3. CHAPTER THIRD.
THE BURGLAR AND THE GUESTS.
“What! am I free?” cried the Preacher,
tearing the bandage from his eyes, and at one
glance surveying the face of the girl — the
gloomy visage of Goodleigh — and the form of
Charles Lester, pinioned by the arms of Stewel
Pydgeon:
`Yes, that's right. Seize him! A thief!
a robber! He was about to murder me!”
And in his delight the Preacher fairly
danced over the carpet. Poor Fanny, still in
the Magnetic state, stood like a statue, covered
with a drooping cloak, her face glowing in the
faint light.
“Now, sir,” said Caleb, “will you have the
goodness to name your accomplices, and to
restore the tin box which you took from this
desk?”
“Where's your gang?” added Stewel.
“A moment, and you would have been too
late,” exclaimed the Preacher: “With this
girl as his accomplice, he was about to lead me
from this house to some haunt of robbery and
murder.”
“If it is not an imperlite quest'on,” said
Stewel, who in a moment had seized Charles
and pinioned his hands behind his back:
“Which of you two brought the gal up stairs,
the thief or the Preacher?”
“The Preacher!” echoed that gentleman:
“Sir, you are mistaken. I am no Preacher.
My name is Jervis.”
Charles Lester, with his hands pinioned behind
his back, saw the tall form of Caleb Goodleigh
glide between his eyes and the form of
Fanny Jones. Charles was somewhat pale;
his eyes however shone with unchanging lustre.
“Will you release me, sir?” he said; “why
am I pinioned like a thief?”
“Down stairs with him,” said Goodleigh
fiercely: “let us confront him with my guests.
Perhaps some of them may know this burglar.”
Brother Caleb held the light, while Stewel
urged the captive from the room, along the
passage, and down the stairway. Charles
was perfectly still. He suffered them to lead
and urge him at their pleasure.
They entered the room adjoining the scene
of the midnight festival. Charles was placed
upon the sofa. Brother Caleb held the light
near his face, and whispered —
“Restore the tin box, and you are free!
Hesitate, and I will proclaim you a burglar in
the presence of my guests.”
Ere Charles had time to reply, Stewel broke
in with the words —
“Where's the gal and the Preacher? Say?
They'll be needed as witnesses.”
Brother Caleb answered him with an oath.
“Do not breathe a word about them before my
guests,” he whispered: “they do not concern
us, neither Jervis or the girl. Now sir,” turning
once more to the captive, “your answer,
if you please?”
“Release me,” exclaimed Charles; “I know
nothing of your tin box. Release me, and permit
me to go my way.”
The answer of Brother Caleb was soon
given. Turning away, he flung open the folding
doors, exclaiming, in loud and angry tones:
“I have been robbed! Yes, my house has
been entered by burglars. This way, gentlemen,
this way, and tell me what you think of
this fellow.”
The folding doors were thrown open, and
across the threshold thronged the thirty guests;
that is, as many of them as were able to keep
their feet. Some carried wax candles in their
hands, as they surveyed the culprit, and the
brow of the pinioned man was soon revealed
in ruddy light.
“Look at him, gentlemen,” cried Brother
Caleb, who seemed beside himself with rage:
“This fellow in the bearskin overcoat and fur
cap, has entered my house at the head of a
gang of burglars. He has robbed me of a tin
box, containing the title deeds of all my
property. Do you know him — examine his
features — there!”
He tore the fur cap away, and the face of
Charles was disclosed. The young man, sitting
on the sofa, his arms pinioned behind his back,
and his visage, the object of the united gaze of
some twenty-five pairs of half drunken eyes,
seemed to have been seized with a leaden stupor.
His face pale, his lips apart, he gazed
around with large grey eyes, dilating with an
apathetic stare. Indeed, the events of the past
five minutes seemed to have completely deprived
him of the powers of thought and sensation.
Not a word passed his lips while he was
subjected to this ignominious survey.
“A bad face,” said the little fat man; “do
you see that eye!”
“Desperate villian!” said the large fat man;
“looks like a pirate.”
“Has thee pistols under thee overcoat?” politely
asked the small Quaker: “If thee has,
are they loaded? and if loaded, does thee intend
to fire them off?”
Here the buxom Mrs. North took up the
story. Swelling through the crowd, like a
billow of satin and velvet, she regarded the
pale face of Charles through an eye-glass:
“Rather an interesting face. Should not
wonder if he had been a pirate. U-g-h! It
quite makes one shudder.”
Staggering through the throng, Slinkum
Scissleby, lean and drunken, rested one hand
upon the plump arm of Mrs. North, as he
surveyed the visage of the culprit with a leaden
stare:
“Item for the Copper,” he muttered: “Melancholy
effect of the perusal of French Novels.
Young man caught robbin' a house — volume
of Eugene Sue found in his pocket. W-h-a-t!”
he ejaculated, as he bent nearer to the accused:
“It's the same! I can swear to him! Threatened
me to-night at the — Hotel, Room
No. 92. What an escape I've had! —” with
a profound sigh — “Yes, gentlemen, yes, Mrs.
North, the Daily Copper this very night has
been within an ace of losing its Sub. Steamer
in, did you say?”
Mrs. North quietly pushed Scissleby aside,
for his inebriation had reached the Mezzotinto
state, and he did not seem to know the difference
between her hand and a roll of copy, as
he pressed her plump fingers in his grasp.
Bung came forward. Bung, with flushed
face, curled hair, scarlet vest, blue cravat and
plaid pantaloons. At a glance he recognized
his friend of the evening party, in the person
of Charles Lester. But with a truly Philadelphian
instinct, Bung had no idea of acknowledging
a friend in difficulty; he never
knew a friend whose hands were tied behind
his back.
“A b-a-d face. Quite Jack Sheppard-ish.
Send him to the Station House, Goodleigh,
and let's have a look at that copper ore.”
Caleb's lean form, arrayed in the spotless
white vest and faultless azure coat, with yellow
buttons, towered over the heads of all his
guests, as he advanced once more and confronted
his prisoner. The light which Bung
held disclosed Caleb's face in strong relief.
Ghastly at the best of times, it was now pale,
repulsive, cadaverous. His blue eyes, bulging
until they were on a line with the brow, and
flashing with cold light over the hollows of
his cheeks, gave a marked individuality to his
countenance.
“Stewel,” said Caleb, turning his head over
his shoulder, and seeking with his glance the
face of the Police officer; “Take him to the
Station House.”
Stewel waddled through the crowd
“Come, my lark, you'll have to mosey,”
he began —
When the door was thrown open, and a
stranger who puffed and blowed as with violent
exercise, pushed through the crowd of guests,
and stood face to face with the culprit.
