Mrs Peixada. Harland Henry

time as she should re-marry, or depart this life), the sum of three hundred dollars. It was attested by a well-known Jewish physician and by a well-known Jewish banker.

      “It would seem from this,” said Arthur, “that your brother got bravely over his illusions concerning his wife. It’s lucky he had no real estate. She would be entitled to her dower, you know, as a matter of course.”

      “Yes, I know; and I guess that was the reason why my brother converted all his real estate into personalty shortly after his marriage—so that he could dispose of it as he chose. The reference to real estate here in the will is doubtless an inadvertence. He was probably following a form. He couldn’t trust his wife. She made his life wretched.”

      “Well,” Arthur began—but Peixada interrupted.

      “I want you,” he said in his dictatorial way, “to name a sum for which you will undertake to continue this investigation and bring it to a successful issue; that is, find Mrs. P., have the will proved, and compel her to refund the property—upwards of one hundred thousand dollars, unless she has squandered it—that remains subject to her control.”

      “Oh, I can’t name a lump sum off-hand,” replied Arthur, “neither can I guarantee success. I would of course do my utmost to succeed, but there is always the chance of failure. The amount of my compensation would be determined by the time I should have to spend, and the difficulties I should have to encounter.”

      “That sounds reasonable. Then suppose I should agree to defray all expenses by the way, pay a fee, as you suggest, proportionate to your service at the end, and now at the outset give you a retainer of—say two hundred and fifty dollars; would you be satisfied?”

      Arthur’s heart leaped. But to exhibit his true emotions would be unprofessional. He constrained himself to answer quietly, “Yes, I should be satisfied.” It was, however, with a glow of genuine enthusiasm for his client that he folded up a check for the tidy sum of two hundred and fifty dollars, and tucked it into his pocket.

      Said Peixada, “I shall trust the entire management of this business to your discretion. Only one thing I shall suggest. I think an adroitly worded advertisement in the principal newspapers of this country and Europe—an advertisement that would lead the reader to suppose that we felt friendly toward Mrs. P.—would be a wise measure. For instance, a notice to the effect that she could learn something to her advantage by communicating with you.”

      “Oh, that would be scarcely honorable, would it?”

      “Honorable? In dealing with a murderess—with a woman, moreover, who is enjoying wealth not rightly hers—talk about honorable! All means are fair by which to catch a thief.”

      “But even so, she would be too shrewd to take the bait. An advertisement would merely put her on her guard. Mustn’t bell the cat, you know.”

      “That’s one way of considering it. On the other hand—However, I simply offer the suggestion; you’re the pilot and can take whatever course you please.”

      “Well, then, we’ll reserve our advertisement till other expedients have failed. The first thing to do is—” But Arthur stopped himself. He did not clearly know what the first thing to do was. “I’ll think about it,” he added.

      “Good,” said Peixada, rising; “there’s nothing further for me to detain you with to-day.”

      “Give my regards to mamma, when you write, Arthur,” said Mr. Mendel.

      “I leave you my memoranda,” said Peixada, laying his note-book upon Arthur’s desk.

      “Take care of yourself,” enjoined Mr. Rimo, smiling and waving his hand.

      The three gentlemen filed out. Arthur remained seated in his arm-chair a long while after their departure, his eyes fixed upon the wall, his fingers busily twirling his mustache. For three years he had been enrolled among the members of the bar. This was the first case he had received that seemed really worthy of his talents.

CHAPTER II.—“A VOICE, A MYSTERY.”

       Table of Contents

      ARTHUR RIPLEY—good-natured, impressionable, unpractical Arthur Ripley, as his familiars called him—dwelt in Beekman Place. Beek-man Place, as the reader may not know, is a short, chocolate-colored, unpretentious thoroughfare, perched on the eastern brink of Manhattan Island, and commanding a fine view of the river, of the penitentiary, and of the oil factories at Hunter’s Point. Arthur and a friend of his, Mr. Julian Hetzel, kept house in the two upper stories of No. 43, an old German woman named Josephine acting as their maid-of-all-work. They had a kitchen, a dining-room, a parlor, two airy dormitories, a light closet which did duty for a guest-chamber; and over and above all, they had the roof. Upon the roof Hetzel had swung a hammock, and in earthen pots round about had ranged an assortment of flowering shrubs; so that by courtesy the roof was commonly styled the loggia. Here, toward sundown on that summery April day mentioned in the last chapter, the chums were seated, sipping their after-dinner coffee and smoking their after-dinner cigarettes. They could not have wished for a pleasanter spot for their pleasant occupation. By fits and starts a sweet breeze puffed up from the south. Westward the sun was sinking into a crimson fury. Eastward the horizon glowed with a delicate pink light. Below them, on one side, stretched the river—tinted like mother-o’-pearl by the ruddy sky overhead—up which a procession of Sound steamboats was sweeping in stately single file. On the other side lay the street, clamorous with the voices of many children at sport. Around the corner, an itinerant band was playing selections from Trovatore. Blatant and faulty though the music was, softened by distance, it had a quite agreeable effect. Of course, the topic of conversation was Arthur’s case.

      Hetzel said, “It will be slow work, and tedious.”

      “On the contrary,” retorted Arthur, “it seems to me to furnish an opportunity for brilliant strategy. I must get a clew, you know, and then clinch the business with a few quick strokes.”

      “Just so; after the manner of Monsieur Lecoq. Well, where do you propose to strike your clew?”

      “Oh, I haven’t started in yet. I suppose I shall hit upon one soon enough.”

      “I doubt it. In my opinion you’re booked for a sequence of wearisome details. The quality you’ll require most of, is patience. Besides, if the lady should sniff danger, she’ll be able to elude you at every turn. You want to make it a still hunt.”

      “I am aware of that.”

      “What’s the first step you mean to take?”

      “I haven’t made up my mind. I need time for deliberation.”

      “There’s only a single thing to do, and that’s not the least Lecoq-like. Write to the place where she was last known to be—Vienna, did you say?—to the consul or postmaster or prefect of police, or better yet all three, and ask whither she went when she left there. Then, provided you get an answer, write to the next place, and so on down. This will take about a hundred years. So, practically, you see, Peixada has supplied you with permanent employment. The likelihood that it will ultimately succeed is extremely slim. There is danger of a slip-up at every point. However, far be it from me to discourage you.”

      “What do you think of Peixada’s plan—an advertisement?”

      “Gammon! You don’t fancy she would march with open eyes into a palpable trap like that, do you? I suspect the matter will end by your making a trip to Europe. If Peixada knows what’s what, he’ll bundle you off next week. You could trace her much more effectively in person than by letters.”

      “Wouldn’t that be jolly? Only it would involve my neglecting the other business that might turn up if I should stick here.”

      “What of it? What other