, and then sat there and watched Helen until the carriage rolled up and paused before the gate of a private insane asylum.

Into this she was carried in her unconscious condition, the carriage departing as soon as she was removed from it.

To the sour-visaged dame who was encountered in the hall McGinnis handed a note.

"Brown, eh?" as she read it. "Well, the poor dear's room is ready. Right this way with her."

When she had been deposited on a bed McGinnis took his departure.

At the door he paused for a last glance at the pale face of Helen.

"Blast it!" he muttered. "It's too bad. Such a plucky critter ought to a been married to a good feller like me, who could make somethin' outen her."

An hour later Helen recovered her senses with a wild start.

Opening her eyes she saw an evil-faced hag above her, who laughed, held up a big bloody pin, and remarked:

"Pins is better'n water to bring a pusson outen a fainting fit."

Helen tried to move.

She found on doing so that her feet and hands were secured by stout cords to the four corners of the bedstead.

"Now, my gal," said her tormentor, "how is it agoin' to be? Are you goin' for to be good an' docile, or are agoin' to give me a heap of trouble? There," jabbing the pin into Helen, "how do you like that? That's what I allers does when my patients is bad."

Poor Helen!

A terrible fate opened before her.

CHAPTER XII.

SHADOW.

A keen pair of eyes scanned the faces of a party of men, all of them criminals of the worst class.

Those eyes belonged to Shadow.

On one man in the group his eyes rested long and earnestly, although covertly.

"He's just about the build," Shadow mentally said. "And he tallies with the description."

With what description?

We shall see in due course of time.

"Shall I dog him?" thought Shadow, and then his eyes sought the floor and remained fastened there in a reflective way for some minutes.

The result of his reflections was apparent when, the man having left the saloon, Shadow followed him.

"I have been disappointed a dozen times," Shadow told himself, and then sighed. "If I am disappointed again it can make but little difference, for in the end I shall take a fitting revenge for that great wrong."

And Woglom, river-pirate, murderer, burglar, anything so long as it paid him well enough, was from that minute under the surveillance of as keen a pair of eyes as were ever set in human head.

The villain was one of the gang connected with the old sugar-house, and thither Shadow had tracked him.

The mysterious detective determined to secretly gain access to the place, though that would have been a task to appall the heart of the stoutest detective on the force.

But he accomplished it.

Having gained access to one of the shops in another part of the building, he at once turned his attention to the vaults.

Once these had connected from one end of the building to the other.

Some of the arched communicating doorways had been closed up by wooden barriers.

These Shadow found means to get the better of, and passing through, would replace the boards he loosened, so that they bore no signs of having been tampered with.

At last he gained access to the vault beneath the portion of the building used as a "fence."

It was not a hard job now for him to get up-stairs.

He had only to wait his chance, and then quietly slide up the stairs communicating with the store-room above.

Once this was performed without being observed, he found no difficulty in concealing himself in the piles of old junk and goods of all descriptions with which the place was filled.

There were times when the place was left without a single occupant.

These occasions were few, but Shadow did not fail to take advantage of them, and by moving various articles a little to this side or that, he constructed a little avenue or passage under the miscellaneous truck and plunder.

On his hands and knees he used this passage, and he was in it when he heard the writer of these lines speaking to the guard, and saying that he was sent by Dick Stanton.

Hastily tearing a leaf from a blank-book, he had written the note, as well as he was able in the darkness, and had thrust up the hand containing it through one of the interstices in the big pile.

Anxiously he laid there, awaiting the result of that almost foolish venturing of my head into the lion's jaws.

A sigh of relief escaped his lips as he heard the thud caused by Growler's fall, followed by the deep-chested oaths of Cap, who, in his rage, turned his revolver on the guard, and was within an ace of pulling the trigger.

Cap took it for granted that the spy was a detective, and supposed that the game was up; that the place would surely be in the hands of the police in an hour or two.

"Lock that door, and keep it locked!" he savagely ordered Growler, and then started on a run for the other side of the building, hoping to catch Stanton.

Meantime, however, the latter had taken his departure, to be nabbed a few minutes later.

Hastily Cap got his portable valuables together, and prepared for flight at a moment's notice from the scouts sent out in all directions.

No alarm came in.

Hours passed, daylight broke, and still they had not been molested.

A message was privately sent to Stanton, asking him to ferret out the true meaning of the strange visit, as well as who the visitor was.

Cap moved his money and valuables to a place of safety, and then sat down, assuming an air of injured innocence to fool the police with in case they came.

Meanwhile Shadow was busy.

Off in one corner was a sort of room made by piling up boxes and rubbish. This Cap used as an office, and here he took those with whom he wished to confer privately.

Having learned this, Shadow had determined to extend the passage right up to the office, so that he could overhear what passed within.

Sometimes a natural crevice was made large enough for him to crawl through by a little exertion of strength, and the thing could be done without producing any noise whatever.

Like a mole beneath the surface he worked his way on toward the goal, knowing full well that I would not put my knowledge into use, now that I knew he was on the ground with some object in view.

Singular, was it not, that we should have so much confidence in each other?

Still we had.

Little by little Cap's confidence began to return, and he was quite himself again when a note came from Dick Stanton.

At least it was signed with Stanton's name.

"Cap, everything's O. K. I gave a true blue a message for you a couple of nights ago, about the same matter of which I spoke to you.

"He didn't try to deliver it until the following night, the same when I was there. After getting inside he got scared and forced his way out by knocking down Growler. Don't worry at all over the affair, for I know what I am talking about. He's a good fellow, no coward, and once he is given a show will do some good work."

Dick Stanton."

The explanation was satisfactory to Cap, although he thought it a little singular that the note should be shoved under the door, instead of delivered personally.

The scouts were called in.

Work was resumed; in other words, Cap's gang again began pillaging on the river and around the harbor.

And Cap had confidential talks with his men in the office.

As silently as the mole, which we have just likened Shadow to, he made his way toward the office, until, at last, he drew so near as to be able to distinguish any ordinary toned conversation.

Still closer he wished to go.

"I must get near enough to overhear a whisper," he told himself. "Out of his own mouth must the monster I am after convict himself."

And closer he got.

And then his steady successes were offset by a disaster that caused even his face to blanch.

The stuff he moved settled and closed up the passage behind him, hemmed him into a little space of two feet by six and high enough for him to kneel in, and here he must stay until released, for the stuff just there was too heavy for him to even budge.

He must reveal himself or starve to death!

CHAPTER XIII.

IN A BAD BOX.

Shadow was in a fix.

And it was a fix as bad as it was strange.

The pile of old junk through which the passage ran had settled down, closing it up.

Retreat was now an impossibility. He must either find a way out of the narrow prison he now found himself in by forging ahead, or else must either reveal himself or starve to death like a rat in a trap.

He was in a bad box and no mistake.

For the present he was compelled to lie perfectly quiet where he was, for the noise of the pile in settling had drawn to the spot several of the den's inmates.

Cap was seized with a fit of ill-humor over the occurrence, which he accepted as evidence that the miscellaneous stuff had been carelessly stowed.

"Come—come, Cap?" Shadow heard one of the men rather impatiently say. "You've said enough now, so haul in your horns, for I, for one, won't stand any more."

They were all in one boat, to adopt a much-used simile. And a certain number of them belonged to a co-operative sort of an association, and consequently were on an even footing.

Over these men Cap had no authority, save that which he had acquired from the fact of his being a very important man in the association.

So now, when spoken to in this plain manner, Cap swallowed his wrath, and discontinued his cursing the men with him.

He said that he was afraid that the noise would attract attention that might prove unwelcome.

But that was not the only reason for his anger at the settling down of the big pile.

Another and stronger reason was that he had not a few articles of considerable value stowed away in crannies at the base of the big pile of junk.

These things were breakable, and for all he knew then, had been completely destroyed.

Hiding his mingled anxiety and wrath, he now directed his efforts toward drawing the men away from the spot, and succeeded soon in doing so.

The moment Shadow heard them take their departure he commenced moving about, examining into the facts of his singular imprisonment.

He found himself in a place high enough to permit his crawling about on his hands and knees, and about two feet in width and ten in length.

Had it not been that he received a certain quantity of air through the interstices of the pile, he must have suffocated.

As it was, it took only a very few minutes after the settling down occurred before the air contained in the narrow place became foul, and really unfit to breathe.

But it contained enough oxygen to support life, and once satisfied of this, Shadow calmly pursued the task he was at.

Before long, however, Cap returned to inquire into the condition of his hidden articles of value, and Shadow was compelled to again become as quiet as a mouse.

He was more than satisfied with the result, since Cap's examination involved the moving of a number of articles, and the disposition of others in a manner which promised to make it much easier for the mysterious detective to extricate himself from his predicament.

Cap grunted.

And it was a grunt that indicated relief and satisfaction.

Although endangered, the articles concerning which he was solicitous had not been injured.

Once more he took his departure, and again Shadow made good use of his time.

The change which Cap had made permitted the better ingress of air into Shadow's prison-pen, and he could now breathe more easily.

Not a few times was he compelled to pause by the coming of some of the gang, and it required hours of careful labor before he had assured himself of having found a safe means of exit from his narrow cell.

But he did not take immediate advantage of this means of escape.

It would not have been in accordance with his plans.

Once having emerged he would have been compelled to walk some distance in open sight, by a much used path, to reach the stairs descending to the vaults beneath.

It was all he could hope for, could he once traverse the distance without being observed.

He was hungry and thirsty, to be sure, and stood sadly in need of rest.

But to have reached the vaults and gone through them to procure food, then return and make the passage again to his hiding-place, and then hope to reach the stairs by a third passage of the open space, would have been to hug a foolish hope to his breast.

No, he could not hope to more than once successfully make the passage of the open space without being observed.

So it was practically a question to go hungry and thirsty, or give up all idea of carrying his quest to completion.

The latter he would not do, until absolutely driven to it.

He decided on going hungry.

Only a light packing-case now stood between him and liberty—that is, liberty as far as emerging from his prison was concerned.

Having moved the box in and out to be sure that it did not bind anywhere, and that he would not be delayed when the time had come, in his judgment, to beat a retreat, he then turned his attention toward extending the passage in the direction of the office, in pursuance of his original intention.

It was already so close to the office that he could overhear what was said, although not as clearly at all times as he wished.

Conquering his rebellious stomach, which clamored for food, Shadow stuck to the task he had set for himself.

His pluck was properly rewarded, for he at last gained a position in which the lowest-toned and most confidential conversation, if above a low whisper, could be overheard.

And in the office there was a gathering not long after he had gained this point of vantage.

Than that company of men in the so-called office, it would have been a next to impossible task to have found an equal number of deep-dyed scoundrels or red-handed villains.

There was a full moon, and the night was a clear one, and the river-pirates do not choose such nights in which to ply their vocation.

As men in honest callings in life will boast sometimes of what they have done or can do, so villains when in secret quarters, and believing themselves beyond prying ears, will boast of their rascally feats.

An exceptional good humor and communicativeness seemed to have descended on this occasion on the party in the office, for they revealed many secret chapters of their lives to each other in illustrating their various exploits.

One fellow told, with a hearty laugh, how, when engaged in making away with a coil of rope, he had shot down the captain of the sloop, the mate and the cook.

"It was just—pop—pop—pop—in reg'lar one, two, three style, and down they went. They all 'kicked,' every one of 'em. Mebbe there wasn't a howl? Well, I just guess! But the police never yet have found out who was responsible for them there 'stiffs.'"

Another had even a more horrible story to tell of robbery and bloodshed.

Another owned up to have "laid out" six men since the day he first "gripped the graft."

And every word was drank eagerly in by a pair of acute and hungering ears.

Shadow was highly excited, and his face was filled with an expectant light.

He fully believed that one among the men gathered there was the will-o'-the-wisp which he had so long been following, and he was waiting until this one should utter a word that would commit him, one word by which he would fasten on himself a crime by which Shadow had sworn solemnly to avenge in as terrible a manner as was within his power.

CHAPTER XIV.

DICK STANTON.

"You treacherous hound!" I angrily and indignantly exclaimed, as I gave Stanton a hearty shaking when I learned to a certainty that he had given a signal to call a crowd of desperadoes to his assistance.

As the roughs began to pile out of the darkened saloon, the false detective gave vent to a nervous laugh. He was afraid he would not be rescued, and yet did not see how it could be possible for me to retain him as a prisoner in the face of these friends of his.

I was, however, determined to do so.

I was considerably riled up just about then, and could have laid down my life rather than have let him escape.

I set my teeth.

Through them I hissed:

"Stanton, you cannot escape me! You know me well in private life, and know that I am a determined man—a man of my word. Now, then, I place the muzzle of my revolver to your head, and by all that is holy I swear to shoot you rather than let you escape."

Stanton gasped.

A hollow moan followed, and he became paler than a corpse.

He knew me for a man of my word, and when I had thus spoken he was positive that any attempt at rescue would cause me to keep my word good.

Suddenly he brightened.

His tone was hopeful.

"How can I help it now?" he said; "I am helpless now, either one way or the other."

There was a ring of something like triumph in his tone.

"Not so," I said sternly. "Order them back. You can do that, and must do it! You know the alternative."

Stanton quivered and shook in his boots.

He was in a bad fix.

Instead of having the upper-hand of me, as he expected, he was precisely under my thumb.

He saw all the ins and outs of his predicament at a glance.

He looked up at me in an uneasy, scared manner, and then at the help he had summoned by that secret cry of distress.

He knew not what to do.

But decide he must, and that without further delay.

By this time the villainous gang he had summoned were beginning to close in on me.

I pressed the muzzle more firmly against his temple, and I heard his teeth chatter.

"Go back, boys!"

So he implored them.

"And furthermore, do not reveal your identity," I sternly ordered him.

The gang halted in surprise.

They were stumped by his pleading with them not to make any attempt at rescuing him.

"What in thunder did you give the secret cry for, then?" demanded a gruff and angry voice. "Who are you, anyhow? Give your number."

"Do it at your peril!" I hissed in Stanton's ear.

He understood the significance of the slightly harder pressure of the deadly weapon against his temple.

I grimly maintained silence, save when I whispered a few threatening words in the ear of the false detective.

It was a moment of quiet, yet intense excitement.

Bound by a terrible oath to answer that signal of distress, the villains had rushed out to the rescue. Yet here was the man who gave it now begging them not to interfere.

They were puzzled, and knew not what to do.

"Give your number," was again called out by the same gruff voice as before.

"At your peril!"

So I again breathed into the false detective's ear, and he made no reply.

"Now, then, let's get away from this spot," I said, in a low tone; and still holding firmly to my prisoner, I began slowly retreating, taking good care always to have an eye on the gang, who were undecided what to do.

I quickly put a different aspect on the state of affairs when I got a chance, and I gave the night-call for a policeman.

The gang continued to follow.

Had Stanton given his number, they were ready to rush in and rescue him.

But for a good reason he did not give his number, and when two blue-coats, having heard my summons, swiftly approached the spot, the villainous crew's indecision vanished as well as themselves.

Again warning Stanton not to reveal his identity, I met and satisfied the guardians of the peace as to who I was.

They offered to accompany me to the station with my prisoner.

I declined their proffered services.

Having been assured that I considered all danger past, they saluted and returned to their respective beats, and I resumed my course with my prisoner.

Stanton was very chopfallen.

I had nipped his scheme of rescue in the bud, and he knew that he was now in for it. His action, he felt sure, would kill all sympathy I might have previously had for him.

Since his plan had failed, he knew it would have been better for him had he never attempted to put it into execution.

I kept silence.

And Stanton never said a word.

I reached the place at last where I wanted to keep him in confinement.

It was at the house of a deputy sheriff, who had built several strong cells in his cellar, for occasions similar to the present. And it not infrequently happens that when a detective has captured a particular prisoner it is a decided benefit to be able to keep the capture a profound secret for a while.

The place afforded the means of keeping the capture a secret.

Fortunately the deputy was at home, and I soon had Stanton locked up in one of the cells.

"Well," said I, as I entered the cell with the false detective, "here you are, in a safe place, where the dogs won't bite you."

"What do you intend doing with me?" the rascal tremblingly asked me.

"Whatever I think you may deserve having done with you," was the grim reply.

"Howard, I—I—didn't think any one was in that saloon, or may be I wouldn't a-given that signal," he faltered.

"You know you lie!"

He winced.

He saw he could not fool or bamboozle me in the slightest degree.

"Now, then," I said, presently, "are you going to make a clean breast of it?"

"Yes," he loathfully answered.

The Black Hole, so called, crossed my mind.

"Who did you have in the Black Hole?"

"Black Hole! What Black Hole?"

"You can't come that. I know pretty much all about the old sugar-house and Cap, and the kind of a business you carry on there."

"How did you find out?"

"Never mind that. The Black Hole is in the cellar under the store-house?"

"Yes," he admitted.

"You had a prisoner in it?"

"Yes."

"Who was he?"

"I don't know."

"Describe him."

"A young fellow."

"A young fellow, inside of twenty, and of a slim build."

The description tallied.

"When did you last see him?"

"Just about dark."

"He was safe then?"

"He was."

"Could he have escaped from the Black Hole, think you?"

Stanton gave a great start.

"It is possible," he said. "They thought it a mighty strong place, but I didn't. A fellow with any grit could have dug his way out."

That settled it to my satisfaction.

Shadow had been the prisoner in the Black Hole. That he had got out somehow I had received ample proof by the hand thrust up through the pile of junk holding that note for me.

I pumped Stanton for all he was worth. He kept back many things, I knew; but I pretended to believe that he had made a clean breast of it.

I had seen him glance about his cell, and knew that he hoped to be able to make his escape.

"Ain't you a-goin' to take these irons off?" he inquired, holding up his wrists, just as I was about to take my departure.

"Not at all."

"Why?"

"I don't intend that you shall have your hands free to dig your way out," with which I left him, decidedly crestfallen in demeanor.

A few nights later I spent the entire period of darkness in the neighborhood of the old sugar-house. Leaving just before dawn, I was on my way home, when, as I drew near a corner, I was suddenly confronted by a slenderly-built mulatto.

Gliding up before me, he extended his hand, and uttered one word:

"Shadow!"

This article uses material from the Wikipedia article  Metasyntactic variable, which is released under the  Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.