An Artist in Crime

"The thief might be a patient man, and all things come to him who waits," replied Mr. Thauret.

"True," said Mr. Mitchel. "But mark my words, the 'Egyptian Gem' will not be sold by the person who has it now."

"Especially if that person is yourself," said Mr. Randolph.

"Just so," answered Mr. Mitchel.

The conversation now drifted to other things, and shortly after, the dinner being over, the three men separated.

As Mr. Barnes was about to leave the main dining-room, one of the servants handed him a note. Supposing it to be from Mr. Randolph, he opened it at once, and was surprised and chagrined to read:

"When Mr. Barnes next plays the eavesdropper he should be careful to observe whether a mirror reflects both sides of a portière which he might suppose would conceal him.

    "Mitchel."

"The devil take it," muttered Mr. Barnes. "I wonder at what point he discovered my presence. Was that last part, about his having warned all the dealers, thrown in gratuitously for my benefit, and to lead me to suppose that some one else stole the stone? If so, why does he now let me know that he saw me?"

CHAPTER XIII.

MR. BARNES GOES SOUTH

Mr. Barnes now began some researches into the past history of Mr. Alphonse Thauret. Obtaining the date of his first registry at the Hoffman House he found that to be about a month before the train robbery occurred. Finding the expressman who had brought his baggage to the hotel, it transpired that it had been taken from an English steamship, yet the name Thauret did not appear upon the list of passengers. As it was certain, however, that the man must have arrived by the ship, it was evident that "Thauret" was an alias. Mr. Barnes copied the ship's list for future reference. A search for the name Rose Mitchel was fruitless, though extended to the passenger lists of all arriving steamers for two months prior to the murder.

Believing that Mr. Thauret must have some communication with foreign friends, and hoping to obtain some clue by the post-marks of any such letters, Mr. Barnes arranged an espionage of the man's mail. But though the hotel clerk reported to him daily for several weeks, there was not one foreign letter. As to money, Mr. Thauret appeared to be well supplied, paying his board-bills promptly with checks upon a neighboring national bank, in which it was ascertained that he had deposited to his credit several thousand dollars.

Thus after a long investigation, Mr. Barnes was chagrined to admit that he had discovered nothing save that Mr. Thauret had come across the ocean under an assumed name, and even this meagre knowledge was a mere matter of inference.

Though baffled in this direction Mr. Barnes had been more successful in another effort which he essayed. This was a line of investigation which he inaugurated, hoping to discover the whereabouts of the child Rose Mitchel, who was so skilfully kept in hiding. He had first instructed Lucette as to the part she was to play, and that young woman, anxious once more to stand well with her employer, had exerted herself to her utmost, entirely succeeding in her mission. This was to obtain some of the writing of the child. "Go to the house again," Mr. Barnes had suggested, "and get into conversation with that same servant who met you at the door on your first visit. Then in some manner obtain a specimen of the child's writing. An old copy-book would be just the thing." Lucette carried out these instructions to the letter, and by bribing the servant girl at the school obtained exactly what the detective had suggested, a copy-book in which little Rose Mitchel had practised writing.

Armed with this, and selecting a specimen, which seemed best suited to his purpose, Mr. Barnes next bribed the mail boy at the Fifth Avenue Hotel to examine all letters addressed to Mr. Mitchel until he should find one in the same hand. It was not until early in March that this patient work resulted in success. Then one day the boy reported to Mr. Barnes that the expected letter had at length arrived. The post-mark indicated that it had been mailed at East Orange, New Jersey.

"So that is where the little bird is hidden," said Mr. Barnes to himself when this information reached him. Summoning Lucette, he sent her to East Orange with these instructions:

"Now, my girl, I'll give you another chance to redeem yourself. You are to go to East Orange and find that child. The most promising plan is through the post-office. I will give you a note to the postmaster that will aid you. Should a letter be sent to the child either by Mitchel himself or by Miss Remsen, you will learn of it through the postmaster. The rest of course will be simple."

"But suppose," said Lucette, "that the child's letters are directed under cover to the parties with whom she is living? What then?"

"Why, stupid, that is what I send you down there for. As the postmaster is an acquaintance of mine, I could get the address, should it reach him, without having you there. But that is only a faint hope. We know that the child is in East Orange. East Orange has just so many houses. You must examine every one if necessary. Now go, and if you don't find the child, I have no further need of you. I give you this commission partly as a chance to redeem your other mistake, and partly because you have seen the child once and could recognize her."

"I'll find her," said Lucette, and she departed.

A week later Mr. Barnes was in New Orleans, where he devoted himself to discovering, if possible, the early histories of Mr. Mitchel and the murdered woman. Weeks passed and he made no progress.

One morning in the latter part of April he was feeling somewhat despondent over his ill success, when, as he glanced listlessly through the Picayune, the following paragraph caught his eye:

"Mr. Barnes, the celebrated New York detective, is in the city and stopping at the St. Charles Hotel. It is believed that he is in search of a desperate criminal, and probably the news-loving world will soon be treated to one of the famous detective's clever elucidations of some mysterious crime."

This both annoyed and puzzled Mr. Barnes. He had not told any one his true name, and could not guess how the reporters had found out his identity. Whilst he was thinking of it a card was brought to him which bore the name

"Richard Sefton."

He directed that the gentleman should be shown to his room, and soon after a man of about thirty-five, with dark complexion, black hair, and keen hazel eyes, entered, bowing politely and saying:

"This is Mr. Barnes, I believe."

"Be seated, Mr. Sefton," said Mr. Barnes, coldly, "and then tell me why you believe me to be Mr. Barnes when I am registered as James Morton."

"I do not believe you to be Mr. Barnes," said the other, coolly seating himself. "I was inaccurate in using that expression. I know that you are Mr. Barnes."

"Oh! You do! And how, pray, do you know that I am Mr. Barnes?"

"Because it is my business to know people. I am a detective like yourself. I have come to help you."

"You have come to help me! You are very kind I am sure. But since you are so very clever, perhaps you would not mind telling me how you know that I need help, and in what direction."

"With pleasure. You need help because, pardon my saying it, you are working on a case in which time is precious to you, and you have already wasted about six weeks. I say wasted, because you have learned nothing that will aid you in your search."

"In my search for what?"

"Mr. Barnes, you are not over-cordial. There should be some fraternal courtesy between us. I have come to you as a friend, honestly wishing to aid you. I have known that you were in the city for some time. I have heard of you of course. Who in our business has not? Therefore I have spent a great deal of spare time watching you. I did so simply to notice, and perhaps to learn something from, your methods. In this way I became acquainted with the fact, first, that you are interested in the name Mitchel, and secondly in the name Leroy. I have simply put the two together and jumped to the conclusion that you are trying to learn something about Leroy Mitchel. Am I right?"

"Before I reply to you, Mr. Sefton, I must have more assurance of your good-will and responsibility. How do I know that you are a detective at all?"

"Quite right! Here is my badge. I am in the department here."

"Very well so far, but now how can you prove that you have any good reason for assisting me?"

"You are a hard man to help, I declare. Why, what object but a friendly one can I have?"

"I am not prepared to answer that at present. Perhaps I shall be able to do so later."

"Oh, very well! You can look me up all you want to. I can stand it, I assure you. But really I did want to help, though of course I have no right to intrude. As you say you do not need me, why I – "

"I did not say that I would not accept your aid. You must not think me ungracious. I am simply a detective, and careful from habit. I certainly should not speak confidentially to a man that I meet for the first time, and so disclose any of my own purposes. But it is different with you. You must have had a definite idea, by which you expect to give me assistance, or you would not have come here. If you are earnest and honest, I see no reason why you should not disclose the main purpose of your visit at once."

"If only to prove my honesty, I will do so. I believe you are looking for Leroy Mitchel. If so I can tell you how to find him in a few hours, or at the worst in a day or two."

"You know of a Leroy Mitchel, who is now in this city?"

"I do. He is over in Algiers, a worker in one of the car houses. He is a common drunken brute, and that is the only reason why there would be any difficulty about finding him. When he is sober he is easy to see, but as soon as he gets some money he is off on another spree."

"Do you know of a woman by the name of Rose Mitchel?"

"Certainly. That is, I did know such a woman once. But she has not been in New Orleans for years. At one time any one could have given you her address. I see now that this man is the one whom you want, for once he passed as this woman's husband."

"You are sure of this?"

"Positive."