"THAT MURDER MYSTERY.
"After some weeks of uncertainty the mystery surrounding the murder of Victoria Vane, a beautiful young girl of Ridgewood, seems likely to be closed up. Mr. Ransom Vane, the brother of the murdered girl, has been in our city for some time in secret communication with officers of the law. Young Vane is something of a detective himself, and he has succeeded in fixing the crime, it is believed, upon the right person, a young man of supposed spotless reputation, living with his widowed mother in the northern part of the city. The name of the guilty man is August Bordine, a surveyor and civil engineer, who it seems was a somewhat frequent visitor at the home of the Vanes, and report says that he won the girl's heart, and promised to make her his wife. At the same time his guilty connection with another woman in this city prevented his keeping faith with the Vane girl. A quarrel resulted, and in a moment of passion the young engineer struck the girl to the ground. The instrument of murder was a narrow-bladed dagger of delicate pattern, which is now in the hands of the police. Early this morning the officers raided the house of the guilty man, but evidently having got wind of the intentions of the police the young man fled. It is not believed that he can escape, however, since the telegraph has wafted the news throughout the country. As a necessary precaution the young man's mother was taken to prison. It is possible that if she knows about the murder, she will make a confession. It is to be hoped that the culprit may be brought to speedy justice."
This is what Miss Williams read in the afternoon paper, and a cynical smile overspread her face as she hurried to find her cousin anxious to impart the news.
"News for you, Rose," exclaimed the old maid, tripping into the great parlor where the young heiress sat alone reading.
Rose looked up with a tired expression of countenance. She was pale and sad, evidently having suffered not a little from the change in her affairs since she visited the grounds of the Bordine cottage.
"Never mind, Janet, I do not care to read it."
"Shall I read it to you?"
"Yes, if you are determined."
Seating herself near Miss Williams, read in slow, even tones, the announcement of he arrest of Mrs. Bordine and the flight of her son.
Miss Williams regarded her fair cousin furtively the moment she finished reading. Rose's face was deadly pale, and her white hands became clinched until the blood seemed ready to burst through the pink nails.
"August was no better than the rest of the men, Rose. You can't trust one of them out of your sight."
A sigh alone answered her.
"I never thought much of that man, Rose. You remembered, I told you once that there was a look about his eyes that reminded me of the criminal who murdered his wife down in New Hampshire. I never could forget that man. I shudder now when I think of it."
"Hush, Janet."
"But it wasn't your fault, of course, you are so young and inexperienced. Now, as for me, I can see through a man in an instant; its a sort of intuition that some women possess, thus making them wiser than their companions. I always expected to hear something bad of that love of yours."
Rose came to her feet.
"Now, coz, don't get your back up"—But Rose Alstine paid no heed to the injunction of her tormenting cousin; she rushed from the room, and, speeding up stairs, locked herself in her own cozy chamber, there to combat her grief as best she could.
She did not descend until a late hour in the evening, and even then there were ominous red lines about her eyes, indicating that she had been weeping.
A jingle at the door-bell sent one of the servants to answer it.
A dog rushed in, followed by a man, who had a string in his hand, one end fastened to the dog's collar. On his back—the dog's—was strapped a tin box.
"Excuse me, Miss, but I'd like to see the Mistress," said the man, whose red hair and beard, and eye covered with a black patch, made him rather a disgusting object to look upon.
Miss Williams and Rose were yet in the dining-room lingering over a late dinner.
"I'll see," said the maid, but dog and peddler followed her at once into the presence of the ladies.
Quite a ripple of amusement was created at the novel sight of the dog bearing the peddler's pack.
"Ladies, I beg your pardon," cried the queer looking man, lifting his hat and thrusting it under his arm.
Then he called the dog, unfastened the tin box and opened it, displaying
Yankee notions in abundance.
But Miss Alstine wanted none of these.
Janet and the maid, however, seemed quite pleased with the display, and examined everything in the box, while Rose petted the dog, a shaggy, good-natured fellow.
The peddler, while expatiating on the good qualities of his goods, managed to steal to the side of Rose.
"Keep up your grit, Miss, they won't capture August. He is innocent, and the guilty one will ere long be brought to justice."
Thus whispered the peddler in the ear of the young girl.
Rose manifested her surprise with a short and half-smothered exclamation.
"Get down, Tige. Go away, you bad dog," cried out the peddler suddenly, to hide the emotion expressed by Miss Alstine. His ruse was a success, the maid and Miss Williams failing to notice the agitation of Rose.
A little later dog and peddler left the house, he having disposed of a few simple articles to the maid and Miss Williams.
"What a queer looking man," remarked the maid, as she stood at the window watching the movements of the one-eyed peddler and his dog team.
"Queer indeed," murmured Rose.
That evening Rose Alstine received a caller whom she little expected—the woman she had seen in the summer-house in the arms of August Bordine.
"Can I see you alone for a moment, Miss Alstine?"
"Certainly."
Then the heiress cast a significant look at her cousin, who with a toss of her head rose at once and left the room, taking the precaution to remain by the door and listen, however, after she had closed it.
"I am not mistaken in calling you Miss Alstine."
"No, madam."
"Doubtless you can guess why I am here?"
"I haven't the remotest idea."
Rose stared very impolitely, it must be confessed, at her visitor. "It is with regard to that unfortunate affair of a few days since—"
"No apologies are necessary," Rose interrupted haughtily. "I do not blame you."
"You have no reason to. I have been that man's wife nearly six years."
"Indeed!"
"It is true. I am here to inform you, however, that it is possible that a grave mistake has been made."
"Indeed!"
"My husband's name is not Bordine."
"He has a dozen aliases, I presume."
"I fear so," returned the woman, in an agitated voice.
"It is wholly unnecessary for you to go on, Mrs. Bordine. Rest assured that you have my sympathy, and I shall not trouble your husband again."
"No. It is not that."
"Well?"
"I read in the evening paper of the arrest of Mrs. Bordine and the flight of her son—"
"Your husband."
"Not too fast, Miss Alstine. I wish to say that my husband has no mother living, so it seems to me a mistake has been made somewhere."
"Such a man has mothers and wives to suit his convenience," retorted Rose. "I presume you will not deny that the man who calls himself your husband has fled."
"He is not at home at present."
"I thought not. I am sorry for you, Mrs. Bordine, but it is clearly a fact that we have both been sadly deceived. Of course you suffer more than I. I am free, and truly thankful that I escaped from the snare of such a villain. If I can do anything for you I will gladly respond."
"You can do nothing."
The woman sighed and came to her feet. She extended her hand with:
"I hope you will not blame me—"
"No, indeed. You have my heartfelt sympathy," assured Miss Alstine, with warmth, at the same time taking the wronged wife's hand in hers and kissing her pale cheek.
"May Heaven help you, Miss Alstine! I thought you might misconstrue my actions, and so I came to you. It is true my husband is a bad man, yet in spite of all I love him still, and would reform him if I could."
Then, dropping her veil, the wife walked sobbing from the room and the house.