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[Illustration: "I ARREST YOU FOR THE MURDER OF VICTORIA VANE.">[

FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS REWARD

BY FRANK PINKERTON

1886

CHAPTER I.

THE TRAMP.

"Will you give me a glass of water, please?"

A ragged, bearded tramp stood before the door of a cottage near the outskirts of a country village, and propounded this question to a pretty girl who stood in the door.

"In a moment."

The girl disappeared, soon returning with a pitcher.

She went to the pump near, and soon had the pitcher running over with sparkling water.

"I will bring a cup."

"Needn't mind."

The tramp lifted the pitcher and quaffed the water as though he enjoyed it.

His eyes were not pleasant as he turned them keenly on the pretty face of the girl.

"Folks at home?"

"No."

"All alone, eh?"

"Yes; but Ransom will be around soon—my brother."

The eyes of the tramp glittered. He seemed to delight in reading the fresh young face before him.

"Nobody at home, eh?" he grunted. "Mebbe I'd better go in and rest a bit.
Any objections?"

"Yes. If you are hungry I'll bring you food out here."

It was a pleasant day, and the sun was warm without being hot, a rare enjoyable day in June.

It seemed to the girl that there could be no excuse for a stout man like the one before her tramping and begging through the country.

"Why do you not work?" she said.

"I wasn't born that way," and he chuckled unpleasantly.

The girl hurried into the house.

His Trampship followed.

She was not a little alarmed at finding the ill-looking fellow close at her heels. She feared and dared not anger him.

Placing a chair at a table, she bade him be seated, and then she hastened to set before him bread, milk and cold meat.

"The best the house affords, eh?" he chuckled, as he sat up to the repast. "The very best."

"And it's good enough for a king."

Then he fell to and ate ravenously.

The girl walked to the door and gazed uneasily down the road.

"Brother comin'?"

"I do not see him."

"What's your name?"

The tramp was inquisitive.

"Vane."

"Eh? Is that a fact?"

The stout fellow started and regarded the girl fixedly.

"Is the name a familiar one?" questioned the girl after a moment, anxious to conciliate the man. Her nearest neighbor was at least a quarter mile distant, and the house was concealed by a clump of trees, so that the girl felt that she was at the mercy of this burly, ill-looking stranger, should he attempt violence.

"Vane, Vane," he muttered. "Reckon I've heard the name before. And you're
Victory, I reckon?"

"Victoria."

"Exactly. Sister to Rance Vane. I know'd that chap onct, and I found him not a man, but a scamp. I never liked the Vanes, father'n son. The old man's dead, I s'pose?"

"Yes."

"How long sense?"

"More than a year."

"Good 'nough. He wa'nt o' much account."

The tramp's eyes seemed to become suddenly bloodshot. He shoved from the table, and rose to his feet.

The girl hoped to see him go, but he made no move to do so.

"You live alone with your brother?" he queried, suddenly.

"Most of the time."

"Victory, did ye ever hear Rance speak of Perry Jounce?"

The man leered at her in a way that sent a chill over her.

"Never."

"No? Wal, he didn't like me. I reckin I'll hev a kiss afore I go, anyhow."

He began to move toward her. She started to escape through the open door, but was not quick enough. The man's hand grasped her arm and she felt herself drawn toward him.

Then Victoria Vane uttered a piercing scream.

"Stop that yellin', you fool!" hissed the tramp. He drew her to him and bent to press his bearded lips to her cheek.

On the instant another person appeared upon the scene.

A bunch of bones collided with the bull neck of the tramp, sending him reeling across the floor.

Victoria darted to the arms of the new-comer, a young man, tall, slender and of prepossessing appearance, clad in hunter's costume.

"Oh, August, save me!" screamed the girl.

"Scoundrel!" cried the young hunter, presenting a rifle at the breast of the tramp. "What do you mean by this assault on a lady?"

There was a horrible expression in the eyes of the tramp, and on the instant he slipped from concealment a large knife to his hand.

"Stand aside, Miss Vane," the hunter said to the girl. "I will learn this scoundrel a lesson."

Victoria obeyed, standing back against the wall, pale and frightened, while the last comer confronted the burly tramp with his rifle cocked for instant use.

"Let me go out, August Bordine."

So the tramp seemed to recognize the youthful hunter.

"I ought to turn you over to the authorities for punishment," declared the young man, sternly.

"'T won't do you no good," grunted the tramp, "I hain't done nothing."

"I will leave it to Miss Vane."

Then he glanced at the girl.

The tramp began to glide toward the door.

"Stop!" thundered August Bordine. Then to the girl, "Miss Vane, I await your decision."

"Permit him to go then. I wish no further trouble," said Victoria.

"But he really ought to be punished. He certainly deserves ninety days in prison at the least," declared the young hunter.

"Let me go, Miss, I didn't mean nothin' wrong," whined the man who had called himself Perry Jounce.

"Let him go," said Victoria.

The hunter lowered his gun and the tramp passed into the outer air. He hurriedly left the vicinity, but before he had passed from sight, he turned his face toward the cottage, and shook a chinched hand toward the open door in which stood two forms—Victoria and August Bordine.

"Curse you, August Bordine!" hissed the coarse lips. "I'll make you repent this interference, I swear I will. You shall swing some day, and I'll be there to hear your neck crack!"

Then he turned about and disappeared in a clump of trees beside the road.

Victoria Vane and the young hunter were near enough to notice the movement of the baffled tramp, but neither heard his vindictive words. It might have been well for them had they done so.

Victoria clung to the young hunter's arm after the departure of Jounce, and seemed a long time in recovering from her fright.

"There's no further danger," declared Bordine, "so just calm your fears.
I will remain until your brother returns."

"You are very kind, August."

After a little the young man quietly disengaged her hands from his arm and led her to a seat.

"There, rest yourself, Victoria, while I look about the premises."

He snatched his gun and moved toward the door.

"Don't leave me, August."

"There is not the least danger now. That tramp will not return."

"He may."

"I will not be far away. If you were so fearful why did you not permit me to take him to prison?"

"I don't know. I did not wish to appear against him, I suppose."

August Bordine smiled at the look that came to the face of the girl.

He had known Victoria Vane and her brother for several months. He was never prepossessed in favor of her brother, and he often thought her "soft," to use a vulgar expression.

"I do believe the girl would make love to me if I would permit it, by giving her the least encouragement. The Vanes are queer and no mistake," remarked Bordine, to a young lady of his acquaintance, living in an adjoining town.

Rose Alstine was plain and sensible, and took no offense at her lover's referring to Miss Vane. Why should she? She knew that genial August Bordine was true as steel and generous and sympathetic to a fault.

Trouble was coming, however, that was to try the young girl's faith as it had never been tried before.

Back of Ridgewood village was a forest of large extent, bordering on a narrow stream. This woods was owned by an Eastern capitalist and he had as yet permitted no woodman's ax to resound in its depths.

Game abounded, and the woods was the frequent resort for amateur hunters, among them the young civil engineer, August Bordine.

It was his frequent visits to Eastman's woods with gun and game-bag that brought him in frequent contact with the Vanes, and especially Victoria, who, during the short space of a few months, had become violently smitten with the handsome face and gentlemanly bearing of the young engineer.

It was this fact that determined Bordine to shorten his stay at the cottage on the day in question.

"There isn't the least danger," assured August, as he lifted his gun to the hollow of his arm and prepared to depart from the Vane cottage.

"Then you will not stay?"

Tears actually stood in the blue eyes of Miss Vane.

"Good gracious! Vic, what a baby," and he laughed aloud.

He stepped to her side, however, and as her face pale, pretty, even though babyish, was upturned to his he could not resist the temptation, and he bent and kissed her full upon the pouting lips.

Then a pair of soft arms were wound quickly about his neck, and a voice whispered softly:

"Why can't you stay with me always, August?"

He tore himself loose instantly, a guilty feeling entering his heart. He was acting the hypocrite with a vengeance, and it did not agree with his honorable nature.

"Confound it, Miss Vane, what a tease you are. There comes your brother now, and I must away."

"You will call when you return from your hunt?"

"Perhaps."

He then passed outside.

A single horseman was riding slowly down the forest road toward the village.

He must needs pass the cottage.

August Bordine had called the traveler Victoria's brother. He saw his mistake as he passed out, but did not deem it necessary to rectify it.

He swung his rifle to his shoulder, and moved, with a long stride, toward the nearest point of woods.

Vaulting a fence, he crossed a bit of clearing and entered a clump of trees.

Here he paused and looked back.

The strange horseman had halted at the cottage, and was conversing with
Victoria.

Bordine saw him lift his hat politely, and knew that it was no tramp this time who craved favor at the cottage.

"I don't think the girl will require my presence this time," muttered the young engineer.

She did, however, as the sequel proved.

Bordine, whistling softly, turned away and plunged deeply into the forest.

CHAPTER II.

MURDER.

For several hours August Bordine scoured the woods in search of game. His hunt proved unsuccessful, however, and with weary limbs and anything but pleasant mood he retraced his steps.

At length he stood in the road within sight of the Vane cottage.

Everything looked quiet and peaceful about the place.

No smoke curled up from the kitchen chimney, although the sun was low in the western heavens.

"Vic hasn't begun to prepare supper it seems," muttered Bordine. "Wonder if I had best go up that way and call. Of course Ransom has returned. I believe I will and inquire who the gentleman was who called just as I was entering the woods."

And so Bordine turned his steps in the direction of the Vane cottage. The front door was closed, and a dead silence reigned over the place as he came up.

"Wonder if the folks are gone."

Bordine rapped.

No answer was vouchsafed.

He rapped again.

Silence profound as the grave.

"Well, there seems nobody at home. Vic sometimes occupies the back porch with the cat and her book; I will see."

He walks swiftly around the house.

He came to a sudden stand as he gained the broad side porch of the cottage.

He stood staring, struck dumb with an awful, deadly fear. Then he moved forward a step.

His eye fell on the interior of the porch, and he started and stopped.

What was it that held his steps?

[Illustration: HIS EYE FELL ON THE INTERIOR OF THE PORCH, AND HE STARTED
AND STOPPED.]

An object on the ground—Victoria Vane, lying at full length, with open, staring eyes, her masses of yellow hair stained a horrible crimson.

She lay within the porch, while at her side was a basket overturned, its contents scattered about, as though she had been holding it in her lap at the time of the accident.

Was it an accident?

As soon as he could recover his self-possession, August Bordine sat down his gun and bent over the prostrate girl.

There was a subdued horror in his eyes as he gazed.

Blood had trickled out in a little pool from a wound in her neck, that wound had proved the death of poor Victoria Vane.

Who had made it?

Suicide!

This was the young man's first thought—yet he soon convinced himself that this was not likely.

A letter, torn and blood-stained, lay near. August picked it from the ground and examined it. It proved to be from a gentleman, and was written in a friendly, not to say lover-like strain. At the bottom was signed a name, "A. Bor——"

The latter part of the name was completely obliterated by a blot of blood.

While the young engineer stood in an attitude of shocked irresolution, a step sounded on the gravel behind him.

He turned to look into the face of a young man whose countenance showed resemblance to the dead girl.

"My God! what is this?"

The new-comer darted forward, gazed for a moment into the dead face of poor Victoria, then staggered back, clutching the arm of August Bordine to save himself from falling.

"Suicide, I fear," answered Bordine for lack of words.

"Suicide! My soul, is Victoria dead?"

Then the last comer knelt down beside the prostrate girl, and lifted her golden head to his knee.

His cries and moans were heartrending.

In vain Bordine tried to soothe the young man, but he found that a brother's grief was beyond assuagement.

For many minutes Ransom Vane sat and moaned and wept beside his dead sister.

Then he became calm suddenly, and sprang to his feet, glancing about him in a way that caused Bordine to fear for his reason.

"Suicide you said?" turning fiercely upon August Bordine.

"I said it might be."

"It is not. Vic was happy; why should she take her own life?"

"I do not know."

"She was murdered."

"It may be so."

"You know it is. Look! See where the steel of the assassin entered her poor neck, and cut to the life. Oh, Vic, my poor darling! you shall be avenged. I will go to the ends of the earth but I will find your slayer and have his life."

Ransom Vane was white as death, and trembled like a leaf.

"I will go for a doctor," said Bordine.

"A doctor? See the life-blood there. Think you a doctor can be of service?" groaned the young brother.

"No, but it is customary in such cases, and the coroner must be notified."

August Bordine turned to depart.

"Stop!"

Ransom Vane laid a detaining hand on the arm of the young engineer.

"See; what is that?"

It proved to be a spot of blood on the hand and sleeve of the young engineer's shirt, a point of which peered below his outer sleeve.

"It came from this," explained August, holding out the letter.

"Where did you get that?"

Vane took the stained and torn letter from the hand of Bordine.

"I found it on the porch."

Ransom Vane read the note hurriedly.

"MY DEAR:—Expect me on the 10th of June. I have been anxious to see you for a long time, dear girl, and I know you will forgive me when you hear what I have to say. If you cannot, then we must part forever, unless—but I will tell you more when I see you. Till then, good by, dear.

"Your faithful

"A. BOR——"

Quickly Ransom Vane turned upon the man before him, casting a fierce look into his face.

"This letter is yours—"

"No; you may keep it," answered Bordine quickly. "It may lead to some clew."

"But I say the letter is yours. You wrote it."

"Certainly not." "But see here;" and Vane pointed to the mutilated signature.

Bordine started when he saw how closely the name resembled his own.

"Do you deny that you wrote that?" demanded Ransom Vane, fiercely.

"Certainly; I did not write it."

"By heaven, you did, and it is you who murdered my sister!" hissed young Vane, trembling with the maddest emotions that ever whelmed a human breast.

"Vane clutched the arm of young Bordine, and glared furiously into his face.

"Calm yourself, my dear Ransom," urged the engineer. "You are beside yourself now. I had no quarrel with Victoria. In fact, we were the best of friends, and I parted from her this morning on the best of terms. I—"

"But this letter?" demanded Vane, fiercely.

"I know no more about it than you do, Ransom. I found it there on the porch."

"But it is yours?—you wrote it?"

"No; a thousand times no," articulated August Bordine, in a convincing tone.

Ransom Vane groaned and reeled against a post, the letter falling from his nerveless hand to the ground.

For some moments not a word passed between the two. Both were evidently thinking.

The thoughts of Bordine were not pleasant ones. He remembered the tramp who had that morning made himself so disagreeable to Victoria. It must be that he was the author of this horrible crime.

Another figure too came up before the vision of the young engineer, the man on horseback who sat with lifted hat, bowing to Victoria Vane, just as he (Bordine) entered the woods.

One of these men had committed the deed. Which one? Most likely the tramp.

Such were the thoughts that passed through the brain of August in the five minutes that he stood silently regarding vacancy.

"August."

The voice of the sorrowing brother fell sadly on the ear of the engineer.

"Well, Ransom."

"Assist me to carry poor Vic—"

He could go no further, but moved with tear-dimmed eyes toward the dead.

August bent to the work without further speech, and assisted the brother to move the body into the house to the pleasant front bed-room, the especial resort of the poor girl in life. Here they placed her on the low, neatly-covered bed, and then Bordine turned away, leaving brother and sister in solemn, silent companionship.

That was the saddest moment of August Bordine's life.

Not even when his own sister died six years before had he felt the solemn weight of sadness more deeply. Victoria had been his friend. She was not over-bright, yet she was kind and tender of heart. He felt her death deeply, and found himself wondering who could have been so wicked as to murder a pretty girl, who he believed, had not an enemy in the wide world.

There was something of mystery about the affair.

Once outside Bordine examined the ground closely. He saw nothing of the letter, and was about to move away, when a shadow fell athwart the grass giving him a sudden start.

CHAPTER III.

ALL A MYSTERY.

"I beg your pardon, but does Mr. Vane live here?"

A man of small stature, smooth face and the keenest eyes Bordine had ever seen in human head, stood before him. He lifted a broad-brimmed straw hat and fanned himself as though heated, although the air was quite cool for the season.

"Do you mean Ransom Vane?"

"Yes, sir."

"He lives here."

"Very good—"

"But, sir," interrupted Bordine, "he is in no mood to receive visitors now."

"Indeed?"

"A terrible thing has happened."

Then glancing down, the small stranger caught sight of the blood. He did not shrink, but an interested look at once came to his face.

"A tragedy?" he questioned, quickly.

"Yes. Victoria Vane is dead."

"How?"

"It seems to be either murder or suicide."

"This is bad. When did it happen?"

"Some time to-day."

"No witnesses to the deed?"

"None who have yet appeared."

Just then Ransom Vane appeared on the porch. The moment his gaze rested on the face of the new-comer he uttered a glad cry and extended his hand.

"Of all men in the world you are the one I most desire to see," exclaimed
Vane. Then he turned to Bordine. "Mr. Bordine, this is my old friend from
Newport, Silas Keene. You may have heard me mention his name."

"Yes. I have read of him as well. I am happy to clasp the hand of the most noted detective of Gotham."

This was no flattery.

Silas Keene was not a secondary man. He was first in everything pertaining to matters criminal. He had traced down more crime perhaps than any man of his age in Gotham, and he was verging on forty.

It was opportune indeed, the great detective coming at this time.

Ransom Vane had known the man for years, and the twain had been bosom friends.

"I cannot remain with you, Ransom," said Bordine, "but I will come again soon. If you require any help from me, you know, you have only to call on me."

"Certainly."

A minute later the man in hunter's costume had disappeared.

Sile Keene went in to look at the dead girl, then he examined the ground closely, the porch, the letters, and finally investigated the extent and shape of the death-wound.

It proved to be narrow but deep, evidently made with a dirk or blade with two edges.

Then, after the house was searched and it was discovered that a bureau had been rifled of several hundred dollars left there by Ransom, the young cottager placed the torn, blood-stained letter he had found in Bordines' possession, in the hand of the detective.

"Where did you get this?" questioned Keene, after he had read the short epistle.

"It was found near my poor sister, on the porch."

"You found it?"

"No, Bordine."

"By the way, who made the discovery of the tragedy first?"

"Mr. Bordine. He was standing over Victoria, with this letter in his hand, when I arrived."

"He is your friend?"

"Well, yes, I have supposed him to be."

"What is his full name?"

"August Bordine."

The detective glanced at the letter, then gave vent to a low whistle. This was natural with him at times, especially when he had made a gratifying discovery.

"Now you must be frank with me," proceeded Keene. "Tell me truly, what relation this man, Bordine, bore to your sister."

"They were friends."

"Nothing more?"

Detective Keene eyed his companion sharply.

"Well, I suppose it possible that they might have enjoyed a nearer relation had Victoria lived," said Ransom Vane in an unsteady voice.

"You think they were lovers?"

"Yes."

"How did he seem to take this tragedy?"

"I cannot tell, I don't think he was unduly agitated, however."

"Hum."

Then the detective fell to thinking deeply. He folded the note carefully, and placed it in an inner pocket.

"I will retain that," he said. "Of course the coroner must be notified. This is indeed a sad case. I had no thought of such a thing when I left the depot to visit you. This will astound the neighborhood. I came from New York intending to visit Chicago, where it is thought a forger has found a hiding place. I was not employed to run him down, but thought I would place the case in the hands of the Pinkertons."

"You will not desert me in the hour of my trouble, Silas?"

"No, I will not."

"You will remain to hunt down the murderer of poor Vic?"

Emotion choked the young man's utterance then, and he turned his haggard face away to hide his feelings.

"I hoped for a brief rest, and an enjoyable visit, old friend," returned
Keene.

"It seems that it is not to be. I seem destined to be forever on the trail of some criminal. Poor little Victoria. When I saw her last she was a pretty, playful child. I cannot conceive of a heart wicked enough to take such an innocent life."

"It was done for plunder?"

"Do you think so?"

"I had two hundred dollars in the bureau. That was taken."

"Yes."

"That convinces me that my poor sister was murdered so that the villain could rob the house."

"I am not sure of that."

"No?"

"This robbery may be only a blind."

"Do you think so?"

"I will not say that. It will never do to jump at conclusions. My suspicions, if I have any, turn toward that man who just left us."

"August Bordine?"