CHAPTER I.

POOR LILLIAN!

“Help! Help!”

A hoarse groan, a stifled cry, then silence settled down. A clear, crisp wintery night, with the great city lying asleep beneath an opal-tinted sky, the rush and roar of the day’s turmoil temporarily suspended. It was late, and few people were abroad, especially upon this retired street, where a flickering, flaring electric light threw a yellow glare over the scene.

A man--old and white-haired, frail and feeble--was struggling in the grasp of strong hands, while a dark face, over which a broad-brimmed felt hat was slouched, so that his eyes and the upper part of his face were hidden from sight, bent over him, glaring down into the white, frightened countenance of his victim.

That this was no common case of garroting or highway robbery was apparent at a glance.

“Where is it?” hissed the assailant. “Give it to me at once, Gilbert Leigh, or, as sure as I live, I will kill you! Give me the book--the memorandum-book in your possession, with all its contents undisturbed! You _must_ do it! You shall, Gilbert Leigh! You hold my liberty, my very life, in your hands. You must be mad to think that I would let you go until I have gained possession of the book! Give it to me, I say, or--”

The strong fingers of his right hand tightened their hold upon the old man’s throat, while the other hand went into the inner pocket of the thick, warm overcoat that the old man wore. Something was quickly transferred from the pocket to that of the assailant--something which proved to be a long, leathern book fastened with a band of stout elastic. The dusky eyes under the slouched hat sparkled with gratification, and low under his breath he panted swiftly:

“I have it! The book is mine! And so will perish every clew to my guilt! I would die before the truth should be known! Why, this old man held proofs which would have ruined me and ousted me from my high position! I would--”

“Stop!”

The word, gasped feebly, fell from the pale lips of the half-dead old man.

“Listen to me,” he went on, brokenly, as the hold of the other gradually relaxed from about his throat. “I have a word to say. In--in--my investigations among the books and papers of your office--investigations which I was commanded to make by my superiors--I have discovered that you are not only a forger and embezzler--a living disgrace to the time-honored name that you bear--but that you are--”

He bent his gray head and whispered a few words in the ears of the other man. With a savage howl, like a wild beast suddenly let loose upon its prey, he flashed about and grasped the old man once more by the throat. There was murder now in the dark eyes gleaming under the broad-brimmed felt hat.

“_Die!_” he panted, hoarsely, “you miserable old spy! Say your prayers now, for I am going to kill you!”

“By Jove! we’ll see about that!” cried a clear, ringing voice, as firm footsteps drew rapidly near, and a tall figure came to an abrupt halt. Crash! went a blow--a back-handed, powerful blow--which landed directly in the chest of the would-be assassin. There was a dull thud as a dark form dropped to the pavement, then the electric light went out in that sudden and exasperating way which electric lights are prone to do upon the smallest provocation, and when it flared up once more, the limp, lifeless form upon the pavement and the tall figure of the new-comer bending over it were the only objects in sight. The new-comer, the man who had struck the blow, was tall and handsome, with pale, olive complexion, soft, dark eyes and waves of dark hair. A face good to look at anywhere. He stooped and peered into the old man’s upturned countenance, a delicate patrician face, with clear-cut features, and a broad forehead with a fringe of soft white hair.

“I’m afraid he’s dead, poor fellow!” said the young man, ruefully. “Well, of course it will be another item for the ‘Daily Thunderer,’ and I wouldn’t be a hard-working journalist, with my fortune all to make, if I did not welcome an item.”

He was speaking lightly, as one accustomed to such scenes, but there was an under-current of feeling in his voice which revealed the kindly heart beating in his breast.

He drew from his pocket a policeman’s whistle and blew a shrill blast.

Silence for a moment, during which time the young man proceeded to tear open the old man’s shirt-collar, and lift the white head to give him a little air.

There was no sign of life. The chest did not move, the white hands lay limp and lifeless at his side.

Tramp, tramp, down the street, swift and straight, came the echo of heavy footfalls. A moment more the gleam of a silver badge, a blue uniform, and a gruff voice demanding sternly:

“Come, now! What’s all this? Why”--in a tone of satisfaction--“if it ain’t Mr. Lyndon!”

The young man grasped the hand extended.

“Jack Lyndon, of the ‘Daily Thunderer,’ at your service. Your name is McElroy, I believe? Yes; well, I found this old man just now in the grasp of a garroter, highway robber, whatever you may choose to call him. I struck the fellow a blow, he came down with a thud; but he got off somehow, and the old man is, I believe--McElroy, can he be dead?”

McElroy laid his hand upon the heart of the prostrate man, and a swift look of horror dawned upon his face, as the electric light flared up brightly, revealing the features plainly.

“Good heavens! it’s Mr. Leigh! Dear, dear! that’s awful now! And poor Miss Lillian, it will just kill her! I think, Mr. Lyndon--I really think and fear that the old man is gone! If it’s so, I tell you what, I wouldn’t like to face Lillian Leigh with his body. Mr. Lyndon, you never knew such a case in your life of father and daughter so wrapped up in each other that they could hardly bear to be out of each other’s sight. You see, there ain’t none of the Leigh family left but Miss Lillian and her father. She does type-writing at home, and old Mr. Leigh himself was an expert accountant, and some folks say a kind of spy in the big commercial house of Raleigh & Raleigh--to look after the interests of the firm in a quiet way, you know; it’s the biggest commercial concern in the whole state--to watch over slippery young clerks and wild fellows, to keep an eye upon all the employees, in fact. A number of them--I speak the plain truth--are sons of the best families here. They need watching, Mr. Lyndon”--shaking his head slowly and dubiously--“sure’s you are born, they need watching.”

All this time he had been chafing the thin, white hands, and trying to force a little brandy between the old man’s clinched teeth. He laid the white head back against Lyndon’s knee at last with a low sigh.

“’Tain’t no use! It really seems like ’tain’t no use, Mr. Jack. I--I--see--”

He arose to his feet and pointed to a row of buildings, all alike, with an air of quiet respectability. Their rows of shuttered windows, each house with its high, arched porch and white stone steps--the neat brass door-plates at every door--told, without words, that this was a neighborhood of boarding-houses and “apartments to let.” The policeman lifted his club and pointed to a side window in the second story of one of the houses, where a faint light gleamed like a star. Even while they gazed, the blind was opened softly, and some one peered out into the night below. McElroy groaned.

“Them’s their rooms up there, Mr. Lyndon!” he said, softly. “Who is going to bring the old man into the house? And who--” he flashed about with a tragic gesture--“Good God! Who’s going to tell Miss Lillian?”

The window-blind upstairs was closed softly, and the watching figure disappeared. A strange pang shot through Jack Lyndon’s big, honest heart. Years afterward, he was wont to look back upon that moment, and say that it was a presentiment of what was to come.

“Poor girl! My heart aches for her!” he muttered. “It will be a terrible blow to bear.” And then, before he scarcely realized it, Jack Lyndon found himself standing upon the white stone steps of No. 3 ----, McElroy at his side, ringing the door-bell in a peremptory summons. One! boomed from the tower of a church not far away. One! repeated a silvery-toned time-piece somewhere within the silent house at whose door they were standing. Silence--utter silence--broken at length by the opening of an upper window, and a masculine voice demanded sternly who was there, and what they wanted at that time of night.

A few words made clear the sad situation. The window was closed, and a little later the house-door was opened, and the gas-light burning dimly in the hall turned up to a cheery blaze. They bore him into the wide hall and laid him, limp and lifeless, upon a sofa there. Somebody telephoned for the nearest physician, and a group of half-dressed men and women gathered round the sofa, gazing, with horror-distended eyes, upon the sad spectacle. Then the physician bustled in; five minutes’ examination, and the verdict came. Gilbert Leigh was dead. He had died from the effects of strangulation.

“Who will tell Lillian?”

Somebody asked the question in an awe-stricken voice. Nobody essayed to reply. It was answered in an unexpected way. The opening of a door above stairs; a hush of solemn silence; then the rustle of a woman’s draperies; flying footsteps down the broad stairs descending into the hall below, and, before any one could realize the situation, a slight figure, in a flowing robe of white cashmere, with a cloud of golden hair streaming over her shoulders, dashed into their midst, and fell upon her knees by the sofa, while a pair of soft, white arms went around the old man’s neck.

“Papa!” One shrill cry which cut to the heart of every person present. “Papa! Oh, papa, papa! open your eyes and look at me just once! Speak to me, papa--just one word! Oh, papa, papa, papa!”

Jack Lyndon ventured to her side at last, and laid his hand--a strong, white hand--lightly upon the bowed golden head.

“Miss Leigh”--in a voice that quivered with sympathy--“try to be brave!”

She lifted a small, childish face--a beautiful face, with perfectly chiseled features, and eyes so large and deep and dark that they looked like black velvet.

“Do you--know--what is wrong, sir?” she faltered, feebly. “Papa went out this evening--down to the office. He had papers to attend to. Papa never leaves me alone when he can help it; but he found that he had forgotten his memorandum-book. It contained business relating to the private affairs of his employers which was priceless. Papa often said that if he lost the book he could never enter his employers’ presence again or expect to be treated with confidence. I know that he would defend the book, if need be, with his life. Sir”--she arose to her feet with quiet dignity--“if that book is gone from his body it has been stolen, and he has been attacked while defending it.”

Then with a swift burst of passionate grief she flashed about, and fell upon her knees once more, winding her arms about her father’s neck; and then, drawing the cold face down to her own, she laid her white cheek against his.

“How cold you are, papa!” in a low, tense voice inexpressibly pathetic. “You were never so cold before. What is the matter, dear? You are weak and ill and faint, and--”

Her eyes fell for the first time upon the great purple marks about his throat--the cruel marks of the assassin’s strong fingers. She started up with a bitter cry.

“What--what does this mean?” she panted, pointing to the tell-tale marks. “He is dead--dead!”

The truth had come to her at last. He had been murdered. The book had been taken from him, and he had died in its defense.

“Oh, papa! papa! speak, and tell your little Lily this awful secret! My papa, who has gone from me forever--tell me, tell me! You will come back to me, papa! If disembodied spirits can return to earth, I know that you will come to me! Speak, papa! Oh, my papa! All I had to love in the great, cold, cruel world, speak, and tell me--who did this awful deed?”

And then a strange occurrence took place. Even the physician could not repress an exclamation of surprise. The dead man’s lips parted slowly, and a few drops of blood oozed from them and trickled down upon the snowy beard. To those present it seemed for a moment--so wrought up were they by the awful tragedy--that Gilbert Leigh had indeed attempted to speak; that in answer to the pitiful beseeching of his child, the dumb lips had attempted to frame a reply and utter the name of his murderer.

The girl’s pale face froze into an icy calm. She lifted her right hand with a swift gesture, upon her face a look which made the spectators hold their breath in speechless awe.

“Hear me!” she said, in the same tense voice, “and bear witness to what I say! I take no oath, I bind myself by no pledge, I make no wild assertions or prophecies, but, I say this: my father’s murderer shall yet be found! It may be years before it comes to pass; but sooner or later, the man who took Gilbert Leigh’s life in this base, dastardly manner, shall be found and punished! And when the hour comes in which I shall stand face to face with him, when his guilt is exposed and his crime revealed, may God have mercy upon him, for I shall have none!”

She sunk upon her knees once more at her dead father’s side, like a pallid, sad-eyed ghost; and when morning stole in at the shuttered windows, she was crouching there still. Not a tear had she shed; not another word had passed her lips; but there was that in her pale young face which made all who saw her afraid.