Five Hundred Dollars; or, Jacob Marlowe's Secret

Bert gladly followed Mrs. Stubbs upstairs, and was shown on the attic floor a wooden box about half full of old letters and other papers. The box certainly did not look very valuable, and Bert said so.

"I wouldn't have kept it," said the landlady, "if I could have got hold of his trunk. But he got the start of me, and it was in the hands of an expressman before I knew that he was going to move. I was downstairs in the basement when Mr. Harding took the expressman upstairs, and the trunk was brought down and put in his wagon before I knew what was going on. Mr. Harding didn't even say good-by, and I haven't seen or heard of him from that day to this."

"Well, Mrs. Stubbs, here are your four dollars, and I hope you will some day get the balance of the debt."

Bert carried the box downstairs and into his room, where he proceeded to examine the contents, among which he was destined to come across a document of considerable interest to him.

CHAPTER XXX.

BERT OBTAINS AN IMPORTANT CLEW

Mr. Harding was not a literary man, and his papers would hardly have been of any value to a publisher. They consisted principally of letters, some of them ten years old. It seemed to have been a habit of Ralph Harding to keep his letters, though he probably set no great value upon them.

Bert opened fifteen or twenty, and glanced over them, only to find that they related to matters in which he felt no interest whatever. He began to doubt whether they were even worth the small sum he had paid for them, when all at once he made a discovery. He found a letter dated Lakeville.

"Who can have written him from Lakeville?" he asked himself, and naturally turned the page to read the signature.

His heart beat quickly when he read the name of the writer—Albert Marlowe. It was dated about two years previous, and ran as follows:

Dear Sir: I have received your letter, and am surprised that you should have the boldness to write to me for money. I am sorry to hear that you have been in bad luck, but I presume it is your own fault. You are able to earn good wages, and ought to pay your own way without depending on anybody. Look at me! I was once a common workman like you, but, thanks to my energy and enterprise, I am now the owner of a large factory, and able to live in comparative luxury. I don't know why you should expect me to support you. I have a family of my own to care for, and my first duty is to them.

You intimate that you are in possession of a secret which, if made known, will injure me. I suppose I know what you mean. I don't think, however, that you will find any one to believe what you may say to my disadvantage, and I warn you to be careful what you do, or I may testify that you yourself took the missing bonds. Don't trouble yourself to write to me again, for it will be time thrown away.

Albert Marlowe.

Underneath the signature were a few lines, evidently written by Ralph Harding:

Who would believe that the writer of this letter is a thief, and that the capital on which he started in business was stolen? I bitterly repent that I was induced to join in the plot against poor Barton. He—poor fellow—is in exile, afraid to return to his own country, while the man who committed the crime which has shadowed his life, is rich and prosperous, and holds up his head in society. And I—miserable tool that I was—by my testimony helped him to fasten the crime on an innocent man. I don't know whether it will do any good to write again. I am a poor man, and Albert Marlowe is rich. He will defy me, and perhaps swear that I was implicated in the robbery myself. So I was, alas! for I accepted a bribe of two hundred dollars for my part in the matter. I wish I could see poor Barton righted!

Bert read this letter with flushed face and beating heart. Here was proof positive that his father was innocent; and Albert Marlowe, the rich manufacturer, the magnate of Lakeville, was guilty not only of robbery, but, what was even more contemptible, had schemed successfully to throw the guilt upon an innocent man, the husband of his cousin. Through him John Barton had suffered a ten-years' exile, and had been deprived for that time of his good name and the society of his family.

"I wouldn't take a thousand dollars for this letter," said Bert to himself in exultation. "I don't know what it amounts to in the eyes of the law, but I am sure it is valuable. Now, if I could only find Ralph Harding himself."

Bert continued his search among the letters, and finally found one postmarked Peoria, Illinois, which appeared to have been received by Ralph Harding about a week before he left Harrisburg.

This is an extract therefrom:

It is five years since I have seen you. This is a long separation considering that we two are the only ones left of the family. If you are in your old business as I infer from your letter, why can't you get work just as well here in Peoria as in Harrisburg? There is a large shop here, where I think you would not have any difficulty in securing employment. I presume as good wages are paid here as at the East. We have a small room which you could occupy, and it would be pleasant for a brother and sister who have been so long separated to find themselves under the same roof.

My husband is a carpenter, as you know. His earnings are not large, and he doesn't always have work, but we have a little sum saved up which we can fall back upon in time of need. I can't lend you any money, and indeed you ought not to expect it, as you are a single man, and have no one to take care of but yourself. I am afraid you are not a very good manager. Come to Peoria, and I will see if I can't help you save money. Consider what a position you would be in if you should fall sick.

Your affectionate sister,

Helen Clifton.

Underneath, in Ralph Harding's handwriting, was this brief indorsement:

All true, every word of it! Helen was always prudent and a good manager. It is true, as she says, that there are but two of us. Why shouldn't I go to Peoria, and see her?

There was no more; but as Ralph Harding a week later left Harrisburg, it seemed fair to infer that he had adopted his own half-expressed intention, and gone to Peoria, to see his sister, especially as there seemed a good chance of his obtaining work there in his own line.

"Peoria!" repeated Bert thoughtfully. "The chances are that Ralph Harding went there from Harrisburg, and it is very probable that he is there now. I wish I could find some one that could tell me about the place."

"Mr. Pearson," he said, when he met the associate manager at rehearsal, "can you tell me anything about Peoria?"

"Yes," answered the actor. "What do you want to know about it?"

"How large a place is it?"

"About the size of Harrisburg. I don't believe there is a thousand difference in the population."

"Is it far from here?"

"A matter of six or seven hundred miles, I should think, perhaps a little more. It is southeast of Chicago. Why do you want to know?"

"I want to find a man who, I have reason to think, is now living there. I may have to leave the company, as it is very important for me to find this man."

"There will be no occasion for you to leave the company. When we leave Harrisburg, we jump to Chicago, and probably three weeks from now we shall be playing in Peoria. It is on our list of places, and is a very good city for a short engagement. Will that be soon enough?"

Bert hesitated. If he remained with the company, his expenses would be paid out to Peoria, and he would be earning fifteen dollars a week besides.

"Come, now, don't hesitate!" said Mr. Pearson. "We shouldn't know how to get along without you."

Naturally this pleased Bert, and helped to fix his resolution.

"I don't know but I can wait two or three weeks," he said slowly, "if you are sure we shall play at Peoria."

"I am certain of it. The route was made up this morning. We are having some new bills printed in which your name is substituted for that of Bob Hazleton. So you see, my boy, you will be getting a reputation under your own colors."

This had its effect, for Bert felt that he should like to have a bill of the play in which his own name appeared. Otherwise he might find his friends incredulous as to his having actually been upon the stage. Later in the day he gave his promise that he would go with the company when they left Harrisburg, but would not sign an engagement for any definite time, as he did not wish to put any obstacle in the way of his following any clew that might lead to the discovery of Harding.

"Well, Mr. Barton," said Mrs. Stubbs after supper, "did you find anything of value in that box of papers?"

"Yes; I obtained some information that will probably be of value. Besides it gave me a clew to his present residence."

"Indeed," said Angelica, who was present, "where is he?"

"In Peoria, Illinois. He has a married sister living there."

"Shall you go out West to find him?"

"I expect to go with the company. They will play an engagement in Peoria."

"If you see Mr. Harding, please remember me to him. Say—that is, you may hint that I still think of him with interest, and—and hope he will some day return to us."

"That message ought to bring him, Miss Angelica."

"Of course I only think of him as a friend, but we were very congenial, and it is not often that one meets a congenial spirit."

"Why not send a letter to Mr. Harding by me?"

"I—that is; mamma, do you think it would be proper?" asked Angelica with bashful hesitation.

"I don't know why not," answered Mrs. Stubbs promptly. "You might ask in the letter when it will be convenient for him to pay his board bill."

"Oh, ma, how unromantic!"

"It may not be romantic, Angelica, but it's business," said the practical mother.

Miss Stubbs did write the letter, but it is certain she did not mention the board bill in it.

CHAPTER XXXI.

SQUIRE MARLOWE IS SURPRISED

It may be well to return to Lakeville, as something has occurred there which deserves to be recorded.

It is needless to say that Mrs. Barton missed Bert, whose bright and cheerful presence had filled the little house with comfort and gladdened his mother's heart. Still she knew that he was well, and heard from him every week, though Bert only detailed his experiences in general terms, not caring to raise expectations which perhaps might prove illusive.

Bert's absence from Lakeville excited some surprise and speculation. Squire Marlowe, to whom it had been mentioned by Percy, stopped Mrs. Barton in the street one day, and said: "Percy tells me that your son is away."

"Yes."

"Where is he?"

"He went to New York."

"Is he at work there?"

"No, he is travelling."

"Travelling? What do you mean?"

"Uncle Jacob has sent him off on some mission. He is at Harrisburg, I believe."

"That is very strange!" remarked the squire, arching his eyebrows. "What possible mission can Jacob have for the boy?"

"He doesn't write particulars; but his expenses are paid."

"I don't see how Jacob Marlowe, with his paltry twelve dollars a week, can make such arrangements."

"Nor I; but probably Uncle Jacob has interested his employer in Bert."

"It may be so, but I think it very unwise to send off a boy by himself. What judgment has he, or what can he do?"

"I don't very well know. He seems to enjoy the trip."

"Of course; but it will spoil him for solid work. He had better have stayed at home."

"What encouragement was there for him to stay in Lakeville? If you had not discharged him, he would be here now. If you will take him back into the factory, I will write him to that effect, and perhaps it will induce him to return."

"Ahem! I will think of it. Does he send you any money?"

"Not yet."

"Then how do you live?"

"Without calling upon you, Albert," said Mrs. Barton, with a little tinge of bitterness. "I hardly think you feel enough interest in me to care how I live."

Albert Marlowe was somewhat embarrassed, and regretted that he had asked the question. Mrs. Barton might take it into her head that he was willing to contribute to her support, and this was far from being the case.

"Women look at things from a peculiar point of view," he said. "Of course I wish you well, and for that reason regret that you are so injudicious in your management of Bert."

"I have no fear but that Bert will turn out well," rejoined Mrs. Barton proudly.

"Ahem! I hope so, though that twenty-dollar affair led me to fear that he had inherited loose ideas about honesty."

"What do you mean?" demanded Mrs. Barton, her cheeks aflame with indignation.

"I shouldn't think you would need to ask. Of course we both know why Mr. Barton is an exile, unable to return home."

"Yes, Albert Marlowe, we do know! He is an innocent man, suffering for the crime of another."

"That is what he says, is it?" sneered the squire. "That might be expected."

"Because it is true; but, Albert Marlowe, I have good hopes that his innocence may be vindicated, and the real criminal brought to light."

Her intense gaze made the squire uncomfortable. "Did she mean anything?" he asked himself.

"It is natural for you to take the most favorable view of the matter," he said; "but your hope is hardly likely to be realized. Good-morning."

Mrs. Barton looked after him, and her spirit rose in revolt against the inequalities of fortune. Here was the real criminal, as she fully believed—rich, prosperous, enjoying a high social position, while her poor husband, the scapegoat for another's offense, was an exile from home.

The next day Squire Marlowe went to New York on business. He occasionally visited Wall Street, and now and then made an investment. He looked the embodiment of dignity and respectability, with his ample figure, fine broadcloth suit, and gold-rimmed eyeglasses, and might readily have been taken for a prosperous and wealthy city banker.

About one o'clock he entered an expensive restaurant, a stone's throw from Broadway, and taking up the bill of fare made a selection of dishes for his dinner. As he did so, he said to himself, with a comfortable smile: "When I was a common workman in a shoe shop, how little did I think that I should ever be able to sit down in a restaurant like this, and pay a dollar and a half for my dinner. Why, I didn't earn much more than that by a day's labor. Here I am surrounded by brokers, bankers, and wealthy merchants, and quite as good as they."

The thought led Squire Marlowe to look around him. What he saw almost paralyzed him with surprise. There—at a neighboring table—sat Uncle Jacob, enjoying a luxurious dinner, the cost of which the squire, with the bill of fare before him, estimated must come to a high figure.

"Can that be Uncle Jacob?" Albert Marlowe asked himself in amazement. "How on earth can a clerk on twelve dollars a week salary afford to dine at a restaurant like this?"

As he had not yet given his order, he moved over to the table occupied by Uncle Jacob, and took a seat opposite him.

"Albert Marlowe!" exclaimed the old man, recognizing him with surprise.

"Yes, Uncle Jacob, it is I. But what on earth brings you here?"

"I should think it was pretty evident," said Jacob Marlowe with a smile, "I came in for my dinner."

"Yes, but do you usually come here?"

"Not always—perhaps half the time. I make my heartiest meal of the day at this time—unlike most New Yorkers—and like it to be a good one."

"Of course, but—how can you afford to eat here? Didn't you say that your salary was twelve dollars a week?"

"I think I said so."

"You are spending at that rate for your dinners alone. I don't understand how you can do it."

"I am an old man, Albert. I can't live many years, and I think it sensible to get as much comfort out of life as possible for my few remaining years."

"Still–"

"I had a little money, you know, five hundred dollars, and I have managed to turn it to good account, so that I don't feel quite so cramped as when I was at Lakeville."

"The old man's been speculating!" thought Albert Marlowe, "and he has had a stroke of luck; but he's a fool to think he can live like a banker on the strength of that. Very likely his next venture will sweep away his small amount of capital. Well, if he comes to grief, he needn't apply to me. Henceforth I wash my hands of him and his affairs altogether."

"Of course it's your own lookout," he said, "but to me you seem recklessly extravagant."

"Because I come in here? Well, perhaps so. When I find I can't afford it, I'll go to a cheaper place. Have you seen Mary Barton lately?"

"Yes; she is well. By the way, what have you done with her boy?"

"He is traveling."

"So I heard. It seems to me a very foolish proceeding. Who is paying his expenses?"

"Himself."

"Is he working, then?" asked the squire in surprise.

"Yes; he is a member of the 'Streets of Gotham' company, and is earning his living as an actor."

"What does he know about acting?" asked the squire in amazement.

"It appears that he is giving satisfaction. He sent me a paper containing a highly commendatory notice of his first appearance."

"It won't last," said Albert Marlowe, his wish being father to the thought.

When he returned to Lakeville that evening, he carried with him two pieces of news—first, that Uncle Jacob was living in luxury, and secondly, that Bert Barton was on the stage.

"If he can act, I can," said Percy jealously. "They must have been hard up for an actor when they took Bert Barton. A boy brought up in a country town. Never been to a theatre in his life before. Pooh! I dare say he appeared for one night only. The idea of Mary Barton's son acting before a regular audience, a boy who has hoed corn for farmer Wilson!"

CHAPTER XXXII.

HIRAM FRENCH, OF CHICAGO

From Harrisburg the dramatic company with which Bert was connected went directly to Chicago.

"We don't like to make such long jumps," said Mr. Pearson, with whom Bert had become quite friendly, "but we could secure Hooley's Theatre this week, and no other. Were you ever in Chicago?"

"No," answered Bert. "I have never traveled much. I suppose you have."

"Yes; I went out to San Francisco last year with the 'Silver King.' You will find Chicago a pleasant city."

"Are the hotels dear?"

"No; only moderate in price. The theatrical people get a discount, you know."

"I think I should rather live in a boarding house."

"That will be cheaper. I don't mind going with you to keep you company."

"Do you know of any good house?"

"I know a very comfortable boarding-house on Monroe Street, kept by Mrs. Shelby, a widow lady. My sister once boarded there, when visiting Chicago."

"That will suit me, I think. Would you mind going 'round with me?"

"I'll take you there, with pleasure."

The two, on arriving in Chicago, went at once to Monroe Street, and called at the boarding-house.

"I am glad to see you, Mr. Pearson," said the widow cordially. "Is your sister with you?"

"Not this time."

"Are you going to play here?"

"Yes; I shall appear at Hooley's Theatre all next week."

"Is that young gentleman your brother?"

"No, he is one of our actors, Mr. Bert Barton."

"He looks young for an actor," said the landlady, surprised.

"I appeared on the stage when I was only twelve. But we have come on business, Mrs. Shelby. Have you a vacant room?"

"Yes; I had one vacated yesterday."

"Suppose Mr. Barton and myself take it for a week?"

"I shall be glad to have you. I can't afford to have my rooms remain vacant."

"What will be your terms?"

"Six dollars each, including board."

"Is that satisfactory, Bert?" asked Pearson.

"Quite so, Mr. Pearson."

"Then we will take possession. I hope it is almost time for a meal, Mrs. Shelby. I am almost famished."

"You will only have to wait an hour. I will show you to your rooms, and then I must be excused, as my presence is required downstairs."

The room shown by the landlady was of fair size and neatly furnished. Bert looked about him in satisfaction.

"I would rather be here than at a hotel," he said.

"So would I, as long as I have a companion," returned Mr. Pearson. "Besides, I shall be saving from four to five dollars a week. I ought to pay more than half of it, as I am receiving a considerably higher salary than you."

"No, Mr. Pearson, I prefer to pay my share. But for you I should be paying more at a hotel."

Bert felt a little diffidence in appearing before a Chicago audience. He had, to be sure, been favorably received in Harrisburg, but he had an idea that in a larger city it would be more difficult to achieve success. The first night undeceived him. He received a liberal share of applause, and was called before the curtain.

"I congratulate you, Bert," said Mr. Pearson. "You seem to have made yourself solid with the audience."

"I am glad that I give satisfaction," returned Bert. "It will encourage me to do better."

"You had better adopt the profession of an actor," continued his friend.

Bert shook his head.

"I prefer to enter a business of some kind," he said. "Though I have succeeded in one part, I am not sure that I should succeed in others."

Bert was about leaving the theatre that night when the call boy brought him a card.

"There is a gentleman at the door would like to see you," he said.

Bert glanced at the card, and found it bore the name of

HIRAM FRENCH

It was a name he had never before heard, and when he reached the door he looked inquiringly at the middle-aged gentleman who stood before him.

"You are young Barton?" said the visitor.

"Yes; that is my name."

"Are you the son of John Barton, who once worked in the shoe factory of Weeks Brothers?"

"Yes, sir," answered Bert, coloring, for he knew that the stranger must be aware that his father was resting under a criminal charge.

"I thought I could not be mistaken. You look as your father did at your age."

"Then you knew my father as a boy?" said Bert, eagerly.

"I was a schoolmate of his. Later on I was employed in the same factory with him—that of Weeks Brothers."

"Did you know under what circumstances he left the factory?" asked Bert, with some embarrassment.

"Yes, I knew all about it. But I want you to come home and pass the night at my house, and we will talk over that and other matters."

"Thank you, sir. I will give notice to a friend who rooms with me."

Bert found Mr. Pearson, and informed him that he would absent himself for one night from Mrs. Shelby's boarding-house. Then he returned to Mr. French.

"I live on Indiana Avenue," explained the latter. "We shall find a car at the corner of State and Madison Streets."

As they walked to the car, Bert's new friend asked: "How long have you been on the stage, Mr. Barton?"

"Only two weeks."

"You don't mean that that comprises your whole experience."

"Yes. I stepped in at Harrisburg to supply the place of a young actor who was taken sick."

"You act as if you had been trained to it. But how came you to be at Harrisburg? That is not your home?"

"No. As you were my father's friend, I will tell you what brought me out there."

Bert briefly related the story that is already known to the reader. Hiram French listened with great attention.

"I remember Ralph Harding," he said. "He was not popular among his shopmates, especially after his agency in throwing suspicion upon your father."

"Was it generally thought that my father was guilty?" asked Bert.

"No; while circumstances were strong against him, no one could believe that a man whose reputation for integrity was as high as your father's would be guilty of stealing. But the good will of his associates could not help him."

"Did you know Mr. Marlowe?"

"Albert Marlowe? Yes."

"Was he well liked?"

"Not by me. He was far from being as highly respected as your father."

"Yet he has prospered. He is the owner of a factory in Lakeville, and is considered worth thirty thousand dollars."

"I am surprised to hear it. When I knew him he was always in debt."

"If he really took the bonds charged upon my father, that would account for his start in business."

"Exactly so. Now that I think of it, two or three days after the theft, I saw him and Ralph Harding walking together, apparently engaged in earnest conversation. They evidently had a good understanding with each other. I believe you are on the right track, and I heartily hope you will succeed in making your father's innocence evident to the world. John Barton was my favorite friend, and I hope some day to see him in Chicago."