Dyke Darrel the Railroad Detective Part 45

"Do you remember that night on the dock beside the river, Elliston?"

questioned Bernard, bending suddenly over the prisoner.

But no answer came from the bloodless lips of the cornered villain.

"It was I who tore your mask of red hair from your head that night. I had mistrusted you for a villain, and I meant to unmask you to save Nell Darrel, whom I loved, from your wiles. You struck me with a knife and pushed me into the river. I, however, was not harmed. The point of your knife glanced on a small book that I carried in an inner pocket.

I escaped from the river, and resolved to follow you to your doom. I overheard your plans of abducting Nell Darrel, when you fired at my masked face that night as I peered into Mother Scarlet's room. I then knew you to be a villain of the deepest dye. Since, I learned that you were the man in disguise on the emigrant train in Iowa, and this wart will, with other evidence, condemn you before an honest jury of your peers."

A groan alone answered the denouement made by Harry Bernard.

d.y.k.e Darrel removed the glove from his prisoner's right hand, and exposed a scarcely-healed scar near the joint of the little finger.

The chain of evidence was complete. The red hair in the clutches of the murdered Nicholson had evidently been torn from the false beard of the disguised a.s.sa.s.sin.

The New Yorker was removed from the house and taken at once to prison.

From thence, on the following morning, d.y.k.e Darrel set out on his return to the Garden City with Elliston in charge.

Harry Bernard remained over at the farm-house in New York State to see Nell, who had been left in the care of Paul Ender. Nell had almost entirely recovered from the shock of her recent treatment, and was overjoyed at the outcome of her friends' visit to New York.

"Elliston will be convicted and hanged," was Bernard's verdict.

On the very day of Harry's arrival at the farm-house, he, with the old farmer, was summoned to visit one who had met with a fatal accident and was about to die.

It proved to be Martin Skidway, who lay on a barn floor with his head in his mother's lap, gasping his life away, an ugly wound in his side.

He had accidentally shot himself and was rapidly sinking. A fugitive in hiding for weeks, his life had been an intolerable one. Now that he was dying, he made a full confession, admitting his own hand in the awful railroad crime, and implicating two others, Elliston and Nick Brower. Sam Swart had been one of them, but he was known to be dead.

"Without HIS urging I would never have stained my hands; in fact, it was Elliston who struck the blow that killed the express messenger."

Without this confession, there was evidence enough to convict the New Yorker; with it, both Brower and the princ.i.p.al were found guilty of murder in the first degree and sentenced to the gallows. Nick Brower was the only one of the four who expiated his crime on the gallows.

Harper Elliston died in prison by his own hand.

He left a note admitting the express crime, and also confessing to the murder of Captain Osborne and the ruin of his daughter Sibyl. His was a fitting end to a career of unparalleled crime.

We now draw a veil over the scene.

Harry Bernard and Nell Darrel were, soon after the arrest and death of Elliston, happily married.

d.y.k.e Darrel considers the events leading up to the capture and punishment of those engaged in the crime of the midnight express as among the most thrilling and wonderful of his detective experience. To Harry Bernard and Paul Ender he gives a large share of the credit, and with them shared the reward. Bernard has of late worked in conjunction with d.y.k.e Darrel on other cases, and is fast winning a reputation second only to that of the great railroad detective himself.

THE END.

WON BY CRIME

CHAPTER I

A young girl, about eighteen, with a slender, elegant form, beautiful straight features, and eyes of softest darkness, sitting before a large table covered with maps and drawings, which she was trying vainly to study.

"It is no use!" she cried, at last, pus.h.i.+ng back the ma.s.s of thick black hair falling over her white brow; "I shall never be able to get India by heart, unless I can see the places. I wish papa would let us go reconnoitering amongst the ruined temples and other mysterious buildings; it is so annoying staying here day after day, never seeing anything outside the palace."

"My dear Lianor," said her companion, a young man scarcely older than herself, and wonderfully like her, "what new idea, have you got now?"

"An idea of seeing more of the curious places I have read so much about. Fancy living a lifetime in a country and never going beyond one town! If I do not get some excitement, I shall die of ennui, so I warn you."

"I quite agree with you, and if uncle would only let us, it would be delightful, seeking out the temples so long deserted. But you know he would not," shrugging his shoulders.

"I'm not so sure of that. Papa never refuses me anything, and when he sees it is necessary to my happiness I should go, he will consent.

Anyhow, I will try," jumping eagerly to her feet. "Come, Leone."

Her cousin rose, and took the white, outstretched hand; then like two children they crossed the beautiful marble hall, until, arriving before a door draped with rich curtains, Lianor paused and softly knocked.

"Come in!" rather impatiently.

With a smile Lianor opened the door, and entered, followed by Pantaleone.

In the room, handsomely fitted up as a study, sat a fine-looking, middle-aged man, busily wilting; his dark face wore an expression of severity as he glanced toward the intruders.

It quickly faded, however, on seeing the pretty figure standing there; instead, a gentle smile wreathed his lips.

"Well, Lianor, dearest, what is it?"

"Papa," and the girl stole noiselessly behind his chair, winding her arms around his neck. "I am so miserable, I have nothing to amuse me, and unless you do something to make me happier, I shall go melancholy mad!"

"My dearest child, what is the matter? Are you ill?" anxiously turning to peer into the lovely face.

"No, papa; but I am so tired of this life."

"That is not like my little girl. And I have tried hard to make you happy. Nothing in reason have I refused you--jewels, such as a queen might envy; priceless stuffs to deck your pretty form, and other things which no girl of your age ever possessed," reproachfully.

Lianor bent down, and kissed his brow, lovingly--repentingly.

"You have been a great deal too good to me. But there is something more I wish to ask; it will make me happy if you will grant my request."

"We shall see. Tell me first what it is."

Lianor briefly related her wish to visit the old temple which lay beyond Goa, to search with Panteleone the curious old ruins she had so often read of in her studies.

Don Gracia looked grave; evidently this project did not find much favor in his eyes.

A Portuguese by birth, but sent to Goa as Viceroy, Don Garcia de Sa had lived there long enough to know the treacherous natures of the Brahmins who dwelt near, and feared to let his child run the risk of being found and captured.

But as Lianor had truly remarked, he loved his daughter so pa.s.sionately that he very rarely refused her anything, even though he doubted the wisdom of complying with her wishes.