CHAPTER V.

A DARK DEED.

It was almost dark when a long, dust-covered train drew slowly under cover of the Grand Central Depot.

The rush and roar of the big city was at its height and the pushing, jostling crowd of travelers inside the station was noisy, rude and bristling with impatience.

As the long stream of passengers swept through the yawning archway, a young girl stepped aside from the throng and leaned in some bewilderment against the wall of the building.

No one noticed her at first except by a casual glance, for she was poorly dressed and just a bit awkward.

It was plainly evident that she was waiting for some one.

After several minutes had passed she suddenly removed her veil—a hideous green one which had distorted and disguised her features.

After that when any one glanced at her they turned to look again, for such a face as Marion Marlowe’s was not often seen in the big city.

At last the crowd dwindled to only the employees of the station, and a messenger in a red cap stepped up and accosted her civilly:

“Excuse me, miss, but can I be of service to you?” he asked, politely. “You know it’s our business to look after passengers.”

“Thank you,” said Marion, sweetly. “I am waiting for my uncle. I wrote him that I was coming, and I fully expected him to meet me.”

“Ought to be here if he’s coming,” said the man, good-naturedly; “you’ve been waiting nearly an hour. You must be getting pretty weary.”

“I am, and hungry, too,” said Marion, smiling; “but you see I am a country girl, and I don’t know my way. I would certainly get lost if I were to attempt to find him.”

As she spoke she did not notice that a well-dressed man had suddenly drawn near and was listening intently to her remarks without appearing to do so.

“What’s his address?” asked the messenger, in a business-like way.

Marion took a slip of paper from her reticule, and handed it to him.

“Frederic Stanton, The Norwood,” the man read aloud. “That’s a good ways from here. You’d better take a cab.”

“How much will it cost?” asked Marion, anxiously.

The messenger consulted his table of rates for a moment before answering.

“Two dollars,” he said, finally; “but of course your uncle will pay it. Mighty queer of him not to meet you when he knew you were a stranger in the city.”

“But you see he doesn’t know me!” said Marion, quickly. “He married my mother’s sister Susan, but we girls have never seen him. I—I was obliged to come here on business, so I had to write to him. There was no one else, and he wrote back that he would meet me.”

“Perhaps he did and didn’t know you,” said the messenger more cheerfully; “but anyway. I’ll get you a carriage and send you to him.

“Here!” he called to a cabman standing a short distance away. “Take this lady’s trunk check and here’s the address she’s to go to.” He turned away with the air of one who had done his duty.

The man who had been watching Marion moved a little nearer. When the cabman came up he heard the conversation between them.

After the “cabby” had placed Marion in his vehicle, he started back into the depot to find her trunk, and as she leaned from the cab window and looked after him Marion saw that he was joined by the stranger.

She could not hear what they said, but she saw the cabman shake his head repeatedly while the man wrote something on a piece of paper without once stopping talking.

Finally she saw a bill change hands between them. The cabman had evidently relented, for he pocketed not only the money but the paper the stranger had written.

As the young girl was rapidly driven uptown she gazed out of the cab windows and the scenes of the great city made her face pale and flush alternately.

Every little while she felt in her bag for her money—the fifty dollars which her father had at last given her when she denounced him so vigorously for his treatment of Dollie.

“I’ll find her! I’ll find her!” she kept whispering to herself, and then the fearful proportions of the great city staggered her and she would be almost overwhelmed by the enormity of her undertaking.

She took a crumpled paper from her bag and read it over. It was a letter from Bert Jackson written in a cleverly disguised hand, telling her that he had reached New York safely, and giving her the address of a cheap lodging-house that he was making his home for the present.

Marion had answered the letter promptly, giving him the news of Dollie’s disappearance, and she knew full well that Bert would be constantly on the lookout for her sister.

“Poor Bert! I must hunt him up,” she whispered, with a sigh. “He’ll help me find Dollie. He’s really my only friend in all this big city!”

Then another thought entered her mind and would not go away. She was thinking of Bert’s visit to the kitchen that last night and the sudden disappearance of the family jewels.

“He wouldn’t have written if he had been guilty,” she whispered decidedly. “It was Mr. Lawson who stole them! The infamous villain who abducted my sister!”

Marion breathed a sigh of thankfulness that she had never mentioned her suspicions. There would have been people enough ready to accuse him if they had known of his visit to the farmer’s kitchen.

“When one is down, everybody gives him a kick,” she said to herself. “Even poor, dear Dollie was not spared! Oh, how our own neighbors slandered my innocent sister!”

Just as she finished her reflections the cab drew up before a handsome building. Marion saw the words “The Norwood” in gilt letters over the door, and in another instant the cabman was at the window.

“You sit here a minute, miss, till I see if he’s in,” he said, as he moved toward the entrance. He disappeared within the building, leaving Marion trembling with excitement.

“It’s no wonder Aunt Susan’s husband never recognized us,” she whispered bitterly. “He’s rich and lives in luxury, while we are only poor farmers. Oh, I do hope they won’t be ashamed of me just because of my plain clothes.”

She looked down at her homespun dress with a sorrowful sigh. Then her face brightened a little as she reflected that at least it was tidy and very neat fitting. She was not to blame for her personal appearance.

Five, ten minutes elapsed before the cabman reappeared, but when he finally came he had a colored man with him, who promptly lifted Marion’s little trunk to his shoulder.

“This way, miss,” said the negro, and Marion followed happily. Such proof of her uncle’s wealth made her heart beat more rapidly. It did not seem possible that he could refuse the slight request she had come to make of him.

Marion’s eyes grew even brighter as she stepped into the upholstered elevator and was carried to the top floor.

It was the luxury she had dreamed of during her whole life on the farm. She looked upon it as a friend. It neither embarrassed nor startled her.

At the door of a beautifully decorated apartment stood a middle-aged man. Marion had only time to notice that he was bald and dissipated looking when he stepped forward smilingly and introduced himself as her uncle.

“Your aunt is away at present,” he said glibly, “but our housekeeper, Miss Gray, will attend to you, my dear. I am sorry, very sorry, that I missed you at the station.”

“Then you were there!” exclaimed Marion gladly. “Oh! I was sure you would come—but I ought to have taken off my veil before. I had sent you my picture so you would be sure to know me.”

“Well, you are here now, safe and sound,” said the man rather awkwardly; “but, I say, niece, isn’t it right that you should kiss your uncle?”

Marion glanced at him sharply and colored with surprise. There was something in his tone that offended her deeply. Should she refuse? The question flashed through her brain like lightning. She must win his good will in order to help Dollie. With this determination she stepped forward and kissed him on the cheek.

“Oh! not so cold a kiss, my beauty,” said the man with a leer; “a real love kiss for your uncle—like this!” he cried, bending over her.

“Don’t!” cried Marion sharply, springing back as she spoke. “Don’t look at me that way; it is not nice at all, and it makes me feel that you are not really my uncle!”

She stood staring at him with dilated eyes, and a thrill of horror coursed through her veins that she could not account for.

There was a rustle of heavy draperies and a handsomely dressed woman entered.

“Come with me, my dear,” she said shortly. “Your uncle is not exactly himself to-night. You see, he has just dined and has drank a little too heavily.”

Marion drew a long breath as she went immediately toward the woman. She was glad that his action could be accounted for reasonably, but the horror was still there—she could not overcome it.

The man did not make the slightest attempt to detain her, but Marion caught a significant glance which passed between the two, and her heart began beating so fiercely that it almost suffocated her.

As soon as she was alone with the woman whom her uncle had called his housekeeper, she lost no time in telling the whole story of the cause of her journey.

“My poor sister has been abducted by a villain,” she cried in conclusion, “and there is no one but me to rescue her from him! Oh, if I should be too late, I am sure it would kill me!”