HELEN DILT.

There are thousands of people in New York, to whom some portions of the metropolis are as much of a mystery as Paris, or Bagdad, or Calcutta, or Cairo in Egypt.

This may seem like a singular statement, yet it is a perfectly true one.

Along the East River front of the city many sights are to be seen, which could not but be as surprising as interesting to those to whom this section of the city is a sealed book.

Here junk-shops flourish in all their glory, side by side with old iron and old chain shops.

Groggeries of the lowest kind abound, and here is the lair of the river-pirate.

Sometimes blocks occur on which not a single building is to be found, save small offices in connection with iron or lumber yards.

At night no section of New York is more lonesome, or more inviting to the performance of deeds of darkness.

Just opposite a tumble-down pier, not far from Grand street ferry, stood, and still stands, a little shanty, built in the rudest manner, only one story in height.

Into this shanty we wish to convey the reader, at least in imagination.

There are but three rooms in the shanty, the front one being about half of the entire floor, and two smaller rooms, answering as bedrooms, took up the other half.

In the outer or larger room an old acquaintance—McGinnis—may be seen, seated at a deal table, before him a half-emptied soda-bottle and a glass. The bottle, however, did not contain soda, but what may well be termed "liquid fire."

"Well, that was a good job," McGinnis was saying to his wife, who was bustling around to get him something to eat. "A bully good job, and no mistake. I don't know as I ever had one before that paid so well for so little trouble."

"That Brown is a foine, liberal gintleman, I'm a-thinkin'," remarked Mrs. McGinnis, as she turned the slice of ham in the frying-pan.

"He doesn't throw any money away, ye can depind on that," McGinnis abruptly rejoined. "Whin he pays me that sum of money jist to capture the girl, yez can jist bet your life he's a-goin' to make more money by the operation than he gives me."

"Ah, McGinnis, you're a sharp one, that's what ye are," said his wife, admiringly. "Now, shure, I'd never a-thought of the likes of that. It's an alderman ye'd ought to be, instead of what ye are."

"Whist!" interrupted McGinnis, bringing her to a halt. "Niver mind mentioning me occupation. Walls sometimes have ears, so they do. But, I say, be lively, old woman, for the boss is a-comin' to-night to have a look at the gal."

The ham had been discussed, and McGinnis had just lighted his pipe, when a low knock came at the door.

"That's him!" exclaimed McGinnis, as he started for the door. "He's on time, jist."

Surely enough, it was the highly respectable-looking lawyer, who had asked Helen if he had not seen her somewhere before, and also what her name was.

As the door was opened, he glided in swiftly, and himself hastily closed the door, and stood by until it was secured.

"Well," said he, as he advanced into the center of the apartment, rubbing his hands, "well, you were successful?"

"That I was!" with a hoarse laugh.

"This is your wife?"

"It is, sor."

"She can be depended on?"

"Every bit as much as meself, sor. No fear of her—not a bit."

"And the girl?"

"Is below," was the reply, as McGinnis pointed downward, to signify that Helen was somewhere beneath the floor.

"Good! Excellent!" and the rascally lawyer laughed quietly.

"Would ye be after wantin' to see her?" McGinnis now inquired.

"Yes."

At a sign from her lord and master, Mrs. McGinnis lighted a candle, then took a look at the two small windows to see that the curtains were closely drawn, and then handing the lighted candle to McGinnis, she bent and raised a trap-door.

This disclosed a dark-looking hole, up from which came a rush of damp, cold air, which almost chilled the marrow in the lawyer's bones.

But he must descend, if he wished to see the girl, for it would hardly be safe to bring her up.

An idea that flashed across his brain just as he was about to descend caused him to suddenly pause and bend a keen gaze on the rascally pair.

The life of McGinnis was in his hands.

Suppose the villain should take this opportunity of putting it forever out of his power to again threaten him?

It was a startling reflection.

Brown had come there secretly; nobody knew of where he was going, nobody had seen him enter this shanty—facts concerning which McGinnis was as well posted as himself.

But in the faces of man and wife no sign of treachery was to be seen.

He could trust them.

"There is no danger," Brown mentally said. "They will not kill the goose that lays the golden eggs—they are too avaricious for that."

He judged them rightly.

Brown descended into the sort of half-cellar beneath the house, of so little depth that it was necessary to bend the head to move about.

"Careful, sor," said McGinnis, who was ahead. "Bad cess to it——"

Splash!

"There ye go!" McGinnis went on; "I forgot that the tide is up, and that the hole was filled with water."

"Deuce take it!" growled Brown. "I'm wet up to my knees. Does the water rise in here with the tide?"

"It do, sir. In the spring tides the water comes up close to the flure of the rooms above."

A few steps further, and then the villainous abductor of Helen Dilt said:

"Here we are, sir!"

They had reached one corner of the cellar, and when McGinnis held up the light, Brown saw the fair young girl, stretched on a pallet of straw, which kindness even the cruel McGinnis had not been able to deny her.

"Is she dead?" asked Brown, in a hoarse whisper.

"I think not. She wasn't less than two hours ago when the old woman brought down some grub to her."

So very still did Helen lie that the lawyer thought she surely was dead, until having drawn very close it became evident that she was only sleeping.

Poor Helen!

It was the first time that her eyes had closed in slumber in the three days which had elapsed since she had been forcibly brought to this place.

Approached by McGinnis, he had told her some plausible story, and led her away from the more public thoroughfares, and then had suddenly turned on her, and putting a revolver to her head had threatened to kill her did she make any outcry.

He had hurried her into a "ranch" where he was known, had kept her there until after midnight, and then had forced her through the deserted streets to his own shanty.

The flashing of the light into her face woke her up.

One moment she seemed confused in mind, and then appeared to recognize her surroundings.

She did not know, could not guess, why she had been brought here at the expense of so much trouble and risk, but she could not but feel certain that it was for the furtherance of some evil design.

She started to a sitting position and glanced at her visitors.

The light of the candle shone across Brown's face, and before he could turn and hide his features in shadow she had recognized him.

"Sir, what have I done to you that you should persecute me thus?" she asked, in a tone that trembled with a mixture of indignation and fear. "I know you; you bought a Herald of me once, and asked my name."

"Curse the luck! I had not intended this," muttered Brown. "All I wanted was to see the girl and make sure he had abducted the right one. Well, since you know me, then, let me ask you a question: What do you know of your early life?"

For a minute Helen was silent.

Why this peculiar question?

Earnestly she gazed at him, but she could find no clew from his face, for he kept it in the shadow.

"I know nothing at all of it," she finally answered.

"Positively nothing?"

"Nothing whatever, save that a sad, sweet face seems sometimes to rise before me, as if seen through a mist. But it never lasts long, for the mists thicken until it has disappeared again."

An evil and exultant smile flitted across the lawyer's face.

"Come," he said, and he and McGinnis ascended to the rooms above, leaving Helen alone in that dark and damp and dank place—left her there alone to encounter a terrible ordeal.

It was a time of neap or spring tide, besides which the wind was in the right direction to make the water rise very high.

Helen slept again. And so heavily that she was not awakened by the water which crept up around her and saturated her clothing, until it reached her lips, and partially strangled her by being drawn in along with a breath.

She started up with a wild shriek.

"Quiet down there!" bellowed the harsh voice of McGinnis, as he raised the trap-door a little. "Quiet, I say, or I'll keep my word and murder you if you make any noise."

And Helen was silent, even though so horrified, and stood there trembling, with lips pallid and heart at almost a standstill, as the cold and treacherous tide mounted higher and higher.

It reached her knees, her waist, her arm-pits, and even here did not stop. Higher still it mounted, until it reached her pallid lips.