Confession; Or, The Blind Heart. A Domestic Story

by William Gilmore Simms

“Very good,” continued Kingsley; “and now, gentlemen, with your leave—”

He opened his hand and displayed the three dice with which Cleveland had last thrown.

“Here you see the dice with which this worthy gentleman hoped to empty my pockets. These are they which he last threw upon the table. He counted handsomely by them! I threw, just before him, with those which you have in your hand. I had contrived to mark them previously, this very evening, in order that I might know them again. Why should he put them in his pocket, and throw with these? As this question is something important, I propose to answer it to your satisfaction as well as my own; and, for this reason, I came here, as you see, prepared to make discoveries.”

He drew from his pocket, while he spoke, a small saddler's hammer and steel-awl. Fixing with the sharp point of the awl in the ace spot of the dice, he struck it a single but sudden blow with the hammer, split each of the dice in turn, and disclosed to the wondering, or seemingly wondering, eyes of all around, a little globe of lead in each, inclining to the lowest numeral, and necessarily determining the roll of the dice so as to leave the lightest section uppermost.

“Here, gentlemen,” continued Kingsley, “you see by what process I have lost my money. But it is not in the dice alone. Look at these cards. Do you note this trace of the finger-nail, here, and there, and there—scarcely to be seen unless it is shown to you, but clear enough to the person that made it, and is prepared to look for it. Radcliffe, your fellow, Philip, has been concerned in this business. You must dismiss him, or your visitors will dismiss you. Neither myself nor my friends will visit you again—nay, more, I denounce you to the police. Am I understood?”

Radcliffe assented without scruple, evidently not so anxious for justice as for the safety of his establishment. But it appeared that there were others in the room not so well pleased with the result. A hubbub now took place, in which three or four fellows made a rush upon Kingsley—Cleveland urging and clamoring from the rear, though without betraying much real desire to get into the conflict.

But the assailants had miscalculated their forces. The youngsters in the establishment, regarding Kingsley's development as serving the common cause, were as soon at his side as myself. The scuffle was over in an instant. One burly ruffian was prostrated by a blow from Kingsley's club; I had my share in the prostration of a second, and some two others took to their heels, assisted in their progress by a smart application from every foot and fist that happened to be convenient enough for such a service.

But Cleveland alone remained. Why he had not shared the summary fate of the rest it would be difficult to say, unless it was because he had kept aloof from the active struggle to which he had egged them on. Perhaps, too, a better reason—he was reserved for some more distinguishing punishment. Why he had shown no disposition for flight himself, was answered as soon as Kingsley laid down his club, which he did with a laugh of exemplary good-nature the moment he had felled with it his first assailant. The flight of his allies left the path open between himself and Cleveland, and, suddenly darting upon him, the desperate gambler aimed a blow at his breast with a dirk which he had drawn that instant from his own. He exclaimed as he struck:—

“Here is something that escaped your search. Take this! this!”

Kingsley was just lifting up the cap, which he had worn that night, from the table to his brows. Instinctively he dashed it into the face of his assassin, and his simple evolution saved him. The next moment the fearless fellow had grappled with his enemy, torn the weapon from his grasp, and, seizing him around the body as if he had been an infant, moved with him to an open window looking out upon a neighboring court. The victim struggled, yelled for succor, but before any of us could interpose, the resolute and powerful man in whose hold he writhed and struggled vainly, with the gripe of a master, had thrust him through the opening, his heels, in their upward evolutions, shattering a dozen of the panes as he disappeared from sight below. We all concluded that he was killed. We were in an upper chamber, which I estimated to be twenty or thirty feet from the ground. I was too much shocked for speech, and rushed to the window, expecting to behold the mangled and bloody corpse of the miserable criminal beneath. The laughter of Radclifle half reassured me.