CONCLUSION.

The narrative in the letter went on to recite that the man Harold Stevens had taken a cold, owing to his experience when washed overboard, and the fatal disease consumption had ensued. He sent for Jake Canfield as a man whom he believed to be honest and faithful, and to him he confided his only child, stating that the mother had died in South America and the child had been in the hands of friends whom he feared. He stated that he had secured possession of his child, and desired to consign her to Jake. He gave many directions concerning the child, but enjoined that she should not know she was an heiress until she was twenty-five years of age. The letter did not state why this determination had been reached by the father. Jack took possession of the child and the fortune, and for reasons never explained the father desired that her real name and identity and parentage should be concealed until her twenty-fifth birthday. Jake took charge of the child and the fortune, and two weeks later the father died, and strange to say, about the same time Jake's son died, and when he took the little child to his home he represented her as the daughter of his son, hoping thereby to conceal her real parentage more effectively. Then came the time when he took the child and placed her in charge of perfect strangers, giving reasons that do not concern the interests of our story, but based on the idea of his second-hand family and their evil feeling toward his supposed granddaughter. In the meantime Jake had been worried about the fortune deposited with him. He was an old man, led a perilous life going to sea, and he finally determined to deposit the money with some one whom he knew would be honest. He had gone to school with Mr. Townsend's parents, as he originally hailed from New England. He made inquiries about the young banker and concluded that he would be a safe man with whom to deposit the money as trustee for the child, and he did go out in his boat as a "blind" and sailed in her to New York, where he disposed of her, having determined to let it be thought that he was dead and thus escape his second-hand family—we use the term second-hand family. The above is the gist of the narrative. What else may concern our narrative will be recorded incidentally as Jack had developed. As our readers know, Mr. Canfield was killed on the railroad and never spoke a word, and owing to the fact that he was supposed to have been drowned no inquiry was made concerning him, and thus for forty years all memory of him had been lost until revived by our hero through the incidents as we have narrated them.

Having finished the reading of the letter, Jack said:

"Well, sir, all is clear now."

"Yes, and it is wonderful how the facts have been developed."

"I have plain sailing now," said Jack.

"You will find this girl, Amalie Stevens?"

"I will, or her heir."

"There is some satisfaction, Mr. Wonderful, in starting out with a perfect clue."

Jack laughed and said:

"My clue is not as clear as you may think, still I have something to work on. I know the woman's name."

"The girl, you mean?"

"No, the woman; you forget that forty years have passed."

"You are right, I did forget. Well, how time flies! Now that the mystery is solved, it seems to me as though the incident had occurred only a few months ago."

On the day following the incidents recorded Jack visited New Jersey, the land which had been so fruitful in furnishing him incidents tending to a solution of the mystery. While on the train he meditated over his great success and felt proud over his wonderful "shadow"—for indeed it had proved a wonderful "shadow." He appreciated, however, that almost as difficult a task lay before him. The letter had said the child had been placed with strangers, and singularly the old man had failed to state with whom or where he left the child. He had evidently intended to do so, but through some oversight had omitted giving the information. Jack did have one advantage—he knew the real name and possibly the assumed name of the woman he was searching for, but he did not know what her present name might be in case she was living. He was working entirely on conjecture. He concluded that Jake had placed the child somewhere near his home, where he might find her at any time if he desired to communicate with her.

Jack left the train on the Central Railroad of New Jersey and started out by visiting from house to house. He determined to visit every town from Jersey City to Lakewood, and he started in at one of the oldest towns and then commenced his search again. He started in by looking in the face of every woman he met, and he also went from house to house, pretending to be acting as agent for a monthly publication. He had the picture of Amalie, and believed that with his marvelous keenness he could detect a resemblance even though forty years had passed since the picture had been taken. He in this way spent one whole week, and believed he had seen the face of every woman in the town, but not one face presented any suggestion of a resemblance. With the different women he started in with a little line of conversation; he introduced the name of Stevens and Canfield, and he would say: "Why, let me see, isn't this the town where the little girl was brought up from the beach and left with strangers to secure a fortune to her?"

The above was only one of the many ingenious questions the detective asked in order to quicken some one's memory, or start a line of thought that would recall the circumstance of a little orphan child having been left in charge of some one. He had one disadvantage to contend with—the length of time that had elapsed; but he was hopeful that he might in this way run upon Amalie Stevens in person. He recognized that the chances were the girl had continued to live in the town where Jake had placed her, and it was equally possible that she might have married some one in the town and have settled down and lived there for life. We wish space would permit the recital of the many odd and novel little inventions of the detective to gain a clue, but all his devices failed. He did not become discouraged; he kept muttering: "I'll get there in time."

There was one chance against him, and that chance he most feared. It was possible Amalie Stevens had died while a child; if so there remained little hope of his ever solving the mystery, at least little hope of ever seeing an heir to the great fortune, for failing to find Amalie there was no other heir. The great fortune under the terms of the letter would lapse to Mr. Townsend. Jake Canfield had calculated the possibilities of the child's death, and had said that the father had named no other heir, and had directed that in case of Jake's death he was to have the money—-one-half for himself and one-half to be distributed in charity. Jake, calculating upon his own death, had made the same provision, and in case the child Amalie died, and Jake also, Mr. Townsend was to carry out the original terms of the trust—distribute one-half in charity and keep one-half for himself.

We here desire to call attention to the fact that at this time there were at least two honest men on earth, Mr. Townsend and Jack, and both were making every effort to find the real owner of the estate, while both would benefit in case of failure, for Mr. Townsend had told our hero that in case the heiress was not found, or any other legal claimant, he would transfer the interest in the estate to Jack, remarking: "I have enough of my own, and you deserve it in case there is no other heir discovered."

With this possibility staring him the face, Jack was bending every energy to find the original heir, and was prosecuting his search with a skill and acuteness that well warranted success, and in his investigation he ran up against a very singular experience. Several robberies had taken place in the section of the country where Jack was conducting his investigation, and when he had been about three weeks thus engaged his adventure occurred. The detective was stopping at a little country hotel, and he had worked several disguises. He was cute enough to know that his work would in time attract attention, and that he was liable to considerable annoyance, so as stated, he changed his attire, his general appearance, and his pretended business. One day he was a book agent; the next day, under a different disguise, he was a sewing machine canvasser, and so he floated from one business to another; but despite his care and shrewdness, as it appeared, he did attract attention, and one night while in his room in the hotel indicated a country-looking chap knocked at his door and was admitted. The visitor was a green-looking fellow, and upon entering said:

"Mister, you will excuse me, but I jest thought I'd call in on you because I also thought I might be of some service to you."

"Hello," thought Jack, "here I am at last; my usual luck has set in; I am going to get some information."

"I am very happy to have you call," said Jack.

As our hero spoke, however, there came a change in the tones of his voice; ere he had completed his sentence he had made a discovery. When the man had first entered the detective had not paid much attention, but while speaking in answer to the visitor's statement, our hero discovered that the supposed countryman was under a disguise, and his disguise was a good one. Only a man like our hero would have pierced the "cover." Jack did, however, hence the sudden change in the tones of his voice; but he recovered himself in an instant and prepared for the game which he concluded was on the tapis.

"You've been making some inquiries around town here to-day."

"I've been making some inquiries?"

"Yes."

"Oh, no, my friend, I've been seeking subscriptions."

"Oh, that's all?"

"Yes."

"You've only been seeking subscriptions?"

"Yes."

"Then I reckon I've made a mistake; I've been told you are making inquiries about a girl named Canfield or Stevens, or some such name."

Jack had not only pierced the man's disguise, but his purpose, and possibly his identity, and when his visitor made the statement recorded Jack laughed and asked:

"Have you come to give me the desired information, my friend?"

"Well, yes."

"I'm sorry."

"You are?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Simply because my little narrative was all a fiction. You see, I work up this story in order to catch the women's attention; I get them engaged in conversation and then start in to sell my goods, or rather get my subscriptions. I am sorry my little business trick has put you to the trouble of coming here to see me."

The disguised man looked sort of blank when he received the above explanation.

"Golly!" he exclaimed, "you're cute."

The expression of the visitor was two ended—sharp at both ends. It might mean "You are cute because you are lying," or it might mean "You are cute working that little game to gain customers." Jack was compelled to diplomize a little further in order to learn just what the man did mean.

"Yes, you are awful cute," said the man. "I learn you've been going along the road in different towns telling different tales, and telling 'em good, too."

"Yes, I've done that."

"And you've changed your business about as often as you have your stories."

Jack saw that his visitor was not as cute as he might be, even though he were a regular detective, and our hero had determined that the man was a professional.

"Who has been giving you that story?" queried Jack.

"Well, I've been told so."

"Oh, you have?"

"Yes."

"And are you going to explain all my little fictions?"

"Hardly; I thought I might solve one of your little mysteries."

"Oh, you did?"

"Yes."

"I'll be obliged."

"I have been told that you change your appearance about as often as you change your business and your stories."

"You were told all this?"

"Yes."

"You appear to have taken a deep interest in my business."

"Well, yes, I have."

"Am I obliged to you?"

"I have not decided yet."

The visitor had dropped his simple manner and was talking in a short and direct way.

"So you haven't decided whether I am under obligations to you or not?"

"No, I have not yet, but I've a question to ask you: What is your name?"

"I will direct you to the registry; look downstairs."

"I've looked at that."

"You have?"

"Yes."

"Well, you have been interested in my affairs."

"I have, yes. Is that your real name?"

"My friend, you have called on me."

"Yes, I am here."

"I did not invite you to come here, you came uninvited."

"I did."

"Who are you?"

"I may tell you or I may not."

"Are you well acquainted with Jersey law, sir?"

"Pretty well."

"That's lucky, for when I tell you that you must get out of this room you will understand that in the law I have a right to make the request."

"Yes, you have a right to make the request."

"And enforce it, my friend."

"Ah! that's different."

"Then you dare intimate that you won't leave this room?"

The pretended countryman quietly drew a pistol, cocked it with equal deliberation, and said:

"Yes, sir, I dare intimate that I won't leave this room until I get ready."

"You are an intruder."

"Am I?"

"Yes."

"What are you?"

"A gentleman."

"Oh, you are?"

"Yes, I am."

"Do you see this?"

"I do; and do you see this?"

Both men displayed pistols, and the visitor's tone fell off a little.

"My friend," said Jack, "I am not afraid of pistols, I am used to them. Why, my dear fellow, I always sleep with them under my pillow, eat with them under my napkin, hide one under my Bible when I go to church; in other words, I am never without a barker."

The visitor listened with a look of surprise on his face.

"Why do you always go thus armed?"

"So as to be ready to shoot at a moment's notice; so as to be ready when some impertinent bully draws a weapon as you have done—yes, I always go ready for impertinent fellows wherever I may meet them."

There followed a moment's silence, and then the visitor said:

"My friend, you had better not attempt to draw a weapon on me; in plain language I am an officer. I have reason to know that you are a fraud; do not attempt any 'bluff' on me, for I've been on your track for two weeks; but I'll give you a chance."

Jack, as our readers know, was perfectly cool. He enjoyed the scene—enjoyed it hugely—and he said:

"You will give me a chance?"

"I will, a good chance."

"Thank you."

"But you must earn the chance."

"Oh, I must earn it?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"'Squeak;' I am on to your whole game; you are playing the peddler and locating, and the gang, on your information, work the houses afterward."

"A nice game, ain't it?"

"Yes, a very nice game."

"Why do you wish to interfere with such a nice game?"

"It's my duty to do so."

"Oh, that's it?"

"Yes."

"You have another duty to perform."

"I am not taking instructions."

"But I am giving you instructions, all the same. Now get out of here and don't stand on the order of your going, but just 'git.' Do you understand that?"

The visitor rose, when Jack suddenly seized a pillow from his bed and dealt the man a tremendous rap over the head. The pillow burst and the bran poured down over the man's face and eyes, and in the meantime Jack seized the man's weapon, and then seizing a second pillow gave him a second succession of raps until the man was blinded, and finally ceasing the detective sat down and watched his man clean his eyes and ears, and after a little coolly said:

"Go to the wash basin there, old man, and wash out the horse feed."

The man managed to find the basin and obeyed, and when his eyes were cleaned he looked and beheld our hero sitting there with a broad smile on his face.

"Do you know what you have done?" demanded the man.

"What have I done?"

"If you have committed no other crime, you have assailed an officer of the law in the performance of his duty."

"I am not sorry I've taught an officer of the law a lesson; I suppose you claim to be a detective?"

"I do."

"You so claim?"

"Yes."

"Well, old man, I am a detective, and even you know how a real detective goes about it. Where are you from?"

"Newark."

"Better get back to Newark as quick as you can or I will give this whole business away."

"Who are you?"

"I've told you I am a detective, and I don't do my business by splurges."

"Then you were on detective work when you went around from house to house?"

"I am not giving my business away."

"What are you after? I may aid you."

The detective laughed and said:

"When I need aid I will secure a woman."

Here was as pretty a double answer as was ever uttered, but the man from Newark only got on to one end of it. After a little time Jack let down easy on the man, thinking he might be of some service some day, and later the visitor departed, carrying his mortification and defeat in his memory. But he had learned a lesson, we hope, in the difficult trade he pretended to follow.

On the day following the incidents we have recorded Jack started out to walk to the adjoining town. On the way he came to an old graveyard; he stopped a moment and then said, talking to himself:

"Great Scott! I have missed a point all along. I will just take a walk around this old burying ground. I have not been able to learn anything from the living, I may pick up a point from a tombstone."

It was a bright, clear day; the sun shone with magnificent splendor as the shrewd officer entered the burying ground. He walked around looking for little graves, and he had been fully an hour in the place when suddenly he uttered a cry. He beheld letters almost illegible which struck him as startling in view of his quest. He dropped down, brushed away the grass, and lo, his search was ended—indeed his eyes had not deceived him. There before his eyes was the humble epitaph: "Amalie Canfield, aged four years; died December 20, 18—."

The detective's search was over and he was sadly disappointed, although the disappointment meant a large fortune to himself, under the declaration of Mr. Townsend. There was no need for the detective to search further. He had solved the mystery, he had found Amalie Stevens, and she left no heirs. The child had died, according to the tombstone, some two months following the death of her adopted grandfather. There was the indisputable testimony.

On the day following Jack appeared in New York and at the home of Mr. Townsend, and he said:

"Well, sir, the mystery is all solved."

"It is?"

"Yes."

"You have found Amalie Stevens?"

"I have found the grave of Amalie Canfield, aged four years."

Our hero proceeded and told all that had occurred, and Mr. Townsend remarked:

"How sad, how fatal!"

"Yes, sir, but you have a consolation. Your oversight has not cost any one any trouble. Old Mr. Canfield died the day he made the deposit with you, and the heiress died two months and one day later, so it makes no difference. No one would have gained by an earlier finding of the letter; the fortune belongs to charity and you."

"No, not to me," said Mr. Townsend, "but to you."

"To me?"

"Yes."

"You mean it?"

"I do."

"Then I accept it as a trust."

"Accept it as a trust?"

"Yes, as a trust only, and I shall leave it in your possession."

"What is your reason?"

"Harold Stevens may have had other heirs; if so I will find them. I trust my next quest will prove a more successful shadow."

Mr. Townsend meditated awhile and then said:

"Your conclusion does you honor, but remember, I am an old man, I have legal heirs. If this fortune were found in my possession it might lead to trouble. I will transfer it all over to you; I can trust you; I know you are an honest man. If you should ever find a legal heir you can bestow the fortune, if not you can carry out the bequest at your leisure. Give half to charity and keep the other half; in the meantime, from my own fortune I propose to pay you twenty-five thousand dollars which is to be yours absolutely; the money you have earned."

Jack Alvarez determined to set out and find the true heirs if any were living, and under the title of "A Successful Shadow," a story to be written by us and issued very shortly, our readers will learn the incidents attending Jack Alvarez's most wonderful quest, and we promise our readers one of the most intense narratives, and the most thrilling and startling denouement that can be conceived, despite the testimony of the little gravestone. Do not fail to read "A Successful Shadow," to be issued in this series in a few weeks.

THE END.