Out of a Labyrinth

CHAPTER XXXII.

AMY HOLMES CONFESSES

"You say that you have seen Mamie Rutger at the theater," began the unwilling narrator, rather ungraciously, "and so I should think you wouldn't need to be told why she ran away from home. She wanted to go on the stage, and so did Nellie Ewing. Every country girl in christendom wants to be an actress, and if she has a pretty face and a decent voice she feels sure that she can succeed. The girls had both been told that they were pretty, and they could both sing, so they ran away to come out at the Little Adelphi.

"Mamie took to the business like a duck to water. Nellie got sick and blue and whimsical, and has not appeared at the theater for several weeks. They live at 349 B – place."

I made a careful note of the address, and then said:

"Well, proceed."

"Proceed! what more do you want to know? I have told you why they ran away and where to find them."

This was too much. My wrath must have manifested itself in face and voice, for she winced under my gaze and made no further attempt to baffle or evade me.

"I want to know who devised the villainous plot to allure two innocent country girls away from home and friends! Who set you on as decoy and temptress, and what reward did you receive? There are men or scoundrels connected with this affair; who are they; and what means have they used to bring about such a misfortune to the girls and their friends? Tell the whole truth, and remember what I have said. If you evade, omit, equivocate, I shall know it!"

"Will you give me time?" she faltered.

"Not ten minutes. Do you want time to telegraph to Arch Brookhouse? It will be useless; he is in the hands of the detectives, and no message can reach him."

"What has Arch done?" she cried, excitedly. "He is not the one to be blamed."

"He has done enough to put him out of the way of mischief. You have seen the last of Arch Brookhouse."

"But Fred is the man who set this thing going!"

"Very likely. And Arch and Louis Brookhouse were the brothers to help him. What about Johnny La Porte and Ed. Dwight? You see I know too much. There are two officers down-stairs. If you have not finished your story, and told it to my satisfaction, before half-past four, I will call them up and hand you over to them. It is now ten minutes to four."

She favored me with a glance full of impotent hatred, sat quite silent for a long moment, during which I sat before her with a careless glance fixed on my watch.

Then she began:

"I worked at the Little Adelphi over a year ago. There was a hot rivalry between us, the Gayety, and the 'Frolique.' Fred Brookhouse was managing alone then; Storms– only came into partnership in the Spring.

"During the winter the Gayety brought out some new attractions, – I mean new to the profession; no old names that had been billed and billed, but young girls with fresh faces and pretty voices. They were new in the business, and the 'old stagers,' especially the faded and cracked-voiced ones, said that they would fail, they would hurt the business. But the managers knew better. They knew that pretty, youthful faces were the things most thought of in the varieties. And the 'freshness' of the new performers was only another attraction to green-room visitors. Nobody knew where these new girls came from, and nobody could find out; but they drew, and the Little Adelphi lost customers, who went over to the 'Gayety.'

"Fred Brookhouse was angry, and he began to study how he should outdo the 'Gayety,' and 'put out' the new attractions.

"At the carnival season, Arch and Louis Brookhouse came down; and we got to be very good friends. Do you mean to use anything that I say to make me trouble?" she broke off, abruptly.

"Not if you tell the entire truth and spare nobody."

"Then I will tell it just as it happened. Arch and Fred and I were together one day after rehearsal. I was a favorite at the theater, and Fred consulted me sometimes. Fred wanted some fresh attractions, and wondered how they got the new girls at the 'Gayety.' And I told him that I thought they might have been 'recruited.' He did not seem to understand, and I explained that there were managers who paid a commission to persons who would get them young, pretty, bright girls, who could sing a little, for the first part, and for green-room talent.

"I told him that I knew of an old variety actress who went into the country for a few weeks in the Summer, and picked up girls for the variety business. They were sometimes poor girls who 'worked out,' and were glad of a chance to earn an easier living, and sometimes daughters of well-to-do people; girls who were romantic or ambitious, stage-struck, and easily flattered.

"Fred asked me how I knew all this, and I told him that I was roped into the business in just that way."

"Was that true?"

"Yes; it was true," a dark shade crossing her face. "But never mind me. Fred asked me if I knew where to go to find three or four pretty girls. He said he did not want 'biddies;' they must be young and pretty; must be fair singers, and have nice manners. He could get gawks in plenty. He wanted lively young girls who would be interesting and attractive. Some new idea seemed to strike Arch Brookhouse. He took Fred aside, and by-and-by they called Louis, and the three talked a long time.

"The next day, Arch and Louis came to me. They knew where to find just the girls that would suit Fred, but it would be some trouble to get them. Then they told me all about the Groveland girls; Nellie and her sister, Mamie, Grace Ballou and one or two others. Arch knew Nellie and Grace. Louis seemed particularly interested in Mamie.

"Fred is a reckless fellow, and he would spend any amount to outdo the 'Gayety,' and he seemed infatuated with the new scheme for getting talent. Besides, he knew that he could pay them what he liked; they would not be clamoring for high salaries. He agreed to pay my expenses North if I would get the girls for him.

"Arch and Louis went home, and we corresponded about the business. Finally, Arch wrote that three of the girls would attend school at Amora, the Spring term, and it was settled that I should attend also.

"I rather liked the prospect. Fred fitted me out in good style, and I went.

"Of course I soon found how to manage the girls. Mamie Rutger was ripe for anything new, and she did not like her step-mother. She was easy to handle.

"Grace was vain and easily influenced. She thought she could run away and create a sensation at home, and come back after a while to astonish the natives with her success as an actress.

"Nellie Ewing was more difficult to manage, but I found out that she was desperately in love with Johnny La Porte. Johnny had begun by being in love with Nellie, but her silly devotion had tired him, and besides, he is fickle by nature.

"I told Arch that if we got Nellie, it would have to be through La Porte. Arch knew how to manage La Porte, who was vain, and prided himself upon being a 'masher.' He thought to be mixed up in a sensational love affair, would add to his fame as a dangerous fellow. He sang a good tenor, and often sang duets with Nellie.

"Louis Brookhouse had a chum named Ed. Dwight; Ed. had been, or claimed to have been, a song and dance man. I don't think he was ever anything more than an amateur, but he was perpetually dancing jigs, and singing comic songs, and went crazy over a minstrel show.

"Louis used to take Grace out for an occasional drive, and one day he introduced Ed. to Mamie.

"After a time, Arch and Louis thought they could better their original plan. Arch is a shrewd fellow, with a strong will, and he could just wind Johnny La Porte around his finger. Johnny took him for a model, for Arch was a stylish fellow, who knew all the ropes, and had seen a deal of the world; and Johnny, while he had been a sort of prince among the Grovelanders, had never had a taste of town life.

"Arch managed Johnny, and he managed Nellie Ewing."

She paused, and something in her face made me say, sternly:

"How did Johnny La Porte manage Nellie Ewing?" and then I glanced ominously at my watch, which I still held in my hand.

She moved uneasily, and averted her eyes.

"Nellie was conscientious," she resumed, reluctantly. "She had all sorts of scruples. But Johnny told her that he was to go South and study law with his mother's cousin, who lived in New Orleans. He said that he dared not marry until he had finished his studies, but if she would marry him privately, and keep the marriage a secret, she could go South and they would not be separated.

"She agreed to this, and the ceremony was performed. After it was over, he told her that he had just discovered that he would be subject to arrest under some new marriage law, and that they would be separated if it became known.

"And then he persuaded her to come here before him and work at the Little Adelphi; telling her that if her father found her there they would not suspect him, and as soon as his studies were over he would claim her openly."

Again she hesitated.

"And was this precious programme carried out?" I demanded.

"Yes. It was a long time before Nellie consented, but a little cool treatment from Johnny brought her to terms. She got away very nicely. I presume you know something about that."

"Never mind what I know. How did she get rid of her horse after leaving Mrs. Ballou's house?"

"Not far from Mrs. Ballou's there is a small piece of timber. Johnny was there with his team and he had a fellow with him who took charge of the pony. Johnny drove Nellie ten miles towards Amora, driving at full speed. There Ed. Dwight, with his machine wagon, waited, and Nellie was taken by Ed. into Amora. On the way she put on some black clothes and a big black veil. At Amora, Louis Brookhouse was waiting. They got there just in time to catch the midnight express, and were almost at their journey's end before Nellie was missed."

"Stop. You have said that Nellie Ewing has not been at the theater of late; has been blue, and ill. What has caused all this?"

She colored hotly, and a frightened look crept into her eyes.

"You are not to hold me to blame?"

"Not if you answer me truly."

"One night I had come home from the theater with Nellie, and she began crying because Johnny did not come as he had promised, and did not write often enough. I was tired and cross, and I suppose I had taken too much wine. I forgot myself, and told her that Johnny had hired a man to personate a parson, and that she was not married at all. She broke down entirely after that."

I sprang to my feet, for the moment forgetting that the creature before me was a woman. I wanted to take her by the throat and fling her from the window.

"Go on!" I almost shouted. "Go on; my patience is nearly exhausted. Is Nellie Ewing seriously ill?"

"She is fretting and pining; she thinks she is dying, and she loves Johnny La Porte as much as ever."

"And Mamie Rutger?"

"She was glad to run away. One evening when every body about the farm was busy, she waited at the front gate for Ed. Dwight. People were used to the sight of his covered wagon, and it was the last thing to suspect. But Mamie Rutger went from her father's gate in that wagon, and she and Dwight drove boldly to Sharon, and both took the midnight train as the others did at Amora.

"Ed. only went a short distance with Mamie; he came back the next morning. Mamie was plucky enough to come on alone."

"And then you and Grace Ballou tried to elope?"

"Yes."

"Well, I won't trouble you to tell you that story. I know all about it. Now, listen to me. I have registered you here as my sister, and you are going to stay here for one week a prisoner. You are to speak to no one, write to no one. You will be constantly watched, and if you attempt to disobey me you know the consequences. As soon as Mr. Rutger and 'Squire Ewing arrive I will set you at liberty, and no one shall harm you; but until then you must remain in your own room, and see no one except in my presence."

"But you promised – "

"I shall keep my promise, but choose my own time."

"But the theater – "

"You can write them a note stating that you are going to leave the city for a little recreation. You may send a similar note to Mamie and Nellie."

"You are not treating me fairly."

"I am treating you better than you deserve. Did you deal fairly at Amora and Groveland? If I were not morally sure that such crimes as yours must be punished sooner or later, I should not dare set you free."

CHAPTER XXXIII.

JOHNNY LA PORTE IS BROUGHT TO BOOK

That is how Miss Amy Holmes was brought to judgment. I had managed her by stratagem, and extracted the truth from her under false pretenses. The weapon that I brandished above her head was a reed of straws, but it sufficed. My pretended knowledge of her past history had served my purpose.

What her secret really was, and is, I neither know nor care. She is a woman, and when a woman has stepped down from her pedestal the world is all against her. The law may safely trust such sinners and their punishment to Dame Nature, who never errs, and never forgives, and to Time, who is the sternest of all avengers.

After hearing her story, I sent my second telegram to you, and then my third; and after assuring myself that the girl had told the truth concerning Nellie Ewing, I telegraphed to the office, giving the hints which Wyman acted on.

I should not have liked Wyman's task of going to those two honest farmers and telling them the truth concerning their daughters; but I should not have been averse to the other work.

I can imagine Johnny La Porte, under the impression that he was preparing for a day's lark, oiling his curly locks, scenting his pocket handkerchief, and driving Wyman, in whom he thought he had found a boon companion, to Sharon, actually flying into the arms of the avengers, at the heels of his own roadsters. I should have driven over that ten miles of country road, had I been in Wyman's place, bursting with glee, growing fat on the stupidity of the sleek idiot at my side.

But Wyman is a modest fellow, and given to seeing only the severe side of things, and he says there is no glory in trapping a fool. Possibly he is right.

I should like to have seen Johnny La Porte when he was brought, unexpectedly, before 'Squire Ewing and Farmer Rutger, to be charged with his villainy, and offered one chance for his life. He had heard the Grovelanders talk, and he knew that the despoilers of those two Groveland homes had been dedicated to Judge Lynch.

Small wonder that he was terror-stricken before these two fathers, and that under the lash of Wyman's eloquence he already felt the cord tightening about his throat.

I don't wonder that he whined and grovelled and submitted, abjectly, to their demands. But I do wonder that those two fathers could let him out of their hands alive; and I experienced a thrill of ecstasy when I learned that Wyman kicked him three times, with stout boots!

That must have been an unpleasant journey to New Orleans. The two farmers, stern, silent, heavy of heart, and filled with anxiety. La Porte, who was taken in hand by Wyman, writhing under the torments of his own conscience and his own terror, and compelled to submit to his guardian's frequent tirades of scorn and contempt, treated, for the first time in his life, like the poltroon he was.

I found the two girls at the address given by Amy Holmes; and, more to spare the two farmers the sight of her, than for her sake, I did not compel her to repeat her story in their presence, but related it myself instead.

It's not worth while to attempt a description of the meeting between the two girls and their parents. Mamie was, at first, inclined to rebel; but Nellie Ewing broke down completely, and begged to be taken home. She was pale and emaciated, a sad and pitiful creature. Her father was overcome with grief at sight of the change in her. He could not trust himself to speak to her of Johnny La Porte; and so – what a Jack of all trades a detective is – he called me from the room and delegated to me the unpleasant task.

I did it as well as I could. I told her as gently as possible that Johnny La Porte was in New Orleans, and asked if she wanted to see him. She cried for joy, poor child, and begged me to send for him at once. And then I told her why we had brought him; he was prepared to make what reparation he could. Did she wish him to make her his wife? She interrupted me with a joyful cry.

"Would he do that? Oh, then she could go home and die happy."

In that moment I made a mental vow that this dying girl, if she could be made any happier by it, should have not only the name of the young scoundrel she so foolishly loved, but his care and companionship as well.

I assured her that he was ready to make her his lawful wife, but could not tell her that he did it under compulsion.

After a long talk with 'Squire Ewing, during which I persuaded him to think first of his daughter's needs, and to make such use of Johnny La Porte as would best serve her, I went back to the hotel, where we had left the young scamp in charge of Wyman, and a little later in the day the ceremony was performed which made Johnny La Porte the husband of the girl he had sought to ruin.

Not long after this I invited the young man to a téte-â-téte, and he followed me somewhat ungraciously into a room adjoining that in which his new wife lay.

"Sit down," I said, curtly, motioning him to a chair opposite the one in which I seated myself. "Sit down. I want to give you a little advice concerning your future conduct."

He threw back his head defiantly; evidently he believed that he was now secure from further annoyance, and no longer within reach of law and justice.

"I don't need your advice," he said, pettishly. "I have done all that you, or any one else, can require of me."

"Mistaken youth, your conformity with my wishes is but now begun."

"You can't bully me, now," he retorted. "I have married the girl, and that's enough."

"It is not enough! it is not all that you will do."

"You are a liar."

I took him by the shoulders, and lifting him fairly off his feet shook him as a terrier shakes a rat. Then I popped him down upon the chair he had refused to occupy, and said:

"There, you impudent little dunce, if you want to call me any more names, don't hesitate. Now, hear me; you will do precisely what I bid you, now, and hereafter, or you will exchange that smart plaid suit for one adorned with horizontal stripes, and I'll have that curly pate of yours as bare as a cocoanut."

"The law," – he began.

"The law may permit you to break the marriage vow you have just taken, but I will not."

"You?" incredulously.

"Yes, I," I retorted, firmly. "The law of this mighty country, made by very wise men, and enacted by very great fools, is a wondrous vixen. You have stolen 'Squire Ewing's daughter, and for that the law permits you to go unhung. You have stolen 'Squire Ewing's horse, and for that, the law will put you in the State's prison."

"His horse – I! – " the poor wretch gasped, helplessly.

"Exactly. The horse! and you! You see, the daughter has been found, but the horse has not."

"But – I can prove – "

"You can prove nothing. I know all about the affair. You carried Nellie Ewing away in your own carriage. You handed her pony over to an accomplice. I have, at my finger's ends, testimony enough to condemn you before any jury, and the only thing that can save you from the fate of a common horse-thief, is – your own good behavior."

"What do you want?" he said, abjectly.

"I want to see you hung as high as Haman. But that poor girl in the next room wants something different, and I yield my wishes to hers. She is so foolish as to value your miserable existence, and so I give you this one chance. Go home with your wife, not to your home, but hers, and remain there so long as she needs or wants you. Treat her with tenderness, serve her like a slave, and try thus to atone for some of your past villainy. Quit your old associates, be as decent and dutiful as the evil within will let you. So long as I hear no complaint, so long as your wife is made happy, you are safe. Commit one act of cruelty, unkindness, or neglect, and your fate is sealed. And, remember this, if you attempt to run away, I will bring you back, if I have to bring you dead."