CHAPTER XVI.

OLD SPICER INTERVIEWS CORA BELL.

Old Spicer had no difficulty in finding No. 22 Sixth Avenue; and having gained an entrance to the house, he rapidly ascended to the third floor.

One glance satisfied him as to which were Miss Bell's apartments, and he knocked at the door of her reception-room.

After a moment's waiting, he heard light footsteps approaching from an inner room; then the door opened, and a young woman about twenty-two years of age, with a fine form and a very pretty face, stood before him.

She seemed struck with amazement as her eyes rested on the tall, spare form and somewhat aged face of the famous detective. Then his eyes--those wonderful eyes which had searched so many hearts and made so many criminals tremble--troubled her.

"Who--who did you wish to see?" she at length managed to stammer forth.

"Your own sweet self, and no one else," returned Old Spicer, with his most winning smile and in his most pleasing tones.

"Do you know me, sir?" asked the young woman, in surprise. "I don't remember ever having seen you before."

"Oh, yes; I know you very well, my dear. There are young ladies and young ladies, but there _can_ be but one Cora Bell."

"Oh, sir, I fear you are a flatterer," exclaimed the pleased girl. "Will you walk in?"

"Perhaps it will be as well," and he entered the young lady's reception-room.

"Take a seat, sir," said Cora, sweetly.

"Thank you, my dear," and Old Spicer seated himself in an easy-chair.

Cora was about to sit down at some little distance from him, but pointing to another chair much nearer, he said:

"That is the place for you," and smiling pleasantly, she took it.

For a moment neither spoke. At length Cora, whose curiosity was greatly excited, asked:

"Where have I seen you before, sir?"

"Don't you remember, my dear?" returned the old man.

"No, I confess that I do not."

"Ah! how humiliating that is! To think that while I have had you so constantly in my mind, you have not given to me even so much as a passing thought."

"Good gracious! how could I, when I don't know you from Adam?"

"There! now that's an unkind thrust at my age. True, I _am_ somewhat older than yourself, but if you only have a little patience, and don't get drawn into any serious scrapes--like murder, for instance--you may see the time when you will be as old-looking as I am."

Cora's face suddenly blanched, and she stared helplessly at her visitor. But he looked so innocent and unconscious that she at length mustered courage to ask:

"Why do you take the trouble to allude to serious scrapes? Do you think I am likely to be drawn into anything of the kind?"

"You lead a somewhat irregular life, do you not, my dear?" said Old Spicer.

"What do you mean by that?" asked the girl, quickly.

"You go to theaters, balls and parties, eat late suppers, and see a good deal of gentlemen's society, don't you?"

"Why--yes."

"The gentlemen of your acquaintance are not all saints, I take it?"

Cora gave a somewhat boisterous laugh.

"Anything but that," she said.

"Well, there it is. Haven't you ever heard the old saw, that you can't handle pitch without being defiled?"

"Yes, I have heard something like that."

"Well, probably you've never thought much about it, but I assure you it's true--both of pitch and persons."

"I hope you haven't come to preach me a sermon."

"Do I look like a preacher?"

"I hadn't thought much about it before, but I'm blessed if you don't. But then, you might be anything else that's grave and terrible. A judge, or a--a----"

"Well, a what?"

"Oh, never mind. Who are you, any way?"

"Let me ask you a question first."

"Drive on. What is it?"

Old Spicer took a pocket-handkerchief from his pocket and quietly spread it on her lap.

"Did you ever see that before?" he asked.

Cora Bell's face instantly became ashy pale, and had she not clutched at the table by her side, she must have sunk to the floor.

"Ah! I see you know it," said the detective, in his quiet, matter-of-fact tones.

"I knew it! I knew it!" she murmured, excitedly.

"I saw you did," he repeated.

But without paying any attention to his remark, she went on:

"I knew I was right the moment I thought of it. You're a detective."

Then, with a reckless--an almost despairing air:

"Well, what do you want of me, any way?"

Old Spicer regarded her in silence for a moment; and then, as if communing with himself, he murmured aloud:

"So pretty! and so young! Not above twenty-one or twenty-two, I should say. Sad, very sad. Enough to make a strong man weep."

"Oh! what is it--what is it that's so horrible?" gasped Cora, in an agony of terror.

"Ah! my poor girl, your own heart--your own conscience must tell you."

Cora started to her feet.

"Hear me, sir!" she cried. "I know nothing at all about it. I had nothing whatever to do with it."

Old Spicer quietly picked up the handkerchief, which had fallen to the floor, and holding it in one hand, while he pointed to it significantly with the other, said:

"That tells a different story, my dear."

"I know what you mean--yes, that's my handkerchief," she said, "but he took it that evening without my permission--that, and at least half a dozen others that I bought for him that day."

"And you didn't know what he was going to do with them?"

"Of course not. I never dreamed of what was going to happen."

"He said nothing at all to you about it then?"

"Yes, on the Saturday before he told me that he knew an old woman in the place he came from who had between thirty and forty thousand dollars in her house, and that he was going to get it."

"Ah, indeed? And what did you say to that, my dear?"

"I told him that he had much better go to work."

"But he wouldn't take your good advice?"

"No, he just laughed, and said he didn't propose to work all summer."

"Did you believe he would go up to New Haven and rob the old woman?"

"No, to tell the truth, I didn't believe he had the nerve to do it."

"He has, I believe, a good deal of what is called brute courage."

"Yes, but I hadn't discovered it before."

"How long have you known Chamberlain?"

"I can't tell that exactly."

"How long have you been intimate with him?"

"Some seven or eight months."

"Did you know, Monday night, that he had gone to commit this robbery?"

"No, I only knew that he had gone out of town."

"Did he tell you about it when he came back?"

"The way of it was this: Tuesday evening I was reading an account of the murder, when Chamberlain came in. Then the truth flashed upon me at once. I accused him of killing the old woman, and he admitted it."

"He had plenty of money then, I suppose?"

"Yes; he had a big roll of bills in his pocket."

"No doubt he made you a handsome present?"

"There you're off, mister. Now, what do you really think he gave me?"

"At least one hundred dollars--perhaps two hundred."

"The mean wretch only gave me a paltry five dollar bill! What do you think of that?"

"If he got the big stake he is credited with having carried off, you have fixed the right name on him--he's a mean wretch."

"Big stake! my word for it, it was a big stake. He got all he went for, you can bet high on that."

"No idea what he has done with it, I suppose?" This was said carelessly.

"I have something of an idea," was the reply; "but I don't know for a dead certainty."

"Well, what's your idea?"

"He's got a secret friend somewhere here in town, but who that friend is I don't know, or whether it's male or female I don't know. All I can say is, find that friend and you'll find Margaret Ernst's money!"

"You think, then, he's placed the plunder in the hands of this friend to keep for him?"

"I'm sure of it."

A silence of some moments' duration followed.

At length the old detective turned to Cora and abruptly asked:

"Did you ever hear of such a person as Old Spicer?"

The girl started.

"Good Lord! yes, sir!" she exclaimed. "I--I hope you are not he?"

"Fortunately for you, my dear child, I am he," was the grave reply. "Now are you willing to take some good advice from me?"

"I'll do anything in the world you tell me."

"In the first place, then, if Chamberlain should visit you again, which I hardly think he will do, by the way, you are not to mention my being here."

"I will not--I swear it."

The old man raised his finger impressively.

"That's enough! I believe you," he said.

"I'm glad you do."

"In the second place, then, if any other detective comes here it will not be necessary for you to tell him all you have told me."

"I won't tell him anything at all, if you say so."

"Well, my dear, manage that the best you can."

"I think I can manage to hold my tongue."

"I hope so, my dear. By the way, are you acquainted with any members of the detective force?"

"Yes, sir; I know one or two."

"Who are they?"

"Sergeant Cosgrove, for one."

"And McGuire, perhaps?"

"Yes, sir. I know who he is."

"Well, if they, or either of them, make you a call, you needn't volunteer any information, you understand."

"I understand. And--and if I do just as you tell me, will you get me out of this awful scrape?"

"You have told me the worst--so far as you are concerned?"

"Indeed I have, sir."

"Then I emphatically promise to see you through it."

"Oh! thank you, sir."

"You're heartily welcome to all I can do for you, my dear. And now I must leave you."

"I am sorry to have you go. When shall I see you again?"

"That I cannot tell; but if you are threatened with any danger, you may be sure I shall be on hand."

"You are very good, sir."

"I am glad you think so."

Then Old Spicer arose and walked to the door.

As he turned the knob he looked back and said:

"By the way, where does Chamberlain make it his home in the city?"

"He boards at 305 West Twelfth Street, and rooms at Hudson and Morton streets," was the answer.

"Thank you, my dear. And now I must really say good-day," and almost before the girl could repeat the words of leave-taking the great detective was gone.