WOMEN CRIMINALS OF EXTRAORDINARY ABILITY WITH WHOM I WAS IN PARTNERSHIP

Sophie Lyons, bank president—can you imagine it? Strange as it may seem, I actually held such a position in New York City for several months, and the experience proved one of the most surprising in my whole career.

Although this venture in high finance yielded me only a bare living and nearly landed me in a prison cell, it gave me a remarkable insight into the methods used by clever women to swindle the public, and showed me how these women are able to carry through schemes which the most skillful men in the underworld would never dare undertake.

All this happened in the days before I had won the wide reputation which my crimes later gave me. I had come to New York with very little money and with no definite plans for getting any—my husband was serving a term in prison and I was temporarily alone and on my own resources.

Walking up Broadway one day, I came face to face with Carrie Morse, a woman I knew by reputation as one of the most successful swindlers in the business. Friends of mine had often pointed her out to me, but we had never been introduced, and I had no idea that she knew me.

I was, therefore, greatly surprised when she stepped up to me and called me by name:

"Why, Sophie Lyons, how do you do?" she said, with the well-bred cordiality which was such an important part of her stock in trade. "Come in and have some tea with me."

As we entered a well known restaurant I noted with envious eyes the evidences of prosperity which Carrie flaunted. From the long ostrich plume which drooped from her Parisian hat to the shiny tips of her high-heeled shoes she was dressed in the height of fashion and expense. At her throat sparkled a valuable diamond brooch, and, when she removed her gloves, there flashed into view a princely array of rings which made my own few jewels look quite cheap and insignificant.

WE PLAN TO START A BANK

And yet, except for this somewhat too lavish display of jewelry, there was nothing loud or overdressed about her. It was plain that she knew how to buy clothes, and her tall, well-rounded figure set off her stylish garments admirably. In every detail—her well kept hands, her gentle voice, her superb complexion, and the dainty way she had of wearing her mass of chestnut hair—she was the personification of luxury and refinement. As she looked that day Carrie Morse would have passed anywhere without the slightest question for the beautiful and cultured wife of some millionaire.

All these facts, which I took in at a glance, made me less inclined to question too closely the motives which had prompted her to hail me as an old friend when we had never had even a speaking acquaintance. Quite evidently she had lots of money or an unlimited line of credit. How did she get it? That was what I was curious to find out. I made up my mind that I would be just as nice to her as I knew how—hoping that I might learn from her a new and easy road to wealth.

By the time our tea was served we were chatting away like old friends.

"Sophie," she said, "I'm going to take you into my confidence and help you make a lot of money. You and I will start a bank."

"You mean, rob a bank, don't you?" I said, not quite able to believe my ears.

"I mean nothing of the sort," she said, setting down her teacup with a thump. "You and I will start a bank. It will be a bank for ladies only. Any woman who has a little money saved up can come to us for advice. We will take her money and show her where she can invest it so that she will get more interest than she could in any other way."

"But I don't know anything about running a bank," I protested. "I'm Ned Lyons's wife—he and I are bank robbers, not bank owners."

"That's all right," she reassured me. "It's not necessary for you to know anything about running banks in order to hold the position I have in mind. All you have to do is to follow my instructions—and you'll soon be wearing as many diamonds as I am."

A half hour before I should have thought it the height of absurdity for any one to suggest my engaging in a wild-cat banking scheme with Carrie Morse. Yet now I sat spellbound by her magnetic power—patiently listening to details which were all Greek to me and getting from every word she uttered renewed confidence in the reality of the financial castles in the air which were to make us both millionaires.

What a business woman Carrie Morse would have made! With her personal charms, her eloquence, and her quick ingenuity she had no need to depend on crime for a living—she could have accumulated a fortune in any legitimate line of work.

I ENTER "HIGH FINANCE"

The upshot of it all was that I agreed heart and soul to Carrie Morse's plans for taking a short cut to fortune. First, she had excited my avarice by her stories of the ease with which money could be made; then she dazed me by her apparent familiarity with the intricacies of finance. At last I became as credulous as any farmer is when he comes to the city to exchange a few hard earned dollars for ten times their value in green goods.

I accompanied Carrie to the door of her hotel. The fact that she was staying at the fashionable Brunswick, while I was finding it hard work to raise the price of a room at a modest hotel farther down town, proved another argument in favor of my following the leadership of my new found friend.

"Meet me at 9 o'clock to-morrow," Carrie had said, "at No. —— West Twenty-third street." I was on hand a few minutes before the appointed hour. The address she had given me was a three-story brownstone-front house just beyond the business section of the street. But I was barely able to see it through the clouds of mortar dust raised by a gang of workmen who were busily engaged in tearing out the whole front of the building.

"Yes, this is No. ——," said one of the workmen to whom I addressed a rather startled inquiry. "We're making it over into offices." I was convinced that I had made a mistake in the address and was just on the point of turning away when I saw Carrie Morse coming down the steps.

"Good morning," she called cheerily. "This is the new bank—or, rather, it will be when these workmen get it finished. And you, my dear, are no longer Sophie Lyons, but Mrs. Celia Rigsby, the president of this rich and prosperous institution for the amelioration of the finances of the women of New York."

"But," I said, beginning now for the first time to feel some doubts about the undertaking in which I had so suddenly embarked, "where is all the money coming from to start this bank?"

"Money?" said Carrie, lowering her voice to a hoarse whisper. "Don't speak of that so loud—the workmen might hear you. I've leased this house and I'm having all these alterations made on credit. I haven't a cent to my name—that's why I'm starting this bank. I need money and this is the easiest way I know to make it."

Carrie's easy confidence allayed most of my fears and I forgot the rest when, from some mysterious source, she produced money enough to support me in comparative luxury during the ten days we had to wait for the bank to be completed. She insisted that there was absolutely nothing for me to do in the meantime and that she didn't want to see me in Twenty-third street until the bank was ready for business.

I was hardly prepared for the surprises which I found when I visited the bank on the appointed day. Over the entrance hung a huge brass sign reading, "New York Women's Banking and Investment Company." The entire front of the building had been remodeled into a commodious and up-to-date counting room. This was lighted by two large plate glass windows and the entrance was through a massive door whose glass was protected by heavy bars. These bars looked for all the world like iron, but Carrie assured me that they were only wood covered with tin and painted black.

Inside were all the appurtenances of a first-class banking establishment—brass railings, desks, counters, chairs, and, in the most conspicuous position, an enormous "burglar proof" safe. In the rear were partitioned off two little private offices, their doors labeled "Mrs. Celia Rigsby, President," and "Mrs. Carrie Morse, General Manager."

"All this quite took my breath away, but what impressed me most of all was the sight of half a dozen old graybeards who were busily engaged on some bulky account books. Not one of these men could have been less than sixty years old and all were of venerable aspect, with spectacles, white hair, and long, white beards.

"Why do you hire such old men?" I asked Carrie at the first opportunity. "And where do you get the money to pay all of them?"

"S-s-sh!" she whispered. "Don't you know there's nothing that inspires people's confidence like old men? Many people who would never trust their money to a young, active man will gladly hand it over to an old, venerable appearing fellow. And the next best thing to an old man is a pretty woman—that's why I think you and I shall make such a success of this business. As for paying these old men, they don't get a cent. They are all working for nothing in the hope of getting a chance to invest some money in the business."

HOW WE FOOLED THE PUBLIC

I was so impressed by these fresh evidences of Carrie's business ability and my own ignorance that I felt quite relieved when she informed me that I would not have to remain at the bank, but would fulfill my duties as president at some apartments she had taken for me in a fashionable quarter of Fifth avenue. These apartments were furnished in splendid style and Carrie handed me a roll of bills with which to purchase some gowns that would be in keeping with my new home.

After my wardrobe was purchased and my trunks moved over from the hotel, I was not long in learning just what Carrie expected of me. She began inserting advertisements in all the leading newspapers offering "widows and other women of means" investments which were guaranteed to net them from 15 to 20 per cent. on their money.

When women called in answer to the advertisement at the bank on Twenty-third street many of them would want more evidence than Carrie could supply before they would part with their money. These doubting ones were referred to me—Mrs. Celia Rigsby, if you please, who had made a fortune by investing her late husband's $1,500 insurance money in the securities offered by the Women's Banking and Investment Company.

The advertisements were kept going in the newspapers, and more and more women kept coming to the bank on Twenty-third street. Mrs. Morse received them all, talked many of them into leaving their money with her right then and there, and to those who had misgivings she said sweetly:

"But I would rather you would not be influenced by anything I have said. It is your duty to yourself to investigate and assure yourself as to just what profits we are really paying on investments. Perhaps you would like to see and talk with one of our customers who has done so well with our investments that she has taken an interest in our bank. I'm sure you'd be interested in talking with Mrs. Rigsby."

The style in which I lived on Fifth avenue left no doubt of my wealth, and, with Carrie's help, I soon had a glib and convincing story to tell of my previous poverty and the steps I had taken to reach my present prosperity.

Of course, I explained, I took no active part in the bank's affairs. I allowed the use of my name as president and permitted Mrs. Morse to refer prospective investors to me merely because I was so well satisfied with the way my own investments had turned out and felt a philanthropic desire to share my good fortune with other women.

Business increased rapidly and greater crowds of women came in reply to my partner's glowing advertisements. Many of them would hand over their money right away in exchange for a handful of the crinkly stock certificates which filled a whole room in the rear of the bank. These certificates were printed in all the colors of the rainbow, for, as Carrie naÏvely explained, "some of the ladies prefer green, some blue, some black, and so on."

Carrie was jubilant. She kept me liberally supplied with money for clothes and the heavy expenses of my apartment, but when I asked her about a further share of the profits she said:

"Sophie, you're as ignorant as a new born babe of business methods. It's always customary to leave all the money in a new business until the end of six months. Then we'll divide what we've made, turn the bank over to someone else and go to Europe for a long rest."

I had my doubts about the truth of this, but, as I was making a good living with little effort and had nothing better in sight just then, I determined to continue under Carrie's leadership. She continually reassured me by insisting that what we were doing was just as legitimate as any business and that there was nothing in it for which the police could take us to task.

Although I foolishly had confidence in Carrie's ability to keep out of trouble, I did not for a minute believe that the securities she was selling were worth the paper they were printed on. Still, as most of the women who called to see me seemed to be persons of means who could well afford to contribute toward our support, I did not feel any serious compunctions at advising them to invest. It seemed no worse than picking a rich man's pocket or robbing a wealthy bank—and it was not half so difficult or so hazardous to life and liberty.

OUR BANKING BUBBLE BURSTS

One day, however, something happened that filled me with honest indignation at Carrie Morse and her schemes. A poor, bent old widow called to see me—a woman whose threadbare clothes and rough hands plainly showed how she had to struggle to make a living. Tied up in her handkerchief she had $500 which she had just drawn from a savings bank.

"It's all I have in the world," she said with tears in her eyes, "and I've had to scrimp and slave for every cent of it. I saw Mrs. Morse's advertisements and I've been to see her this morning. She says if I'll give my money to her she can double it for me in two years. Would I better do it? I'm only a poor old woman and I want you to give me your advice?"

As diplomatically as I could I explained to her that, while Mrs. Morse's scheme was an excellent one, it would be much wiser for a woman in her circumstances to keep her money in the savings bank, and I made her promise that she would put it back there at once. Then I put on my hat and coat and hurried over to the bank to see Carrie Morse.

As usual Carrie was in the midst of an enthusiastic description of her stocks while a long line of women anxiously awaited their turn with her. I took her by the arm, led her into one of the private offices, and shut the door.

"Carrie Morse, this sort of business has got to stop," I said with all the emphasis I could. "I'm willing to help you swindle women who can afford to lose the money, but I positively will not have any part in taking the bread out of the mouths of poor widows like the one you just sent over to see me. Sooner than do that I'll starve—or go back to robbing banks or picking pockets."

"There, there—don't get excited," she said soothingly. "Perhaps I did make a mistake in encouraging the poor widow. But this is a business where you can't help being deceived sometimes. Often the women who plead poverty the hardest and dress the poorest really have the most money hidden away. I'll give you my word of honor, though, that I won't accept any money from that widow even if she tries to force it on me."

Somewhat mollified at this I started back home to renew my interviews with the prospective investors who came daily in crowds.

For several weeks things went on as before. Then one day I chanced to meet the poor widow who had so excited my sympathies. To my surprise she confessed that she had finally yielded to the lures of Mrs. Morse's advertisements and had given her $500 for some shares in a bogus western oil company.

I was indignant that Carrie should have forgotten her promise in that way, and I set out at once to demand an explanation. As I was approaching the bank my attention was attracted by some unusual excitement just outside the entrance.

Scenting trouble and thinking perhaps it would be just as well if I were not recognized in that vicinity I slipped into a doorway across the street where I could see what was going on without being seen.

Around the doors of the bank surged a crowd of several hundred very excited persons, mostly women. Among them I recognized many of the ladies whom I had urged to invest in Carrie's securities. I also noticed our landlord, the contractor who had altered the building, the man who had supplied the furniture, a collector for the gas company, and numerous other creditors of the bank.

The doors of the bank were closed and the closely drawn shades revealed no sign of life inside. In front of the doors stood three blue-coated policemen vainly trying to keep the pushing crowd back.

What interested me most was two Central Office detectives who mingled with the crowd trying to get some information from the hysterical women. They made slow progress, for the women were too excited to do more than repeat over and over again the sad refrain: "My money's gone!" But the sight of those plain clothes men showed me the wisdom of getting out of the way before they had time to get too deep into the cause of all the trouble.

Quite plainly the bubble had burst. Some investor had become suspicious and the investigation which she or her husband had started had demolished the flimsy structure which Carrie's vivid imagination had reared.

Bitterly I thought of Carrie's treachery to me. Without a word of warning she had fled, leaving me alone and almost penniless to face arrest. By now she was doubtless on her way to Europe or Canada with all the money in which I should rightfully have shared.

There was only one thing for me to do—get away from my Fifth avenue house before any of the women investors recovered enough of their senses to put the police on my trail. Hurriedly throwing a few of my possessions into a trunk I shipped it to my friend Mr. Rowe's hotel and followed there myself on foot.

To Mr. Rowe I poured out the whole story of my troubles and asked his help. He was very willing to do all in his power to aid me.

"It looks bad for you, Sophie," he said. "A detective was here less than fifteen minutes ago inquiring for you and the chances are that he'll be back again before long. But I can easily hide you until night, and then we'll try to find some way of smuggling you to the station. I'll loan you whatever money you need and will ship your trunk to you when you get to Detroit."

Mr. Rowe was right—the detective returned and posted himself at the front door of the hotel. With him came another headquarters man to guard the side entrance. They were evidently convinced that Sophie Lyons was in the hotel or that she would soon return there.

HOW I ESCAPED ARREST

Night came and the two sleuths showed no signs of leaving. The only avenue of escape from the upper room where I had been hiding all day was by the window.

With Mr. Rowe's kind help I securely fastened to the window frame one end of a long rope, which was kept for use in case of fire. Down this I slid in the darkness to the roof of a one-story building adjoining the hotel. From there it was an easy drop to a little alley, which finally brought me out on Broadway.

After an agonizing wait of several minutes at the station I got safely on board a train and was soon speeding toward Detroit. Then I drew the first long breath I had taken since morning, when I had seen that tearful crowd of investors and creditors in front of the closed bank.

Carrie Morse was never caught or punished for the ladies' bank swindle, which the newspapers later said must have netted her at least $50,000. Years after I met her in Chicago where she was operating a matrimonial agency which was almost as crooked as the bank had been. She never mentioned our banking venture nor offered me my share of the profits, and, as I was prosperous then, I never asked her for it.

She was a swindler to her dying day and served many long prison terms. As she grew old it took all the money she could make to keep out of jail and she finally died in poverty. With all her cleverness she never seemed able to see what expensive folly it was to waste her really brilliant abilities in a life of crime.

This was my first experience with clever women swindlers. I was surprised to learn, to my sorrow, that the standards of good faith which are maintained among men of the underworld do not hold good among most women criminals. I fully determined to have no more dealings with criminals of my own sex.

But this wise resolve was broken quite by accident a few years later, while I was traveling in the south of Europe and became acquainted with Mrs. Helen Gardner, an English swindler and confidence operator. Mrs. Gardner was a woman of fine presence, a finely modulated voice, all the manners, graces, and charms of a well-bred English woman, and an amazingly inspiring and persuasive conversationalist.

In daring and ingenuity this remarkable woman surpassed any man I ever knew. Crimes which the cleverest men in the underworld would have declared impossible or too foolhardy to undertake she not only attempted, but carried through to success.

For years the boldest schemes followed one another in rapid succession from Mrs. Gardner's fertile brain. Swindling was as natural to her as breathing is to normal persons. She was the most successful confidence woman who ever operated in England or on the Continent, and no rich man was safe once she got her traps set for him.

I first met Mrs. Gardner in Nice, where I was enjoying a little vacation after a long, arduous bank robbing campaign in America. She was then traveling under the name of Lady Temple.

To make a long story short, we soon became great friends. We went everywhere together and she generously shared with me the luxuries with which she was so plentifully supplied. She finally even induced me to take rooms in the hotel adjoining her own suite.

I did not know at that time that she was Mrs. Gardner, the famous English confidence swindler.

She told me little of her personal affairs except that her husband, Sir Edward Temple, had been a prominent physician in London and that she was in Nice to recover from the shock incident to his sudden death. The deep mourning she habitually wore and the heavy black band on her visiting cards bore out this story, but, to tell the truth, I didn't bother my head much about its truth or falsity.

I did not at that time happen to know that it is the custom in England for a doctor's practice to be sold when he retires from business or dies.

There was no doubt that she had money and that she was giving me a liberal share of its benefits—why should I worry about where it came from or how long it would last?

I, in turn, kept her in equal ignorance of my own past life and of my means of support.

But there was one thing about which I couldn't help being very curious—the number of doctors who were calling at the hotel to see Lady Temple. Every day there was at least one and some days there were three or four—each came alone and the same one seldom appeared a second time.

MRS. GARDNER'S CLEVER SCHEME

Lady Temple invariably saw all of them. When a physician's card came up she would ask me to retire to my own rooms and then would be closeted for a long time with the visitor. It could not be professional calls these doctors were making, for there was nothing about her ladyship's health to call for such a varied assortment of medical attention.

What could be the meaning of all these visits from physicians? My curiosity got the better of me and I determined to do a little eavesdropping.

My opportunity came when the maid brought in the card of "Dr. Robert Mackenzie, of Edinburgh, Scotland." As usual, Lady Temple said, "Show him up," and asked me if I would be good enough to retire. Instead of closing the door which led from Lady Temple's sitting room to my own I left it open a trifle and stood there with my ear to the crack, where I could hear every word that was said and also get an occasional peep at the lady and her visitor.

Dr. Mackenzie was a grave, pompous appearing man, slightly under middle age. He was dressed in the conventional garb of the old school physician and carried a small medicine case.

"I have come to see you, Lady Temple," he said, after the usual polite preliminaries, "in relation to your advertisement in the current number of the Lancet. Your late husband's practice seems to offer just the opportunity I have long been seeking to establish myself in London. May I ask if it is still for sale?"

"My husband was a very distinguished man and had a very lucrative practice," the bogus Lady Temple replied. "You must read these notices in the papers which were printed when he died. Here is one from the London Times—oh! my poor dear husband!——"

At this point Mrs. Gardner burst into tears. She covered her face with her black-bordered handkerchief and her charming figure shook convulsively with her sobs. Her visitor, Dr. Mackenzie, stood with head bowed in silent respect.

Presently Mrs. Gardner recovered herself with an effort, and, gazing appealingly at her visitor through her tear-stained eyes, said:

"Will you pardon me? I know it is very weak of me to give way to my grief like this.

"As I was saying," she finally resumed, "my husband was so dear to me that I cannot bear to think of living in London now he is gone. That is why I am anxious to dispose of my interests there at once. Did you know the late Sir Edward, doctor?"

"I never had the honor of his acquaintance, but I have often heard him lecture, and I have in my library all the books he ever published. I was always a great admirer of his abilities. His discoveries about the circulation of the blood seem to me the most valuable recent contribution to medical science."

"It pleases me to have you say that," said Lady Temple, warming into cordiality at this tribute to her late husband. "I have had many good offers for the practice, but none so far from a man such as my husband would have wished to see succeed him. You are a man after Sir Edward's own heart, and, if you can furnish satisfactory references, I feel confident matters can be arranged to our mutual satisfaction."

From an inner pocket the doctor produced a packet of letters, which he carefully unfolded and handed to Lady Temple.

"Very, very satisfactory," she murmured, after studying them intently. "If my husband were here he would be so gratified to see what an able successor I have found for him. And now as to terms."

The doctor did not seem at all disturbed by this abrupt introduction of monetary considerations. Indeed, he was growing quite merry under the warming influence of her ladyship's bright smiles. These smiles, by the way, were all the more effective because of their background of widow's weeds and tear-stained cheeks.

"Then I may really have the practice?" he asked eagerly.

"Indeed you may," Lady Temple replied. "The price is $25,000, but I do not want to accept that amount or sign the final papers until I get back to London. My solicitors, however, say it will be perfectly satisfactory to give you an option now, provided you are willing to pay just a small amount on the purchase price—say $1,000. Is that agreeable, doctor?"

Agreeable? Indeed it was!

SWINDLING ONE DOCTOR A DAY

The doctor counted out $1,000 in crisp bank notes. Her ladyship produced two copies of an agreement which, she said, her solicitors had prepared, and these they both signed. Then she bade the departing doctor an almost affectionate farewell and gave him the most minute directions about meeting her in London a month later.

The next day I overheard an almost similar interview with a doctor from Glasgow! The only point of difference was that he paid $1,200 for the option instead of $1,000.

There was no necessity for further eavesdropping. I understood now why Lady Temple read all the medical papers and why so many doctors came to see her. No wonder we lived in luxury with some ambitious doctor contributing at least $1,000 every day to our support!

I said nothing of what I had seen or heard, and, although I continued to live with Lady Temple for several months, she never explained her affairs with the doctors. This seems to be a characteristic of all women swindlers—to deceive even their closest friends and never to tell any one the whole truth about their nefarious schemes.

It was from others that I later learned the complete details of this swindle. There really had been a Sir Edward Temple, who was a great London physician.

Mrs. Gardner, learning of his death from the newspapers, familiarized herself with his career from the obituary notices, secured some photographs of him, and began posing as his widow.

Her advertisements in the medical journals did not mention Sir Edward by name, but it was to be inferred that the practice offered for sale was his, because of his recent death and because the announcements were signed "Lady Temple."

Doctors interested were invited to write her at a post office box address. She replied from Nice, where she had "gone for her health," and invited them to come there and see her. What happened to the unfortunate doctors who made the trip I have already told you.

The supply of physicians willing to pay for an option on a London practice seemed inexhaustible and in a few weeks my friend must easily have cleared $20,000. But she began to tire of Nice and invited me to accompany her to London.

When we reached there we went to Claridge's, in Mayfair, and took one of the finest suites in that exclusive hotel. The morning after our arrival she suggested a shopping expedition.

To my amazement there stood at the hotel door waiting for us a splendid carriage drawn by a prancing pair of horses in heavy silver-plated harness.

On the doors of the carriage was emblazoned a brilliant coat of arms. On the box sat a pompous coachman in livery. A liveried footman stood at attention ready to assist us.

THERE STOOD A SPLENDID CARRIAGE DRAWN BY A PAIR OF PRANCING HORSES

I had hard work to believe it wasn't all a dream as I settled back against the soft silken cushions and heard my friend order us driven to Bond street.

We stopped in front of a famous jewelry store—I made ready to alight, but that, it seems, was not the plan. Instead, her ladyship whispered a message to the footman and he went into the store.

Out came the proprietor, a dignified old Englishman. At sight of this splendid equipage with its crests on the door and the two fine ladies inside, he was all bows and smiles.

"It is not customary," he said, rubbing his hands in gleeful anticipation of big sales to come, "to let our trays of diamonds go out of the store, but I shall be glad to arrange it for your ladyship."

A clerk appeared carrying two trays full of diamond necklaces, rings, and other jewelry which Lady Temple had asked to see.

"Have you nothing better than these?" said Lady Temple, rather contemptuously, after a casual glance at them.

The eager clerk hurried back to the store and returned with a tray of more elaborate specimens of the jeweler's art.

Lady Temple leisurely selected a necklace, two rings, and a locket—worth in all more than $5,000.

"Send these to Lady Temple's apartments at Claridge's," she said, "and include them in my bill the first of next month. Doubtless you knew my dear husband, the late Sir Edward"—her voice caught as it always did when she spoke his name—"he had an account here for years."

OUR EXPERIENCE IN LONDON

The clerk smirked his gratitude, promised prompt delivery, and we drove on to a fashionable dressmaker's. There we secured on credit, which had nothing more substantial for its basis than the stolen crest our hired carriage bore, several costly gowns.

This sort of thing went on for two weeks. The magic of my friend's methods opened to us all the treasures of London's finest shops. A never-ending line of messengers brought to Claridge's the most expensive goods of every description—and not a penny of real money was involved in any of the transactions.

I discarded all my old gowns and had to get additional trunks to hold the new ones. Soon I had accumulated three or four times as much jewelry as I could wear at one time. With the prudence for which I was always famous, I put the surplus rings and brooches in a safe deposit box.

All this time you may be sure I felt considerable apprehension. Although I took no active part in these swindling operations, I shared in the plunder, and knew I would be held as an accomplice in case there was trouble.

The trouble came sooner than I expected. We had been "buying" some linens—making our selections, as usual, without leaving our carriage. Just as we were about to drive away the clerk who had taken our order came rushing out.

"Your ladyship's pardon," he stammered, "but would you please step inside the store. The manager thinks there's some mistake—that is, he thought Lady Temple was in Egypt."

I gave a gasp—now we'd be arrested!

But my friend showed not the slightest emotion, except a little annoyance, such as was quite natural under the circumstances to a lady of rank. She calmly walked into the store—and I have never laid eyes on her since.

After waiting an hour I decided she must have escaped by a side entrance. I returned to Claridge's and found she had been there before me. She was gone, bag and baggage—and in a great hurry, as the disorder of the rooms showed.

I lost no time in arranging my own departure and did not feel safe until I was well on my way to New York with my trunks full of more finery than I had ever possessed.

Two or three years later Helen Gardner, alias Lady Temple, was convicted in France for obtaining money under false pretenses. Her prison term brought her to her senses—showed her how foolish it was to waste her life in crime. When she was released she settled down to an honest career and later became the wife of a prosperous merchant.

The account of my experiences with famous women swindlers would not be complete without some mention of the greatest of them all—the notorious Ellen Peck, long known as the "Confidence Queen."

Mrs. Peck's exploits during the many years when she defrauded everybody who came within her reach would fill a book. One swindle would hardly be finished before another would be begun, and often she would have several entirely different schemes under way at once.

She paid her lawyers several fortunes in her persistent efforts to keep out of jail and to retain possession of the property she had stolen. At one time, when she was in her prime, she was defendant in twenty-eight civil and criminal suits.

One of Ellen Peck's many peculiarities was her fondness for practicing her skilful arts on her fellow criminals. She found more satisfaction in cheating a thief out of a ten-dollar bill than in defrauding some banker of $1,000.

Even I, trained in crime from childhood, was not proof against Ellen's wiles. Several times I became her victim as completely as I did Carrie Morse's—and I can vouch for the fact that no shrewder fox ever lived.

Each time she tricked me I would make a solemn vow never to have anything to do with her again. Then along she would come with some story, oh, so plausible!—and I would swallow it as readily as I had the previous one and as much to my sorrow.

Once she actually cheated me out of the very shawl on my back. It was a fine cashmere shawl—one I had secured in Europe at a great bargain.

"Come," said Ellen, "let me have that shawl. I know a rich woman who will give you $500 for it."

"No," I said, grimly, "I don't want to sell it." But Ellen turned her hypnotic eye on me, began her irresistible flow of smooth argument and—got the shawl.

That was the last I saw of her for six months. When I did succeed in running her down she said she had been able to get only $100 for the shawl—and she had left that at home on the sideboard!

Grabbing her by the arm I told her I would not let her go until she gave me what money she had. After considerable argument she emptied $37.50 out of her purse—which was all I ever got for my $500 shawl.

Ellen Peck conceived a very simple scheme of piano swindling, and I was in partnership with her in it. She had been working this swindle alone until she had become known to all the piano dealers. Then she invited me to join her. Here is how we managed it:

I would go to a store and buy a piano on the installment plan, paying five or ten dollars down. The instrument would be delivered at some one of the twenty furnished rooms which Ellen had engaged for just this purpose in various parts of the city.

As soon as the piano was installed at one of these rooms we would promptly advertise it for sale at a greatly reduced price. If the first purchaser did not move the piano at once we would sometimes be able to sell the same instrument to five or six different persons. When we had squeezed as much money as we could out of a piano we would disappear—only to repeat the same trick at another furnished room and with a piano from another store.

It sometimes happened that, when the several persons to whom we had sold a single piano came to claim it, the merchant from whom we had secured it and to whom it still belonged would also put in an appearance. Then there would be the liveliest kind of a squabble, which would have to be settled in the courts.

Crafty Ellen Peck supplied the brains for this enterprise but made me do most of the hard work and gave me only a meager share of the profits. It was a despicable swindle, for the loss did not fall on the dealer, but on the poor families to whom we sold the pianos and who could ill afford the money we took from them. I am thankful to say that I did not long make my living in this mean way.

I hope that Ellen Peck may be alive to read these lines. In her declining years wisdom and charity have doubtless come to her just as they have to me. I feel sure that she shares my sincere repentance for past errors, and that she will give me her hearty indorsement when I say, as I constantly do, that under no circumstances does crime pay.