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Literary
December 22, 1879
The Cincinnati Daily Star
Cincinnati, Hamilton County, Ohio
What is this article about?
A woman, pretending to be her own desperate relative Ida, fakes her suicide to deceive her uncle, Banker Jeckyll, into grief. She reveals herself alive with lawyer Hamilton, causing Jeckyll's fatal apoplexy. She secures the two-million inheritance, while detective Ferret laments his lost fee.
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OCR Quality
98%
Excellent
Full Text
At half past 12 the next day a lady entered one of the great Broadway catacombs, and studied her way to the office of William Hamilton.
"Was Mr. Hamilton in?"
"Mr. Hamilton was in, but engaged," suggested the gentlemanly partner.
"Would the gentleman be so kind as to take a card to Mr. Hamilton?"
"With pleasure."
The visitant scribbles her name on an office card, which the gentlemanly partner, begging her to be seated, takes to the inner sanctum.
"Lady's card, sir. She's waiting for an interview."
Mr. Hamilton glances at the name, and a cadaverous pallor overspreads his face with a sudden wave. The quickness with which he becomes disengaged is marvelous.
"I'll see her immediately," gasps Mr. Hamilton, spasmodically, and the partner disappears to escort the visitant to the inner office.
"Mr. Hamilton will see you at once. This way, madame," and the two, three years separated, are face to face.
The explanation that ensues is neither complimentary to Mr. Hamilton's acumen nor to his vanity; but he bears it in consideration of the Vancouver two millions and a Mrs. Hamilton whose sanity is unquestionable.
Three hundred clocks in as many quarters of the city clang ten. Mr. Jeckyll walks up and down in the Fifth avenue mansion, speculating as to whether poor Ida's body will be found. A carriage stops at the door, and a lady and gentleman alight; the gentleman rings and sends in his card.
"What in the deuce can the young popinjay want with me?" queries Banker Jeckyll, internally. "Admit Mr. Hamilton," orders he, blandly, externally; and the gentleman enters with a lady on his arm. In the wornout metaphor of "Hudibras," Banker Jeckyll smells a rat, but is not quite sure.
"Permit me to present Mrs. Hamilton. Mr. Jeckyll," smiles the visitor, blandly, but with a certain tinge of sardonicism apparent.
Mrs. Hamilton lifts the heavy veil that covers the face that applied for lodging at the station-house the night before.
"It is I, dear uncle, and guardy," murmurs the same musical voice that had so fascinated the lawyer—only the voice is a trifle less pathetic and has an under current of sarcastic laughter in it.
Mr. Jeckyll's tongue is not equal even to an interjection at the moment.
"I knew how you'd grieve, guardy, dear, so I just dropped a cobble-stone in the water, left my shawl to be picked up by Mr. Ferret, and crept away on my hands and knees. Still I had a hard night of it, guardy."
With a quick gasp, Banker Jeckyll staggered to a chair, and, with a moan, sank down as if he had been wounded.
Banker Jeckyll was dead. Apoplexy. Doctor Quackenbush called it; and the magnificent funeral came about, as intended—only Banker Jeckyll was in the coffin instead of Banker Jeckyll's niece.
Stark and stiff, Mr. Jeckyll looked the exclamation point incarnate even in death, and was buried at the expense of the two millions.
"Cleverly outwitted," muttered Ferret, when he heard the news; "but my fifty thousand never'll come—never."
"Was Mr. Hamilton in?"
"Mr. Hamilton was in, but engaged," suggested the gentlemanly partner.
"Would the gentleman be so kind as to take a card to Mr. Hamilton?"
"With pleasure."
The visitant scribbles her name on an office card, which the gentlemanly partner, begging her to be seated, takes to the inner sanctum.
"Lady's card, sir. She's waiting for an interview."
Mr. Hamilton glances at the name, and a cadaverous pallor overspreads his face with a sudden wave. The quickness with which he becomes disengaged is marvelous.
"I'll see her immediately," gasps Mr. Hamilton, spasmodically, and the partner disappears to escort the visitant to the inner office.
"Mr. Hamilton will see you at once. This way, madame," and the two, three years separated, are face to face.
The explanation that ensues is neither complimentary to Mr. Hamilton's acumen nor to his vanity; but he bears it in consideration of the Vancouver two millions and a Mrs. Hamilton whose sanity is unquestionable.
Three hundred clocks in as many quarters of the city clang ten. Mr. Jeckyll walks up and down in the Fifth avenue mansion, speculating as to whether poor Ida's body will be found. A carriage stops at the door, and a lady and gentleman alight; the gentleman rings and sends in his card.
"What in the deuce can the young popinjay want with me?" queries Banker Jeckyll, internally. "Admit Mr. Hamilton," orders he, blandly, externally; and the gentleman enters with a lady on his arm. In the wornout metaphor of "Hudibras," Banker Jeckyll smells a rat, but is not quite sure.
"Permit me to present Mrs. Hamilton. Mr. Jeckyll," smiles the visitor, blandly, but with a certain tinge of sardonicism apparent.
Mrs. Hamilton lifts the heavy veil that covers the face that applied for lodging at the station-house the night before.
"It is I, dear uncle, and guardy," murmurs the same musical voice that had so fascinated the lawyer—only the voice is a trifle less pathetic and has an under current of sarcastic laughter in it.
Mr. Jeckyll's tongue is not equal even to an interjection at the moment.
"I knew how you'd grieve, guardy, dear, so I just dropped a cobble-stone in the water, left my shawl to be picked up by Mr. Ferret, and crept away on my hands and knees. Still I had a hard night of it, guardy."
With a quick gasp, Banker Jeckyll staggered to a chair, and, with a moan, sank down as if he had been wounded.
Banker Jeckyll was dead. Apoplexy. Doctor Quackenbush called it; and the magnificent funeral came about, as intended—only Banker Jeckyll was in the coffin instead of Banker Jeckyll's niece.
Stark and stiff, Mr. Jeckyll looked the exclamation point incarnate even in death, and was buried at the expense of the two millions.
"Cleverly outwitted," muttered Ferret, when he heard the news; "but my fifty thousand never'll come—never."
What sub-type of article is it?
Prose Fiction
Satire
What themes does it cover?
Death Mortality
Commerce Trade
What keywords are associated?
Deception
Inheritance
Faked Death
Banker
Lawyer
Apoplexy
Outwitting
Literary Details
Key Lines
"It Is I, Dear Uncle, And Guardy," Murmurs The Same Musical Voice That Had So Fascinated The Lawyer—Only The Voice Is A Trifle Less Pathetic And Has An Under Current Of Sarcastic Laughter In It.
"I Knew How You'd Grieve, Guardy, Dear, So I Just Dropped A Cobble Stone In The Water, Left My Shawl To Be Picked Up By Mr. Ferret, And Crept Away On My Hands And Knees. Still I Had A Hard Night Of It, Guardy."
Banker Jeckyll Was Dead. Apoplexy. Doctor Quackenbush Called It; And The Magnificent Funeral Came About, As Intended—Only Banker Jeckyll Was In The Coffin Instead Of Banker Jeckyll's Niece.
"Cleverly Outwitted," Muttered Ferret, When He Heard The News; "But My Fifty Thousand Never'll Come—Never."