Beadle's Dime Library No. 42 — page 4: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

ef. Beau e Liprary. The whole appearance of the man was cool, careless, reck less—a fair type of the modern Californian, the child of. the Sierras, of the rocky gulch and stone-ribbed canyon. ‘* Good-morning, sir,” said the Californian, gracefully, re- moving the cigar from between his teeth and pouring forth s volume of smoke. Van Rensselaer started to his feet in utter amazement; his face was white—the blood had forsaken the cheeks, and _ his eyes glared as if he gazed upon a specter rather than on a human like to himself. The Californian never noticed the agitation of the other, but placed his cigar again between his teeth ard was speedily enveloping himself in a cloud of smoke. “That face—those eyes!” muttered Yan Rensselaer, in ut- Can the dead have With a powerful ‘‘T beg your par- ‘‘ Your ter bewilderment; ‘‘ the very voice too. returned to life? It is not possible.” effort he roused himself from his stupor. don, sir,” he said, aloud, addressing his visitor. name is Bright?” ‘‘ James Bright, late of Calaveras county, California,” re- plied the stranger, bowing politely. Again the familiar voice struck on the astonished ear of Van Rensselaer. “Tt can not be,” he muttered, with a nervous motion, pushing back the flaxen curls that clustered on his brow. “Tt is but a strong resemblance. You wish to see me, sir?” he said, again addressing the Californian. ‘¢ Yes, I’ve come some little distance expressly to see you,” the stranger replied. ‘* Come some little distance?” ‘¢ A trifle—about three thousand miles,” Mr, Bright said, carelessly. ‘‘ You have some business with me, then?” ‘‘ You bet!’ replied the stranger, tersely. ‘* Explain your business, sir.” ‘‘Hadn’t you better ask a fellow to take a chair in your ranch, David?” Van Rensselaer started as though he had received an elec- tric shock. If the stranger had stricken him in the face he could not have astonished him more than by the simple utter ance of his name. : ‘Tt is he,” he muttered, beneath his breath; ‘‘ by some strange chance of fortune he escaped from the cage of fire. We lives to call me to a reckoning.” ‘ Are you talking to yourself or to me?” asked the Cali fornian, between two great puffs of smoke. ‘‘ You are no stranger to me!” cried Van Rensselaer, sud- denly. ‘Of course not; haven’t I introduced myself? card in your paw now.” ‘Oh! I know you!” cried Van Rensseiaer, fiercely, an evil light shining in his eyes, ‘‘ Of course you do; James Bright, late of Calaveras county California, ex-lawyer, ex-actor, and present detective officer.” ‘*But I can call you by another name!’ Van Rensselaer exclaimed. ‘‘That is very likely.” ‘*'You are Royal Keene!” ‘*Oh, am [?” and the Californian looked at the New Yorker with an expression of wonder upon his face. ‘‘ Deception is useless; I recognize you although you have changed greatly. You are the man I take you for.” ‘‘ Now, don’t ask me any questions because I hate to tell lies,” said the stranger, coolly; ‘‘ but, since you are really so Got my auxious to know who and what I am, Ill corral a chair and talk to you.” And even as he spoke the Californian coolly wheeled an easy-chair to the side of the cen.er-table and sat down in it, still, however, keeping his hat upon his head and his cigar alight His mission was not one of peace, and he openly showed the signs of hostility. Van Rensselaer, leaning upon the back of one of the large chairs, his face deadly pale, save where a hectic fever- spot burned in either cheek, awaited the specch of explana- tion. ‘‘As you have guessed—for between you and I, I think that you are about the most sagacious gentleman that I have ever seen—you and I are old acquaintances,” began the stranger, in his cool, easy way; ‘‘I won’t say friends, be- cause I don’t really think that there was ever much friend- ship between us. Three years ago I was a poor miscrable devil. I’ll tell you how I became so; howa Harvard student became a drunken lawyer. You and I were chums toge- ther at college; those days over, in the city we were appar- ently fast friends. I was your sister’s lover, an accepted one too. Then my father died. Like many another man who has held up his head high in this great city, he died His splendid income he had spent as fast as he had received it. I woke one morning and found my- self master of just one thousand dollars and no more. Fool- ishly I confided the truth to you—told you how small was the sum that I possessed. Friendlike you suggested a way to increase the sum. You plied me with liquor, then took me toa gaming-room on Twenty-third street. I hadn’t any ffiea then that you, the wealthy, aristocratic David Van Rens: selaer, was a silent partner in that gilded hell. When morn my came J left that house a ruined man—a drunken beggar. Ten hours after you coolly informed me that, as I was penni- less, I was no match for your sister, and that henceforth we must be as strangers to each other. Fromthat moment! went down the ladder of degradation rapidly—champagne gave place to whisky, the fashionable club-room to the corner grocery. I managed to keep myself from starvation by pleading for the poor devils—even more wretched than my-’ self—who were brought up before the Tombs Police Court. Then Fortune threw a chance for vengeance in my way; I got hold of certain papers concerning your estate, You came to my house for those papers. Again you played the rogue. You dosed me with drugged brandy, then stole the papers; in stealing them you took a human life—that of my poor companion, O’Kale; he detected you in your crime and you struck him down like a dog. Through a crack in the wall, drugged as I was, I witnessed the tragedy, saw yout knife crimsoned with his blood. Then to cover up your crime you set fire to the empty store below; you intended that both I and your senseless victim should perish in the flames. It was a scheme worthy of your heart of irou, but Heaven willed that. I should escape. That happened just three years ago, and for these three years, day by day, al- most hour by hour, have I thought of vengeance. The time hes come at last. I have returned to New York to place the hangman’s noose around your neck.” almost a beggar. CHAPTER III. THE ACTRESS AT HOME, In the front room of a modest little two-story brick house on Twenty-second street, near Sixth avenue, a tall young girl was pacing up and down, an open book in her hand. She was very pretty with her large, clear, gray-blue eyes, her golden-brown hair and her pure red and white com: plexion. There was a sad look, though, to the fair young face, and once in a while a vacant expression in the lustrous eyes, which betrayed that there was something wanting to com- plete the girl’s happiness. She was dressed in a plain calico, with a white collar and dainty cuffs. Comiilchoo Ss E(o)