An Artist in Crime

"When and where can I see this man?"

"He works in the shops of the Louisiana and Texas Railroad over in Algiers. You can find him through the foreman."

"Mr. Sefton, it may be that you have given me information which will be of service to me. If so you will not regret it. I will myself examine into the matter. For the present, if I do not make a confident of you, you must attribute it to caution rather than to distrust."

"Oh, I am not easily offended. I would act in the same manner in your place. But you will find that I am your friend. You can count on me to aid you on demand. I won't trouble you again till you send for me. A note to head-quarters will reach me quickest. Good-morning."

"Good-morning, Mr. Sefton, and thank you." Mr. Barnes extended his hand, feeling that perhaps he had been unnecessarily discourteous.

Mr. Sefton took it with that genial smile of friendship so common to the native Southerner.

Left alone, Mr. Barnes at once prepared for a trip to Algiers, determined not to let any more time be lost. He reached the shops just after the men had knocked off for luncheon. The foreman, however, told him that Leroy Mitchel had been at work in the morning, so he waited patiently.

When the men came back to resume work, the foreman pointed out a man who he said was Leroy Mitchel. The fellow had a bad face, and if ever he was a gentleman he had sunk so low through drink that no evidence of it remained in his appearance. Mr. Barnes went up to him and asked when he could have a talk with him.

"Now, if you pay for it," replied the man insolently.

"What do you mean?" asked the detective.

"Just what I say," said the other. "We get our pay here by the hour, and if you want my time why you'll have to pay for it at union rates," and he laughed as though a good joke had been propounded.

"Then," said Mr. Barnes, taking in the kind of a man with whom he had to deal, "I'll engage you on a job that I have for you, and pay you double wages as long as I use you."

"Now you are talking," said the fellow. "Where'll we go?"

"I think I'll take you to my hotel." And thither they proceeded. Up in his own room again, Mr. Barnes felt at ease, whilst his companion certainly made himself comfortable, selecting a rocking-chair, and putting his feet up on the window-sill.

"Now then," began Mr. Barnes, "I want to ask you a few questions. Are you prepared to answer them?"

"That will depend on what they are. If you don't ask impertinent questions, or ones that I think I ought to get more than double wages for answering, why, I am with you."

"In the first place, then, are you willing to say whether you ever knew a woman who called herself Rose Mitchel?"

"Well, rather. I lived with her till she broke me."

"Do you know where she is now?"

"I don't, and I don't care to."

"Suppose I were to tell you that she is dead, and that she had left a hundred thousand dollars which is unclaimed?"

The man jumped to his feet as though shot, and stood staring at the detective. He gave a long, low whistle, and a keen, tricky gleam came into his eye, which Mr. Barnes noted. At length he spoke:

"Are you giving me this straight?"

"I am telling you the truth. The woman is dead, and that amount of property is where I can get it for the man who can prove that he is entitled to it."

"And who would that be?" He waited eagerly for the reply, and Mr. Barnes saw that he was playing trump cards.

"Why, Mr. Mitchel, that is what I am down here for. You see, I thought the party would be willing to pay me a good commission for proving him the heir, and that is why I am hunting him up. I started out with the idea that I might find her husband. He would have a claim."

"I see." Saying which, he sat down and seemed lost in thought. The detective deemed it well to wait for him to speak again, which he did.

"See here," he exclaimed; "how much do you want for getting this money for me?"

"I cannot get it at all unless you are the woman's husband," replied the detective.

"Well I am her husband. Didn't I tell you I lived with her till she broke me?"

"Yes, but are you legally married to her?"

"Why, to be sure. Don't I tell you I am her husband?"

"Then, in the name of the law, I arrest you," said Mr. Barnes, suddenly rising and standing over the man.

"Arrest me," said the fellow, jumping up, pale with fright. "What for?"

"Rose Mitchel has been murdered, and the man who killed her has confessed that he was hired to do it by you."

"He is a blasted liar."

"I hope so for your sake. But as you admit that you are her husband, you are the man we are looking for. I'll have to take you to New York."

"But, I say," said the fellow, now thoroughly alarmed, "there is a big mistake here. I've been lying to you; I'm not the woman's husband, and my name is not Mitchel."

"That won't do, my man. I had you pointed out to me by Sefton, the detective here."

"But he is the very man that hired me to pass off as Mitchel to you."

Mr. Barnes chuckled as he found his ruse successful. He had suspected all along that the New Orleans detective was trying to lead him off on a wrong scent, and now thought he saw a chance to turn the tables upon him and get some valuable information.

"That is a very thin story," said he, "but if you will tell me all you know, perhaps I may believe you."

"You bet I'll give you the whole story straight, to get out of this scrape. In the first place, my name is Arthur Chambers. I was up in the world once, had money, and was respectable. But drink changed all that. Now anybody can buy me for a few dollars, and that is what Sefton did. He came to me about a week ago, and told me that a detective was down here from up north nosing around for this Mitchel. He said it was important to an employer of his up in New York to have this detective balked; that he was hired to do it, and to make him lose time; that time, in some way, was an important item."

"You say," interrupted Mr. Barnes, "that Sefton told you he was hired by some one in New York to throw me off the scent?"

"That's what he said," replied Chambers. Mr. Barnes easily guessed who was employing Sefton, and once more he paid the tribute of admiration for the caution and ingenious scheming of Mr. Mitchel.

"Go on," said the detective.

"There an't much more to tell. Sefton hired me to play off that I was Mitchel, and he gave me a cock-and-bull yarn to feed you with about a woman named Rose Mitchel."

"What was that story?"

"Say, look here," said Chambers, his confidence and cunning returning as he felt himself out of danger of arrest, "you don't want that fairy tale. You would rather have the true story, wouldn't you?"

"Certainly."