THE FATAL REQUEST
OR FOUND OUT
By A. L, Harrla Author of "Mine Own Familiar Friend," etc.
Copyright, mi, by Cattail l' >i b l l t h i n g Company.
Copyright, l » o 2 , bystreet <t Smith.
CHAPTER XXIV.
The Enigma.
Tie turned and saw behind him
none other than that same James
Ferrers, whose narrative and confes
sion he held in his hand; and again,
lurking behind him in the shadow
<>f the doorway, he saw the pale,
narrow, furtive countenance of Per
fcins. the housemaid. For a moment
there was an intense silence, dur
ing which both seemed to hold their
brpath and nerve themselves for the
struggle that lay before them.
‘The letter!” he cried, advancing
towards the other, threateningly.
" The letter, or-”
"There are five chambers in the
revolver still undischarged," was the
calm reply. “Is that what you are
thinking of?”
the other man fell hack a step
and his face became ashen in hue.
“What do you mean?" he gasped.
Who are you. and now do you dare 1
to defy me? You-a thief!—a—’’
"You asked my name this morn
ing.’’ was the answer, "and for rea
sons of my own. I refused to give
it you, Those reasons no longer ex
ist. Do you still wish to know it?”
The master of the house contem
plated the man he had that morning
discharged from his service with feel
ings he could not have put in words.
Such utter fearlessness, such a total
disregard of the consequences of the
act in w hich he had been caught red- j
handed, seemed to point either to the
most hardened criminal, or to one i
who knows he is possessed of some
secret power. His voice failed him, 1
and once more, with a mingling of
suppressed fury and incomprehensible
-apprehension, he gasped, "The letter
—I insist—and your name!"
The young man advanced a few
«teps. "My name,” he said, “is-” j
and he whispered the rejst in his ear. j
No need to ask whether he knew 1
such unmistable physical weakness.
"What is that you sav?" tie repeated.
“And how can you deny aught in the
face of this confession which 1 hold
in my hand?” And he a hook the
envelope in his face.
This action stirred the other power
fully.
"Give it me!” he cried. *'I com
mand!— I implore! That confession
—though how you know it he such
I cannot tell—is sacred. Or, no”—
with a sudden change—"keep it and
read it after [ am dead! I am a
dying man—no hear me out! Not
long ago an eminent physician utter
ed my sentence. He gave me a year
to live—a year, that, ts, if 1 kept my
self free from all excitement and re
ceived no sudden shock. To-night. I
feel, has reduced my term of exist
ence to days or hours. It is not for
myself that 1 ask this—it is for my
child.”
He had touched the one responsive
chord. Ted laid the envelope which
contained the secret, down upon the
table.
“If I consent to spare you the pun
ishment due to the deed,” he said
slowly, “I must first know all. Your
written confession, to lie perused after
death, will not satisfy me. How shall
I know then that you have not lied?
I must have it from your own lips
now, or——"
“And have you not already had it
from my own lips?” exclaimed Mr.
Ferrers, with sudden passion. “Have
I not declared to you that l am not
your father's murderer? Am I not
ready to swear it. however much ap
pearances may be against me? 1
swear I never murdered him!” The
young man put Ins hand to his head,
bewildered.
“Do you deny that you are the man
who wrote the letter which summon
ed my father to Dover?—or that you
are the other passenger who traveled
by the 4:30 train aud occupied a com
“Cruel, cowardly, cold-blooded murderer!”
it. No need for further explanation.
With a sudden cry. his hand press
ed to his heart, and a ghastly grey
ness settling down u|>on his face, j
Mr. Kerrers dragged himself to the
nearest chair.
• The medicine—the medicine! ” he
whispered, in a dreadful tone, point
ing with one baud towards the man
tlepieoe. The other, following with
his eyes the direction of his gesture
aaw a bottle and glass.
Ted made a couple of strides in
the direction signified and was back
again with the medicine bottle and
glass. He read the directions on the
labed, measured out the proportion
prescribed and held the same to the
lips of what seemed the almost dying
man.
Mr. Ferrers, apparently revived by
the draught he had swallowed, partial- |
ly recovered his voice.
"Lock the door!” he said to his
old friend's son. lie obeyed, and the
two were left atone face to face, i
They confronted each other in silence,
the one still seated, the other stand
ing opposite to him, with folded arms,
looking down upon him.
• What liax e you to say to me?”
asked the former, in a feeble, broken
voice.
• What have I to say to you? re- ;
peated the latter never moving his |
eyes from the face of the man before
him. "What should a son have to
say to his father's murderer?"
Mr. Ferrers rose from his seat as
the infamous title was hurled at him,
ami, despite his pallid eounteuane
and evident weakness, there was a
natural dignity about him now as he
faeed the furious and menacing coun
tenance opposed to him.
"This is not the first time you have
applied that shameful word to me,"
he said. "This must not be. '
‘What!" cried the young man.
“After having once admitted the
crime, do jou now seek to deny it?
Then hear me repeat it again.” and
rising his right hand, he emphasized
•w’h word by pointing with his fore
finger—"Murderer! Cruel, cowardly,
c«1d blooded murderer!”
The other man staggered as though
struck, and supported himself with
one terembling hand on the back of
his chair.
"It is false." he said —“false! I
gm guiltless—in thought if not in
deed!”
lie spoke with difficulty, and again
his hand was pressed to his side.
“What is that you say?" asked his
opponent, who had not caught the
last worti^ hut who involuntarily :
lowered ki* voice In the presence of ,
Ipartment In the fourth carriage from
the engine?"
The other man bent his head. "I
| do not deny it."
"And you deny lhat the bullet that
was discovered in the padding of (he
same compartment, which the fire
only partially consumed was dis
charged from Ihe one empty chamber
, of the revolver which lies yonder?”
”1 do not deny it,” was the same
monotonous answer.
I "Then tell me," cried the young
man, in a frenzy, "tell me. whose
, was the hand that fired that shot?"
Mr. Ferrers raised his head and
I answered clearly, and without hesita
I tion, "Mine!”
The effect of the answer was elec
I trical.
"What!"—in a tone that thrilled
j through the hearer—"you admit all
I this, and yet, in the same breath
deny that you killed my father?”
“I never denied that I killed him,”
was the calm reply of the elder man,
as his eye encountered that of his
inquisitor without flinching, and he
seemed to have cast aside for the
moment ail agitation and alarm.
Kdward Burritt tried to frame the
next question and failed. His lips
moved, but no voice proceeded from
them until
“Mar!” lie muttered, hoarsely, with
his eyes glaring, "to try and fool me
like this! How can you have killed
my father and yet not he his mur
derer?”
"Because," said the other, "I shot at
his own request!"
CHAPTER XXV.
The Narrative.
These remarkable words were fol
lowed by another silence, during
which the younger man seemed turn
| ed to stone, and the other, who ap
peared completely exhausted by the
| strain of the last few minutes, let
: himself fall back into his chair and
breathed heavily.
Then the first, recovering himself,
and speaking in a hoarse, strange
voice, which even lo his own ear
sounded unnatural, asked—
"What do you mean? What horrible
story is this? What foul lie-"
The other man pointed to the let
ter lying on the table between them.
"Read It,” he said, with an effort,
and. even as he spoke those two
words, the grey ness began to return
and deepen, and his race seemed to
fall In.
Thus adjured, Ted stripped off the
outer cover.
Within war* several sheets of pa
per, covered with writing. In the'
hoavy scrawling hand, walch he now
knew well.
THE TRUE NARRATIVE AND
CONFESSION OK MR JAMES FER
RERS, OF TilF. STRANGE TRAG
EDY OF THE 2,'iTH OF APRIL.
"I arrived in England on the 2!tli
of April, alter having been absent
twenty years. The reasons for that
prolonged absence I do not propose to
enter Into at length. Suffice it to say
that 1 had committed an act which
brought me within reach of the law,
and. hut for the influence of friends,
1 might have expiated the deed by
transportation.
"Reckless extravagance, betting and
gambling, with a mad attempt to re
cover ray position by speculating w ith
money which was not my own,
brought me to this shameful pass.
The matter was allowed to blow
over—to be hushed up and the actu
al sum made away with was reim
bursed. Hut I was a Pariah—an out
cast—shunned and despised by all
but one. One friend stood by me.
one man still gave me help of hfs
countenance and extended the right
hand of fellowship towards me, and
he was my old friend, Silas Burrltt.
He alone was there to bid me fare
well as I left England, a disgraced
man. He alone hade me hope for bet
ter tilings and look forward to re
trieving the failure of the past in the
promise of the future. So 1 set sail
for America, with the expressed re
solve of not returning until many
years had elapsed and those who
were acquainted with my shameful
history were either dead or else had
forgotten it ami me.
"At last the term of years which I
had set as the limit of my voluntary
exile having all but expired. I ven
tilled to return. 1 lingered puriiose
ly on m.v journey, so that when 1
landed at Dover, it was twenty years
to the very day I had first set sail.
“At Dover I waited the arrival of
my old friend.
"He came, and the meeting was a
painful one on both sides.
"After so long a parting, there was
a sense of restraint between us. sn-'b
as there could hardly have failed to
be. But. after a while, this feeling
became less noticeable. We had much
to say. and I. for my part, had many
questions to ask and much to learn.
One thing I did learn—the most im
portant of all—which was that, with
one exception, 1 might consider my
self free from the leaf of any wit
nesses of the past appearing to
blight the prospects of the future.
"It was agreed that 1 should spend
the next night under his roof, and
make the acquaintance of his wife
and family, and we agreed to travel
by that ill-fated train known as tlie
4:30 express.
(To he continued.)
WILL SHAKE NO MORE.
Savage Handgripping Now the lrad in
English Society.
I have made up my mind absolutely,
to shake hands no more. The stupid
custom never appealed to tne, but I
have complied with it, hitherto, iu
order to avoid hurting people's feel
ings.
Now that the “grip” has become
fashionable, however. I shall have to
be callous. After an, it is far better
mat I should hurt someone’s feelings
a little than that they should hurt my
hand a great deal.
At a reception I attended the otlipr
night, there were three acquaintances
of mine sitting in a group. I went up
to them and shook hands all round.
The first man ground together all
my knuckle hones. The second
squeezed my fingers until they were
reduced to a mere pulp. The third,
not to he baulked, twisted my wrist
anJ almost jerked my elbow out of the
socket.
I cursed them, root and branch, and
hurried away to the far end of the
room. When 1 looked back, they were
regarding each other with open
mouthed astonishment. 1 could see
that they had meant well; the new
fashion was to blame.
A few years ago, you will remem
ber, it was considered rather smart
to hold your hand high in the air and
wave it to and iro in gentle contact
with the hand of your acquaintance.
That fashion, too. was idiotic enough,
but it was infinitely more civilized
than this furious, insensate grip.—
Sketch.
Made Speech to Amuae Wife.
A great many speeches have beer
delivered in the house of representa
tives without any apparent excuse at
all, so the New York member who
spoke merely to entertain his wife
undoubtedly had ample Justification.
The New York member was in the
gallery with bis wife,, but the lady
grew tired of the humdrum proceed
ings and announced her intention of
departing. He coaxed her to stay,
but she was insistent, until her bus
band made a proposition.
“If you will stay an hour," he prom
ised, “I will go down on the floor and
make a speech.”
She agreed to stay and the New
York member kept his promise, mak
ing, in fact, a very creditable argu
ment about something in which he
had not the slightest interest.
Might Be Worse.
Biffbang—They say Meeker leads a
regular dog’s life at home.
Cumsoe -Unhappily married, 1 sup
pose ?
Biffbang Well, not exactly: but his
wife shares her affection equally be
tween hint and her poodle.
Brief, But Pointed.
“Say, pa,’’ queried little Johnny
Bumpernteitle, “what’s a fool-killer?’*
“A fool killer, my son,” replied th«
old man, “is the gun he blows io.”
THE FATAL REQUEST
OR FOUND OUT
By A. L Herrin Author of "Mine Own Familier Friend.” etc.
Copyright, t • ‘ l , by C a s » » l I Publishing Company,
Copyright, t t> o S , by Strsst & Smith.
CHAPTER XXV—Continued.
"The train started on the Journey
which was to end in its destruction,
and mile after mile sped away in si
lence. Once more the feeling of re
straint had settled down upon us. and
this time heavier than before.
"Then I remember a sudden, awful,
never-to-be-forgotten crash followed by
cries and shrieks such as have rung
In my ears ever since
"I found myself flung violently for
ward against the opposite side of the
compartment amid the smashing of
woodwork, ami with the presentiment
of some awlul doom ii|K>n me. I was
half stunned, but recovering myself,
found that 1 was not much hurt. Then
I remembered my companion and
turned my attention to him.
" Silas!' I cried. Are you hurt?*
"But before lie could reply, another
sound was added to the awful babel of
i rios a lid groans all around.
“'Kire! fire!' we heard shrieked in
voices mad with terror, mingled with
agonizing cries for help. The atmos
phere became stifling, a sickening, in
supportable odor was wafted towards
us and clouds of thick, black, suffocat
ing smoke began to drift past.
“'Silas!' I shouted. In mad terror,
to my friend; 'come! exert yourself,
it you wish to escape instant death!’
“And I caught him round the body
and tried to compel him to move; but
in vain; he only gave a scream of
agony*.
' Save yourself.’ he groaned. ’I can
not stir: and I think my leg is broken.’
“I was almost demented, and tore at
the shattered woodwork which made
his prison, with my fingers; but only
fo increase his agony, without freeing i
him from his horrible position. And ;
already the atmosphere was like that
of h furnace, and hell itself seemed to
be open. 1 could not save him, but I
might save myself. I knew the door \
on the other side was unlocked, so that
I might attempt to escape that way. 1
the face of the revelation which had
burst upon him. “My God! To think
that 1 should know the truth at last!
But how marvelous! How utterly be
yond the realization of my wildest
dreams! ”
Not for an Instant did it oentr to
him to think the narrative false. It
was too astounding and, what was
more, it agreed so exactly with all the
strange, and hitherto mysterious, cir
cumstances which had attended the
tragedy. And tin* man he had wrong
ed—the man he hail hunted down and
would have betrayed to death, believ
ing him to be the vilest of his species
—whose whole nature be had read
falsely by the light of his unjust sus
picions! His eyes were closed—he
seemed to lie hardly breathing. Had
he fainted—or was this death?
Was he to be left alone, and in the
dark, with a dead or dying man?
He rushed to the door and dashed
out of the bouse iu search of a doc
tor.
James Ferrers was not dead; hut
the nearest medical man. on being
summoned to the house, shook his
head over the case.
"Heart!” he said, briefly. "Get him
to bed. I do not think he will ever
need to get up again."
By this time the whole household
was roused, and the sick man's daugh
ter was hanging in speechless grief,
over her father's unconscious form.
At one time it was feared that he
would pass away unconscious, but the
untiring application >of restoratives
was ai last productive of some effect,
and two or three hours later the dy
ing man opened his eyes.
He saw his daughter kneeling be
side his pillow; and. not far away, his
old friend's son. who, by some means,
had asserted and maintained a right
to remain in the sick room.
Tlie doctor, seeing tliat the patient
had regained consciousness for a while
before the end. stood aside, so as not
"I have nothing to forgive," wee the broken answer.
“I prepared for flight, but before 1
had taken the first step i was stayed
by my friend's voice—
" ‘James,' be cried—and the roaring
of the flames almost drowned his
voice, which was sharp and shrill with
horror—'put me out of my misery.
Save yourself, but shoot me through
the brain first! Quick! quick!'
"ft was the most merciful death,
and, without pausing a second—which
on that awful day might have meant
a human life—l drew the revolver,
placed it to his temple"—(“My God!”
from the reader)—"and pulled the
trigger. Even as I heard the report a
thin tongue of flame curled upward
through the splintered flooring, and
without even looking back — without
even a glance at the face of my friend.
I forced open the door and sprang front
the now burning carriage with tlie
smoking weapon still grasped in my
right hand. In doing so i trod upon I
some smouldering timber and |
wrenched my ankle severely, so that
for a long time I was lame.
“A few hours later and I was con
veyed to town, together with a com
pany of the other survivors, and as
soon as I reached my destination my
streugth forsook me and I was pros- j
trated for days by a nervous illness, j
the result of my late terrible experi- ■
ence.
“When I recovered, it was to find j
that there was a hut* and cry already |
after me—that the partially consumed '
corpse of a first class passenger ltad !
been discovered shot through tin* head, i
and that ail the evidence pointed to j
the crime having been committed by a j
fellow traveler who had made his es- ;
cape during the terror and confusion -
of the catastrophe and who was being '
eagerly sought for.
“Since then, 1 have had to submit to
the ordeal of seeing myself confronted
by the reward of one hundred pounds
offered for my detection; and have
lived in daily and hourly fear of being
charged with tne committal of this
crime—if crime It can lie called—of
which 1 was guiltless, in thought, if
not in deed. It is this which is kill
ing me, and I do not regret it.
“Sometimes I regret nothing; not
even the shot which took my best
friend's life and branded me with the
brand of Cain!”
CHAPTER XXVI.
Dr. Jeremiah's Little Bill.
This was all. The reader drew a
long, shuddering breath “My God!”
ha whispered, voice and. everything
seeming u. faU turn fee the motion t, in j
lo interfere with those last solemn
moments.
The dying man’s gaze rested upon
the young man—who. in obedience to
a gesture, approached and ben! over
him—with a strange intensity, and his
lips moved.
"Do you forgive?" he murmured
dose to the other’s ear, so that the
words might lie heard by none but
him for whom they were intended.
"I have nothing lo forgive,” was the
broken answer. ' You aoted for the
best, and 1 bless you for ft."
A look of peace fell u|h>ii the corps'**
like countenance upon the pillow, and
he turned his eyes again upon his
daughter.
"Don’t grieve much for me, my
child," said he; "and when 1 am
gone-"
He gave a d«*o sigh, his eyes closed,
and his head fell a little to one side.
The doctor pressed forw ard.
“This Is the end," he said, "and a
very peaceful one.
Bui it was not quite the end.
Once more the dying eyes opened,
and fixed themselves upon the pale,
remorseful face of the young man who
had once hoped to see him expiate his
deed upon the scaffold.
Then he turned them 'rom him to
tiie bowed head of the girl who knelt,
with her face hidden, upon the other
side of the bed, and back again. His
lips moved for the last time, but no
words issued from them.
He tried again, and this time—
though there was no sound—it seemed
to the other, who had his eyes fixed
upon them, and his ear strained to
calch the lightest whisper, that the
motion of the lips might be translated
into the words, "Keep my secret!"
"I will—I will," he answered, and
even as he uttered these words the
end came.
The next day Ted Burrltt returned
home unexpectedly.
Tlie first thing he did was to write
a brief summary of events to Dr. Jere
miah Cartwright, who. in spite of the
very short time which had elapsed
since his last *islt, again made his ap
pearance at. magnolia Lodge—osten
sibly to bear further details, but more
particularly to carry out a deep laid
scheme of his own.
“And what do you mean to do—eh?
I mean, about the yot ng lady? Oh,
you needn't look as though you don't
understand what I am talking about!
I'*e not forgotten what you told me
about her. What a beautiful blush!”
And the little gentleman chuckled;
then, all at once, became preterna»ur
! ally grave. "By Hw by," be said, slow
ly. and with a noticeable tendency to
avoid his friend's eye, "about that bill
of mine.”
Ted looked surprised.
"Rill?” he repeated
"Yes, hill," continued the doctor.
"You didn't suppose I was going to let
you off. did you? You haven't forgot
ten what I said a little while back
about sending one in, have you?”
The young man looked and felt non
plussed.
"I have made up my mind to taka it
in kind.
What l mean Is," continued Dr.
Cartwright, "that instead of receiving
payment for whatever services I may
have rendered, in ready money, I am
willing to take it out in some other
article."
"And what might that article he?"
was the natural but stiil perplexed in
quiry.
"Your sister,” was the brief and
much to the point response.
"By Jove!" was the exclamation It
called forth—followed by, "you don't
mean It?"
"Don t I, though!” w as the deter
mined reply. "I’ve been meaning it
for some time past. Wliat’s more,
I've sounded the young lady—I don’t
mean with a stethoscope-—and sh»
wasn’t half so much surprised as you
seem to be.”
The brother of the young lady !t»
question burst out laughing.
"I suppose I shall have to give in.
and I may as well do it sooner than
later.”
• * m m * *
About three months later a gentle
man In the most irreproachable attire
called at the residence of the late
James Ferrers, Esq., of Belmont
House, Hampstead, and requested to
see Miss Ferrers.
That young lady, who had descended
to encounter her visitor quite in ignor
ance as to his identity, was confounded
beyond measure to discover, iu the
supposed stranger, none other than
that same individual whom she had
first met at the Royal Academy and
who had afterwards occasioned her the
greatest perplexity of mind by doub
ling the part of the young man who
waited at table and cleaned the plate.
Only—he had grown the loveliest
moustache and it seemed perfectly im
possible to imagine for a moment that
he had ever done such a thing as
polish the forks and spoons and make
himself generally useful.
Ted plunged at once into the object
of his visit.
"I should have called much sooner,"
lie remarked with a compassionate
glance at her deep mourning, "but was
afraid of intruding upon your retire*
ment. I have a statement to make—*
an explanation to give, which I cannot
withhold any longer."
He came nearer to her and—oh. the
presumption of the creature!—actually
ventured to take her hand.
"Do you remember being at the
Academy, one day last June, and drop
ping your catalogue?”
Did she not? But she made no
audible reply, and the explanation thus
propitiously commenced was continued
without any interruption beyond au oc
casional stifled exclamation on tha
part of its recipient.
It is not necessary, however, to re
port the whole of what passed during
the Interview. A certain portion only
of it need be referred to as being of
some interest.
"And you really mean to say,” said
Miss Ferrers to the young man, "yon
really mean to say that you fell in love
with me then and there, and took the
situation, and put up with everything,
just for the sake of being under the
same roof with me?”
He looked at her strangely for a
moment before answering.
"What other reason could there have
been?” he asked.
She clapped her hands together in
delight.
"Whatever will the girls at school
say to t hLs?”
(The En3.)
Beecher’s Deacon Went to Steep.
“Pew sleepers are one of the bug
bears of preachers," said the Rev.
Robert Collyer, the veteran New York
minister. “I can speak feelingly
from experience. On one occasion
when Henry Ward Beecher asked me
to go to Plymouth Church to talk to
his people, he remarked—jokingly, let
us hope—that most of theni were hard
working folk who needed plenty of
rest on (Sunday, anil he felt that a ser
mon from me might be gratefully re
ceived.
"In the course of my talk I men
tioned this, and said that It was. how
ever. a matter upon which my feelings
could not be hurt, and that 1 owed this
impervionsiiess to Mr. Beecher him
self. I told them that, one Sunday,
years before, when I was attending a
service at old Plymouth and Mr.
Beecher was thundering forth. I saw
one of his deacons asleep in a tront
pew.
"1 went on to say that always after
this, whenever 1 saw a man slumber
ing peacefully through my most stir
ring efforts in the pulpit, I would say
to myself: ‘Well, let him sleep; even
the great Beecher can’t keep ’em all
awake.”—Success.
The Vogue of Pantalets.
Pantalets came into vogue about
181!0. They were loose, flapping frills
tied on under the knee and hangihg
over the foot. The strings generally
broke or slipped down, and one learns
of a young mother’s trials with those
horrid tilings In a letter quoted by
Mrs. Earle, which says: "My finest
dimity pair, with real Swiss lace, Is
quite useless to me, for 1 lost off on*
leg. I saw that mean Mrs. Spring
wearing it last week for a tucker. My
help says she won't stay if the has
to wash more than seven palra a week
for MyrtlUa."
