Arrived at the public house in Melville, and learning that Mr. Blake had safely returned there an hour before, I drew the landlord to one side and asked what he could tell me about that old house of the two noted robbers Schoenmaker, I had passed on my way back among the hills.
“Wa’al now,” replied he, “this is curious. Here I’ve just been answering the gentleman upstairs a heap of questions concerning that self same old place, and now you come along with another batch of them; just as if that rickety old den was the only spot of interest we had in these parts.”
“Perhaps that may be the truth,” I laughed. “Just now when the papers are full of these rogues, anything concerning them must be of superior interest of course.” And I pressed him again to give me a history of the house and the two thieves who had inhabited it.
“Wa’al,” drawled he, “ ’taint much we know about them, yet after all it may be a trifle too much for their necks some day. Time was when nobody thought especial ill of them beyond a suspicion or so of their being somewhat mean about money. That was when they kept an inn there, but when the robbery of the Rutland bank was so clearly traced to them, more than one man about here started up and said as how they had always suspected them Schoenmakers of being villains, and even hinted at something worse than robbery. But nothing beyond that one rascality has yet been proved against them, and for that they were sent to jail for twenty years as you know. Two months ago they escaped, and that is the last known of them. A precious set, too, they are; the father being only so much the greater rogue than the son as he is years older.”
“And the inn? When was that closed?”
“Just after their arrest.”
“Hasn’t it been opened since?”
“Only once when a brace of detectives came up from Troy to investigate, as they called it.”
“Who has the key?”
“Ah, that’s more than I can tell you.”
I dared not ask how my questions differed from those of Mr. Blake, nor indeed touch upon that point in any way. I was chiefly anxious now to return to New York without delay; so paying my bill I thanked the landlord, and without waiting for the stage, remounted my horse and proceeded at once to Putney where I was fortunate enough to catch the evening train. By five o’clock next morning I was in New York where I proceeded to carry out my programme by hastening at once to headquarters and reporting my suspicions regarding the whereabouts of the Schoenmakers. The information was received with interest and I had the satisfaction of seeing two men despatched north that very day with orders to procure the arrest of the two notable villains wherever found.
VIII
A Word Overheard
That evening I had a talk with Fanny over the area gate. She came out when she saw me approach, with her eyes staring and her whole form in a flutter.
“O,” she cried, “such things as I have heard this day!”
“Well,” said I, “what? let me hear too.” She put her hand on her heart. “I never was so frightened,” whispered she, “I thought I should have fainted right away. To hear that elegant lady use such a word as crime—”
“What elegant lady?” interrupted I. “Don’t begin in the middle of your story, that’s a good girl; I want to hear it all.”
“Well,” said she, calming down a little, “Mrs. Daniels had a visitor today, a lady. She was dressed—”
“O, now,” interrupted I for the second time, “you can leave that out. Tell me what her name was and let the fol-de-rols go.”
“Her name?” exclaimed the girl with some sharpness, “how should I know her name; she didn’t come to see me.”
“How did she look then? You saw her I suppose?”
“And wasn’t that what I was telling you, when you stopped me. She looked like a queen, that she did; as grand a lady as ever I see, in her velvet dress sweeping over the floor, and her diamonds as big as—”
“Was she a dark woman?” I asked.
“Her hair was black and so were her eyes, if that is what you mean.”
“And was she very tall and proud looking?”
The girl nodded. “You know her?” whispered she.
“No,” said I, “not exactly; but I think I can tell who she is. And so she called today on Mrs. Daniels, did she.”
“Yes, but I guess she knew master would be home before she got away.”
“Come,” said I, “tell me all about it; I’m getting impatient.”
“And ain’t I telling you?” said she. “It was about three o’clock this afternoon, the time I go upstairs to dress, so I just hangs about in the hall a bit, near the parlor door, and I hear her gossiping with Mrs. Daniels almost as if she was an old friend, and Mrs. Daniels answering her mighty stiffly and as if she wasn’t glad to see her at all. But the lady didn’t seem to mind, but went on talking as sweet as honey, and when they came out, you would have thought she loved the old woman like a sister to see her look into her face and say something about knowing how busy she was, but that it would give her
