The Union Times

THE CRIME OF THE CENTURY.
By RODRIGUES OTTOLENGUI
Author of "An Artist In Crime." "A Conflict of Evidence,"
"A Modern Wizard,"
"Final Proof," Etc.
[Copyright, 1896, by G. P. Putnam's Sons. All rights reserved.]

"Her baby? Impossible!"

"That's what I said when she claimed it, but she would have it she'd a right to know her own child, and I couldn't deny her that. So she told me the story, and it was just another proof of the way men treat us poor downtrodden creatures. She was an actress when I first met her. You must know I was better off in those days. I didn't live in no such poverty stricken neighborhood as this. I was in a good house in a good street, and so was my poor friend. She used to go off on long trips, and so I never thought anything if I didn't hear from her in months. I never knew that she'd had a baby till that day when she claimed the one I thought the Lord had sent to me, nor I never had supposed she was married, which indeed it turned out she wasn't. But that day she told me the whole story how she'd met a rich young man who was handsome and all that sort of thing. It's always that way, you know. They've always got a fine face and a long purse, and their beauty fills our hearts, while their presents blind our eyes to the wrong we do. But you know all that without my telling it to you. It seemed she'd loved this man for three or four years, and then this little one came.

She was awfully sick, and after weeks she was just getting a bit stronger when he comes to her one night that was the night before Thanksgiving and he says to her in a cold blooded way, he says, 'Alice, my girl, what'll we do with this baby?' And she ups and says, as brave as brass, 'I'll keep it.' He starts at that, and he says, 'But think what the world will say!'

'I don't care about the world,' she answers, 'so long as you love me.' Then he said the brutal words that killed her. You mark my words that man killed that poor girl! She wasn't more'n 18 when he met her, and she was only 22 when she died. She paid dear for the little love he gave her. But I must tell you what he said.

He took the baby from her side, and he says, 'Let me see the little brat,' and he looks at it awhile, and then he says, 'What do you call him?'

'It ain't a him,' she says, kind of mournful, 'cause it hurt her to see the father didn't even know about his own child. 'It's a girl,' she went on. 'I think I'll call her Lily.'

'Why Lily?' he says, with a laugh 'Cause she's so pure and sweet,' says the mother.

'Pure and sweet, eh?' says the man. 'Well, she'll lose all that as she grows big enough to understand what love is, just as her mother did.' Now, I leave it to you, sir, did you ever hear of anything worse than that said to a woman? For a man to ruin a girl and throw her shame in her face like that when she was lying sick I calls it an outrage!"

"And I agree with you most heartily," said Mr. Mitchel. "Such a man should be made to suffer."

"Oh, he will! Never you fear for that. And look you, wouldn't he suffer now, maybe," if he could know what you've told me? Didn't he lay a curse on that child, prophesying it would lose its purity? And now she's grown up ain't his miserable words come true? How would he like to know that? He'd be a beast if he didn't wince when he heard it. But, after all, so many men are beasts there's no knowing."

"Go on with your story, Mrs. Cooper. What happened next?"

After that! My friend began to cry, and he told her to 'shut her whimpering.' Nice language, wasn't it? She tried to stop crying and was choking back her sobs that would get out some way when he went at her again. Look here!' says he. 'I've come here tonight to tell you something, and you may as well hear it now as later. You said you wouldn't mind the world so long as you had my love. Well, you've lost my love, so that ends that! You used to be a pretty girl, but you've cried so much lately that your tears have washed away your good looks and my love with it. So, now that you understand that, perhaps you'll think different about the baby. What do you say? My friend, she was just struck dumb, she was so stunned at what he said. But after a minute she made out to say: What do you mean? What about baby?' Well, to make it short,' he says, 'this baby is as much mine as yours, worse luck, and I don't mean to have it bothering me in the future. So I'm going to take it away.' Then she cried, and she begged, and she got out of bed and went on her knees and prayed to him. But he was stone deaf and stony hearted. He just wrapped the baby up, and, pushing her away from him, he went out with it in his arms. She fell back in a faint on the floor, and when they found her of course she was worse. And, what's more, she never got better again. She died two days later."

"But she had seen her baby again, thanks to you, Mrs. Cooper."

"Thanks to the Almighty Father, you mean. Thanks, indeed! I never comes to a Thanksgiving now but I offer up my praise, remembering what happened that day, for who but the Lord led that beast of a man to my door to lay his bundle where it was best for it to lie?"

"No doubt you are right," said Mr. Mitchel. "You know what the Bible says, 'Not a sparrow shall fall.'"

"Indeed I do, and many's the time I've thought of the selfsame words. But that's the way the child got the name of Lily, or Lilian, which is the proper way of putting it. Her own mother gave it to her."

"Strange! Her mother gave her her first name, and her father gave her her last," said Mr. Mitchel.

"Yes. But that wasn't his fault. And he didn't give her his own name neither, which would have been more to his credit."

"You mean that his name was not Vale?"

"Indeed it wasn't, though I didn't know that myself for years afterward. You see, in the excitement of finding my friend so low and hearing that the baby was hers I never thought to mention about the bit of paper with Vale on it nor to ask her the name of the father, though I doubt if she would have told me. Women are strange that way. They let men deceive them and trample them in the dust, and then they go down to their graves keeping their secrets. It ain't just. The men should suffer, too, I say."

"Did she tell you nothing about the father?"

"Oh, yes, almost everything 'cept his name. That she never breathed by no chance. But she told me he was rich and of good family and all that, and she said he must have been crazy that night, 'cause he never treated her bad before, and she made all sorts of excuses for him till you would have thought he was an angel. But, you see, with her baby back to comfort her and knowing she was going to die, I suppose she found it easy like to forgive him. And near the last she gave me a package of letters and her ring not a band ring, but a lovely diamond that he'd given her and she told me to keep the letters and the ring for her child when she was old enough to understand."

"Ah! This is fortunate. Have you kept the letters?"

"Sacred! I've kept both the letters and the ring. That was a trust from a dying woman, and I couldn't break that. Why, I've seen the day many a time when I've wanted bread and could have had it by putting up the ring for a little money, but I never did. I was that fearful I mightn't find the money to get it out again. Why, sir, not even the love of the drink has made me part with that diamond."

"You are an honest, good woman, Mrs. Cooper. Have you ever read the letters? Do they reveal the man's name?"

"As I told you before, I didn't find out about the right name for several years, and by then the girl was known as Vale, so I never changed it. But the letters was from him, and while some was only signed with one name and some only with initials there was one or two had the full name."

"And what was that?"

"I can't rightly tell you, because it's so long since I read the letters, and my memory ain't what it used to be. But I'll give you the letters and the ring, and you can do what you think is best for my Lily."

She went to a trunk, using a key on a ring that must have contained the keys of every article of furniture that she had ever possessed, and handed to Mr. Mitchel a packet containing a few letters in faded envelopes, and also a small ring-box, within which glittered a diamond of first water, as Mr. Mitchel saw at a glance.

"Before I open these," said Mr. Mitchel, "there are one or two more questions that I would like to ask. In the first place, tell me, does Lily resemble her mother?"

"She's her mother's living image. I was only thinking of that this morning when she was here. She's just as old now as her mother was when I first met her, and I could almost see my old friend standing before me."

"Is she like her in other respects?"

"She's got the same talent for singing and dancing, and she seemed to take to the stage as natural as can be. Then she's got the same easy going, simple, affectionate nature. That's been the ruin of her as well as her mother. I'm afraid. It don't do for women to give their love too easy in this world."

"Did you ever meet this man Morton, to whom she was supposed to be married?"

"Oh! So it's Morton she's fell in love with, is it? Oh, yes. I've met him, and I owe him a grudge. It was him as persuaded my Lily to leave me and go to live by herself. I see now why that was. He wanted her more to himself, some place where I couldn't keep my eye on him, the scheming villain that he is! But I never trusted him, and I often warned Lily that he was no good."

"Ah! Then you and he were not fond of each other?"

"Fond of each other? Well, I should say not. Why, I despised him; that's what I did. I never took to him from the first. He never seemed to be what he pretended. So he's the man? Well, then, I'll tell you one thing, and you'll find I'm right."

"What is that?"

"I've done my girl a wrong. I said just now that she's inherited the bad in her from her parents. Maybe she has inherited her mother's weakness, but I've never seen nothing in her that made me think she had any of her father's wickedness. So, if her baby was abandoned, be sure it's no doing of hers. It's the man as done it, and you'll find I'm right."

"Lily denies that she knew anything but she also declares that the father had no hand in the crime."

"Ain't that like her mother? What did I tell you? She makes excuses for the man, but you'll find he's the villain, after all."

"Did you ever meet a man known as Slippery Sam?"

"No; I only know he had a room off and on in the house in Essex street where Lily lived. He was a crook, I think."

"Yes; you are right. Then perhaps you know Preacher Jim?"

"Why, everybody knows him. He's a crank touched in his head, you know but he's a good man for all that."

"A good man? Why, is he not a criminal?"

"Oh, he says he is, but nobody knows any wrong he ever done. He's done lots of good. That I know for certain. He's helped the sick and poor around about, and he is awful fond of children. He's been good to Lily, giving her apples and candy and such like, since she was a little girl. Oh, there's no wrong in Preacher Jim, 'cept in his mind, and that's the crookedest part of him, I guess. But see if you can find the name in the letters."

Mr. Mitchel looked them over and very soon came to one, at the bottom of which was a full signature. He started upon reading it and uttered an exclamation.

"Do you know who it is?" asked Mrs. Cooper.

"Yes! I do know the man. What is more, I know where to find him, and I will find him within the hour!"

CHAPTER XVII.

Leaving Mrs. Cooper's, Mr. Mitchel hurried back to the rooms of the Metropolitan Foundling society and was glad to learn that Colonel Payton had not gone. He sent in his card, and within a few minutes the two men were alone in the colonel's private office.

"Well, Mr. Mitchel," began the colonel, "back again so soon? Changed your mind about that girl up stairs?"

"In what way should I have changed my mind?" asked Mr. Mitchel.

"Oh, well, you were rather impulsive this morning and espoused her case pretty warmly, I thought. You said you would take the responsibility of keeping the matter from the knowledge of the authorities, and that's a serious business. I did not know but that after maturer consideration you had altered your views come to your senses, I should call it."

"You mean that, in your opinion, it would be the proper course to give this girl into custody, to abandon her to her fate?"

"There you go again with your stupid sentimentality. Abandon her to her fate, indeed! And why not, pray? What fate awaits her but what she richly deserves?"

"Colonel, your society is in existence for the protection of children. Would it not be cruel to have this young girl arrested?"

"That is not our affair. Women cease to be children when they become mothers. In this case it is the cruelty to the infant that we must consider."

"Ah! The abandonment of the baby is the paramount thought in your mind?"

"It is, most decidedly. We are the guardians of those who are defenseless because of their immature years."

"Then you believe that a person who abandons a baby should be punished?"

"I do. It is the law, and I am a stickler for the letter of the law. Without laws and their strict enforcement society must suffer. Therefore the guilty must be punished."

"Regardless of sex?"

"Assuredly. Men and women must fare alike. In the eyes of justice the evildoer is sexless."

"I have heard that justice is blind, but I have never been told before that she is also heartless. I think, too, that you are wrong, for justice is typified by a female figure. Assuredly, then, even in the name of justice, I may plead for one of her sisters."

"Look here, Mitchel, I hope you have not come here to repeat all that rubbish which you talked this morning. I thought that perhaps you had been making further investigations."

"You are right. That is what I have done."

"Then what have you discovered? Nothing to the girl's credit, I'll wager."

"Nothing to her discredit, I assure you. But, colonel, before I tell you the story which I have heard I would like to ask you why you seem to be so particularly bitter against this girl."

"I am not. I treat her just as I would any other delinquent. What an extraordinary question for you to ask! You practically charge me with showing prejudice against a woman who is entirely unknown to me. You use odd language, Mr. Mitchel. What do you mean?"

"Pardon me, colonel. I meant no offense. But you tell me that the girl is a stranger to you. Somehow I had entertained the idea that perhaps you had seen her before."

"Never, sir; never! That is another preposterous suggestion on your part. I would have you remember that I do not select my associates from that class."

"Well, then, perhaps the girl's face seemed familiar to you; perhaps she reminded you of some one?"

At these words the colonel started and then grew quite angry. Rising from his chair, he towered over Mr. Mitchel, who remained seated and looked up at him calmly.

"What do you mean, sir," cried the colonel, "by your insinuations? How dare you come to my own office and presume to catechize me in this way? If you hope to help your pretty little friend by your impertinence, you calculate wrongly who puts up with that sort of thing. I have half a mind to kick you out, sir."

"I am glad you have only half a mind, for that makes it possible for the other half of your mind to dissuade you from such a foolish project. It would be very unwise for you to dismiss me unheard."

"Unheard, sir? Then why the devil don't you speak? Why are you beating around the bush in this way? Come to the point, sir; come to the point!"

"I will do so," said Mr. Mitchel, rising and facing his companion. "It will, after all, be the best way perhaps. Well, then, colonel, to make it short, I will ask you to recall the day when I first came here and saw the infant."

"I do, quite distinctly."

"Two things I will mention. You may remember that we had a little discussion regarding the proper treatment of those who abandon their children. I advocated the plan of compelling the parents to care for their offspring."

"And I told you you were a fool. I have not changed my mind."

"I afterward told you that I would prove the feasibility of my theories by discovering the father of this infant and compelling him to support his child."

"Yes; you did talk some such nonsense. Well, what of it?"

"I have partly kept my word. I know who the father is."

"Yes; I heard her tell you his name. That in itself proved to me that the girl is thoroughly bad. Why, even the worst woman will keep the name of her lover a secret."

"I discovered more than that, colonel. I know who the grandfather is."

"Why, naturally. The father being known to you, you easily go back another generation."

"I am not speaking of the man's father, but of the girl's."

"Oh, hers! But I thought you said she was a foundling?"

"Exactly. Her own father abandoned her, and I have learned his name."

"Well, who is he? Why make a mystery about it?"

"All in good time, colonel. You will see my point in a moment. Now, as a man experienced in these matters, give me your opinion. Suppose that it could be proved that this girl was truly guilty of abandoning her babe. Then suppose that in her behalf I argued that she herself, having been cast adrift by her parents, became a double victim first, of her heredity, which made her congenitally deficient in parental instincts and, secondly, of her environment, a blind one, into which she had been thrust by her father. Would not all this lessen her responsibility?"

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TO BE CONTINUED.