The boy drew a small folded note from his pocket. "I'll explain, sir,"

said he.

Marcus here called in his counsel, Messrs. Overtop and Maltboy, and his good friend the lieutenant of police, who had just arrived in the outer room, in order that they might hear the explanation.

The boy was embarra.s.sed by his audience; but the anxious look of Marcus, and a few kind words from the lieutenant of police, rea.s.sured him. Bog then proceeded to tell what he knew of the strange young man's acquaintance with Miss Patty Minford--which was very easily told, since it did not amount to much--and concluded by opening the letter given to him by the young man for delivery to Miss Minford, and handed it to Marcus.

Marcus glanced at the writing, expecting that it would resemble that of the first anonymous letter addressed to Mr. Minford, which he drew from his pocket for comparison. But the writing was totally different in inclination, thickness of the downward stroke, and all other respects.

He read it aloud, his counsel and the lieutenant of police listening attentively.

"I don't know much about the case yet," said the lieutenant, "but, jumping at a conclusion, I should say that this sneaking chap was jealous of your intimacy with the Minford family; that he wrote the anonymous letters to the old man, in a different hand, and that he either committed the murder, or knows something about it. His motive for annoying Miss Minford I can understand--for this city is full of just such well dressed scoundrels; but the motive of the murder I can't comprehend. But mark me--- this fellow has some knowledge of it; and we must hunt him up. And, first, let us compare the letters."

Marcus handed the two letters to the lieutenant, who, with Overtop and Maltboy, gave them a close examination. One was written on faint blue paper in a buff envelope; the other on white paper in a white envelope.

Every curve, cross, and dot was minutely compared; but not the faintest resemblance between the two letters could be discovered. "No more like than chalk and cheese," said the lieutenant. "My theory is knocked on the head."

"Let me examine the envelopes again," said Overtop. They had inspected them less carefully than the contents.

As soon as Overtop had placed the two envelopes side by side, his eyes lighted up with the pleasure of a great discovery. "What fools we are!"

he exclaimed. "There it is! Don't you see? Don't you see? A regular Hogarthian line of beauty under the name on each."

All stared at the envelopes, and at once recognized the similarity between the graceful curved lines. They looked somewhat like the letter S laid on its side; and more like the arm of a rocking chair.

Marcus had a sudden inward vision of the writer. One of those convictions which defy all logical a.n.a.lysis flashed upon his mind.

"Do you know where this strange young man lives, Bog?" asked Marcus.

"No, sir. I follered--I should say followed--him two or three times, because I thought he wasn't acting just right toward Miss Minford (here Bog blushed). He always went into drinking houses and billiard saloons, and once into a place where they say the worst kind o' gambling is allers--I mean always--going on. But he knew me by sight, and I was afraid he would ask me about that letter which I didn't deliver for him. So I had to follow him a good piece behind; and sometimes I lost track of him. Then, again, he would keep a tramping round from one drinking place to another--but never getting drunk that I could see--till twelve or one o'clock at night. By that time I felt I ought to go home, and so I never tracked him to his lodgings, if he has any. But it's my belief he travels in the night, and sleeps in the daytime, like the cats."

"Good, so far," said Marcus. "You have already given us a general description of this fellow's dress and appearance. Now, tell me whether his face is pale, his mustache small and curved up in points, his eyes light gray, and never looking straight at you; his nose small, thin, and sharp; and, now I think of it, has he not got a small scar on one of his cheeks?"

"Why, Mr. Wilkeson," exclaimed the boy Bog, "that's the very chap!"

"Who is he?" asked the lieutenant of police, "that I may have him arrested at once."

"He is the son--"

CHAPTER V.

THE SORROW OF WHITE HAIRS.

At that moment the door opened, and the venerable form of Myndert Van Quintem appeared before them. Marcus cast a hasty glance, importing silence, at his companions, and rose to receive his old friend.

Mr. Van Quintem's face expressed the tenderest compa.s.sion. He clasped Marcus's hand, and said:

"My young friend, it deeply grieves me to see you here; for I feel--I may say I know morally--that you are innocent of any part in this murder."

"Thank you for your confidence," said Marcus. "I hope, when Miss Minford and certain other witnesses are examined to-morrow, to prove my innocence conclusively."

"So you will, I am sure. When I say that I know you are innocent, I found my belief on my short but pleasant acquaintance with you. But I cannot guess, from the evidence at the inquest yesterday and that of to-day--just published in the afternoon papers,--who committed the murder, or what was the motive of it. Have you any clue to the mystery?"

"Yes--yes," replied Marcus. "We think we have a clue; but so slight, that it is hardly worth mentioning. My friends here are going to follow it up."

"And in order that we may do so without any delay," said the lieutenant, "please give us the name of that sneaking letter writer."

Marcus coughed, looked at the lieutenant knowingly, and said, "Oh, _that's_ no consequence. It's a false scent. Depend on it."

The old gentleman, as he entered the room, had caught Marcus Wilkeson's words. "He is the son--" and had observed the slight confusion with which Marcus had stopped saying something. He now noticed the glance enjoining silence, which Marcus had directed at the lieutenant of police.

Mr. Van Quintem turned pale, as a harrowing suspicion came into his mind. "Mr. Wilkeson," he said, in a trembling voice, "will you answer me one question truly?"

"I--I will," replied Marcus.

"Then tell me, in Heaven's name, do you know of anything that connects my son with this monstrous crime? I have had a dreadful presentiment, all along, that he had something to do with it. The end of his wrong career will be the gallows. I have dreamt of it for years. O G.o.d! that I should have begotten such a profligate and miscreant into the world!"

The old man made another pause, and then said, with a calmness that surprised his hearers. "Now I am ready to hear all."

"And you shall," said Marcus, "though it pains me, my dear friend, to tell you what we know of your son. I will say, however, that there is no proof directly connecting him with the murder."

"He is cunning and covers his tracks," said the wretched parent. "I know him well."

Marcus then exhibited the letters. Mr. Van Quintem compared them carefully, but could not detect the least trace of resemblance. But, on examining the envelopes, at the suggestion of Fayette Overtop, he at once recognized the Hogarthian curve as a mark which he had always observed on his son's letters.

"I could almost swear to this mark; and yet it is possible that he did not write the letters. Bad as he is, I will wait for further proofs.

Please tell me all else that you know, Mr. Wilkeson."

"With regard to the letter written to Miss Minford," said Marcus, "there is, unhappily, but little doubt; as this lad, who was well acquainted with the Minford family, can inform you."

The boy Bog, very reluctantly, and with many awkward breaks, and swingings of his cap, repeated the history of the first letter, and described the young man's person most minutely, and told how he had followed him in his wild rambles about the town.

The old man listened sadly and quietly; only now and then interrupting the boy's narrative with questions that were seemingly as calm as a judge's interrogatories.

"He is a murderer. Something in the air tells me that he is," murmured the old man. "And he is my son."

The inexpressible heart-broken sadness, with which he uttered these words, brought tears to the eyes of his hearers.

"It may be, my dear Mr. Van Quintem, that your son did not write the anonymous letters to Mr. Minford, notwithstanding the point of resemblance which we think we have detected. While sitting, at my window, I have often noticed him in his room scribbling at a desk, as if he were practising penmanship. Perhaps, if you examine the contents of the desk, you may get some further light on the subject. It is wonderful--most people would say impossible--that a man should write two letters so entirely dissimilar as these."

"My son always excelled in writing. It was one of the branches that he took prizes in at school. I will examine the desk; but I fear I shall only confirm my strong suspicions that he is a murderer. O G.o.d! O G.o.d!

Why did he not die with his sainted mother! Far better would that have been. It is a hard thing, gentlemen--it is a very hard thing; but if this boy of mine does not surrender himself to the hands of justice to-morrow, I shall--I shall--myself denounce him to the--"

The afflicted man, overcome with the terrible conflict between a sense of public duty, and a lingering, inextinguishable parental affection, fainted and fell into the arms of Marcus, who sprang to catch him.

While he was still insensible, the lieutenant of police, and the boy Bog, slipped out of the room, and started off on a search for Myndert Van Quintem, jr.

CHAPTER VI.