New York Dispatch

A DARK NIGHT'S WORK: OR, THE GAMBLER'S FATE.
A Vivid Sketch of Real Life.
By Julian Cross.

"What are you reading, Kate?"
"Only Charley's letter. He says he expects to arrive here to-morrow. You know, Alice, I wrote to him last week, begging him to come down as soon as he could."
"I am anxious, very anxious. You see Charley and Frank were boys together; and one day, while they were out bathing, Charley saved Frank's life. Since then he has been the only person who could influence Frank in any way. He is a dear good fellow, Alice, and if I could see him here, I think a weight would be lifted from my heart."
"It was thought at one time you and Charley were engaged."
"Yes, dear, I know; but it was no fault of mine. He loved me dearly, although I knew it not. One day, while out riding together, he told me this. Alas! my heart was given up to another."
"To Frank?"
"Yes, to Frank. I shall never forget how his dear eyes filled with tears when I told him. He said nothing; but from that day I loved him as a sister, and he, like a noble hearted fellow as he is, did all he could to further the happiness of his friend. He sacrificed himself for Frank.
"That was very generous, but say, darling, why do you send for him now?"
"I will tell you, Alice. Two weeks ago, Frank introduced Lionel Breaton into this house as an intimate friend. He told us he was an old college companion whom he had met casually while on a visit to New York. This I have since learned was a falsehood."
"A falsehood?"
"Yes, but listen. When I first saw this Lionel Breaton I disliked him very much: something—I know not what—seemed to whisper he is a villain; under that handsome, dashing mask there lurks a heart of treachery, and my strange suspicions were very soon confirmed in a manner that makes me shudder to think of, Alice. One night, as I was sitting all alone in the garden, thinking of Frank and this strange friendship, Lionel Breaton stole behind me, and placing his arm round my waist, whispered hurried words of passionate love into my ear. I struggled, but could not escape his grasp. He begged me to fly with him, to leave home, friends, everything for wealth and his love. I almost loathed myself for being compelled to listen to his treacherous words, but I summoned up courage and scornfully refused him. Then he told me this—Oh, Alice, such a black and hideous story!"
"Tell me, Kate."
"He said he had met Frank first at a gambling hell in New York, where he won every cent from him; that he had tempted him to part with everything he had in the world by which he could make money; and lastly, Alice, that he held a forged bill executed by Frank in a fit of desperation, which bill he placed before me, and I saw, alas! that it was all too true."
"What! Frank commit a forgery?"
"Yes, for two thousand dollars, drawn on the bank where Charley is engaged. I saw it with my own eyes, and the fearful sight made me silent."
"You did not speak to any one of this?"
"No; the villain made me promise not to breathe a word to Frank; and more, he said if I did not consent to become his within seven days, he would expose Frank and bring him to justice."
"This is why you sent for Charley?"
"Yes, I wrote to him and told him all. He promises to come down to-morrow, but I am sadly afraid he can do no good. To-morrow I must give this man an answer, and, alas! what can I say? If I refuse, the law will brand the man I love as a felon; if I consent—but, no, no, that is too horrible to think of—too horrible!"
The poor girl burst into tears, overcome by the sad situation in which she was placed. Her companion, Alice Clinton, not daring to offer one word of advice, gently led her from the garden into the house, where for the present we will leave them, while we take a glance at the other side of the picture.
Frank Chandon was the only son of a rich New York merchant, and when quite young he had lost the watchful love of a mother that sacred and pure influence upon a man's life. He became, through the indulgence of every whim, wayward and willful, and no power on earth could turn him from a purpose once determined, save one. Charley Denvil had a strange—well, let us call it knack—of persuading him out of his course, and it was this influence which had often saved him from many troubles and scrapes, into which his thoughtlessness would have plunged him.
Frank was an artist—that is to say, Frank told his father he would not apply himself to the routine of business, and the old man, who held a belief that every man ought to work, spent thousands in teaching his son the art which mirrors the world. Frank, however, rarely did anything. He had his chambers in town which he called his studio, embellished with sculpture, paintings, and articles of virtu; but few and far between were his efforts to work. He loved his sister, Kate—yes, that was one bright spot in his character; the dark spot the reader knows—Frank Chandon was a gambler.
It was on the evening which witnessed Kate's heartbroken confession to Alice Clinton, that Frank and his evil genius, Lionel Breaton, rode into New York, bent on an unholy night of excitement and peril. Frank felt his blood flowing hot and feverish through his veins. He thought of Kate, of his father, and, above all, of the forgery which bound him hand and foot to the devil at his side. He would make one more effort at the table to win back his tarnished honor; with the money he wins to-night he can pay his debts and make good the amount of the forged bill. Yes, he will try again; luck will not always go against him—it must turn sooner or later, and why not now? He felt that this night he would win. Alas, Frank, you are thinking as thousands have thought before you; sure plunge into misery and shame.
The two friends, on leaving the cars, strode hastily through the city, no word being spoken on either side, till they reached the vicinity of Union Square. Turning quickly down a narrow street, which had no thoroughfare, they stopped before a large, dark, gloomy-looking house on the right hand side. Breaton, going up first, gave three distinct knocks on the second panel of the door, and they were quickly admitted into what proved to be one of the largest gambling hells in this city.
What need to describe it? Suffice it to say, that dark as it appeared from without, there was no sign of darkness within; all was brilliant glitter and ostentatious display. Frank and his friend quickly seated themselves at a table, and were soon deeply interested in the game (it was rouge et noir). The foolish dupe did not perceive the look which passed between Breaton and the croupier—the hellish alliance never struck him for one moment; he played for two whole hours—he staked without speaking a word; sometimes winning, but, alas! more often losing, till, gradually becoming more and more excited, he staked rashly, and the bank lost. He took his large stake, multiplied a hundred-fold. Now, then, he was in the vortex. Another stake—lost. Another and another, till, at last, all he possessed upon the red.
"Black wins, gentlemen!" and he sees that demon rake come forward and bear away his all.
"I have no more money," he whispered hoarsely, to Breaton.
"Lend me some, for the love of God."
Breaton coolly produced his pocket-book, which was full of greenbacks, and as he counted them, he said:
"Frank, dear boy, I will lend you a thousand if you want; but I must have it back soon, say to-morrow."
"You ask impossibilities. Where am I to get it?"
"Your father has money in his house,"