Three millions! or, The way of the world
“There’s Dr. Bilks. He has got here before me. I didn’t think he would
take Mary with him to visit a patient. I am sorry I waited a moment in
Summerville.”
“What difference can that make? The doctor will point out to you the
house in which his patient lives,” laughed Eugene.
“I dare say he can by this time. I suppose Dr. Bilks has declared war
upon me now, if he did not before.”
“I should not suppose he would love you, after the scorching you gave
him on the stand.”
By this time the chaise was within a few rods of the buggy, and Engene
turned out of the road to let it pass; but Dr. Bilks drew up his horse,
and came to a dead halt within talking distance of the two gentlemen.
“How are you again?” said the doctor, in his usual easy, good-natured
tones, and apparently not at all disturbed by the events which had
transpired in the court-room. “If you are not in a hurry, I want to
tell you a story,” continued Dr. Bilks, chuckling, as though he had
something “rich” to relate; and, without waiting to learn whether the
gentlemen were in a hurry or not, he proceeded: “A rather miserly man,
out in Columbus, Ohio, where I came from, who was worth his hundred
thousand, at least, was seen, one day, searching very diligently on
the plank sidewalk, in one of the streets. The search was continued
so long that the attention of the people was attracted, and some one
asked him what he was looking for. After some hesitation he replied
that he was looking for a cent he had lost. Of course the bystanders
laughed heartily at the idea of a man worth a hundred thousand dollars
searching half an hour or more for a single miserable copper. ‘O! it
isn’t so much the cent I want,’ added the man, stung by the laugh, ‘but
I wanted to know where the derned thing had gone to.’”
Eugene was polite enough to laugh at the story, but he was impatient
for the application.
“Mr. Birch,” continued the doctor, blandly, “you rather had me on the
hip this morning. Now, it isn’t so much the baby that I care for; but
I wanted to know where the ‘derned’ thing was. In a word, Mr. Birch, I
came down here to find that baby.”
“As you seem to be remarkably good natured about it, I suppose you
found it,” replied Dick, rather coldly.
“On the contrary, I did not. It seems the poor baby died, and the
mother has gone away.”
“Gone away?” exclaimed Dick. “Why, the child was born only night before
last!”
“Bless me, I have known a woman to do her washing the day after,”
laughed the doctor. “Out in Columbus, Ohio, where I came from, I knew
an Irish woman who started for Cincinnati about two hours afterwards,
and carried her baby with her. That isn’t the rule with our people,
though it happens so sometimes.”
Mary, who sat by the doctor’s side, did not relish this conversation,
and she turned away her head.
“Of course you found the house, doctor,” added Dick.
“I did, though I inquired half a dozen times. When I found it, the
direction of the man who called me came up to my mind. The fact is, Mr.
Birch, I have so many of these directions in my head, that I ought not
to be expected to remember them. More than this, I did ask the parties
for the name; but as the matter wasn’t all right with them, my question
was evaded by suddenly turning my attention to the patient. It is the
last house on the left-hand side of the road. Good morning, gentlemen;”
and the doctor gave the reins to his spirited horse, and away he went.
“We are too late, Hungerford,” said Dick, impatiently. “He has fixed
the matter to suit his own purposes; told them what to say, and paid
them for saying it.”
“But if there is anything out of the way, we will probe it. I will send
for one of those detectives, skilled in working up affairs of this
sort.”
“We will go to the house, and see what we can make of it,” said Dick.
Eugene drove to the last house on the left, and both of the gentlemen
went in. The dwelling, which was one of the meanest in the Settlement,
was occupied by one Sandy McGuire, an Irishman, who had married an
American woman at least ten years his senior. The character of both was
“below par;” or, rather, they had nothing that could pass for character
among decent people. Sandy lived by his wits--that is, by stealing and
depredating upon exposed property. His wife had been a nurse before her
ill-assorted marriage; but then and now she drank more liquor than a
woman or a man should drink, and had fallen into disrepute before she
became Mrs. McGuire, and had continued in disrepute since.
Hungerford knew something about the couple, and gave what information
he possessed to Dick, who observed that Dr. Bilks had well chosen his
subjects. They went in, and found Mr. and Mrs. McGuire on better terms
with each other than they usually were, according to the speech of
people.
“Take a sate, gintlemin,” said Sandy, with the utmost suavity in his
tone and manner. “The likes of me don’t often say sich fine gintlemin
in me own house.”
“We come on business,” added Dick.
“What bishness could the likes o’ you have wid the likes o’ me? Isn’t
Misther Hungerford the richest man in the wurld?”
“Was there a child born in this house night before last?” demanded
Dick, impatiently.
“Troth there was, thin! And the poor babby died just afther the docther
go’n,” replied Sandy, promptly.
“Was it your child?”
“Ish’t me! ’Pon me life it wasn’t thin.”
“Whose was it?”
“Faix, yous may well ax that; but it’s a better man nor me that can
answer yous.”
“Who was the mother?”
“Sorra one bit o’ me can tell yous, thin. It’s Mistress McGuire that
can tell yous all about it. I’m a poor man, your honor, and whin I gits
a shance to make an honist pinny, it isn’t the likes o’ me that can
turn me bachk upon it.”
“Did you know the mother of the child?” demanded Dick, turning to Mrs.
McGuire, who, out of respect to her liege lord, had been silent thus
far.
“Well, no, sir, I can’t say I did know her. Accordin to my notion, she
didn’t mean nobody should know her.”
“How came she in your house?”
“I’ll tell you all about it if you want me to; though I didn’t think
there was go’n to be any fuss about it.”
“No fuss at all, Mrs. McGuire. If the woman was a stranger to you, how
came she in your house?”
“I’ll tell you. I used to be a nuss over to Newington, and some folks
there know I keep house over here. Well, about a week ago a man come
over here to know if I would take in a woman that was goin to be sick,
and not say anything about it, for a pooty good price. Well, we are
poor folks, and don’t make much, nohow; so I wan’t much behindhand
makin a bargain. The woman come with another woman, and both on ’em
staid here till this forenoon. The child was born night afore last. We
didn’t cal’late to have no doctor, but the woman was awful sick, and
I sent my husband over to the Port arter Dr. Bilks. He got here about
half arter ’leven, and staid till nigh on to two o’clock in the mornin.”
“Where is the child now?”
“The child died before mornin, and I reckon the mother wan’t very
sorry; for she spunked up right off, and got smart enough to go off
this forenoon.”
“The child died--did it?”
“Why, yes; that’s what I said.”
“Was it a boy or a girl?”
“A boy,” replied Mrs. McGuire, with some hesitation.
“You are sure it was a boy?” asked Dick, quietly.
“Well, I don’t just know whether it was a boy or not. I wan’t round
much. I was seein’ to things in the kitchen.”
“You think it was a boy--do you?”
“I shouldn’t want to say I do think so: it may ’a been a gal; I ain’t
sure it wan’t a gal. The fact on’t is, the child wan’t much account. Of
course I know’d all the time that things wan’t right.”
“The child died, you say,” continued Dick.
“Yes; I cal’late the child was dead afore Dr. Bilks got back to the
Port.”
“Very likely. What did you do with the body?”
“That’s where the shoe pinches,” said the woman, with a sickly smile.
Dick Birch was of the opinion that the shoe might pinch here, if
anywhere.
“Can’t you tell?”
“I can, but I don’t want to.”
“Why not?”
“You’ve come here to git us into trouble.”
“I have not, Mrs. McGuire.”
“If we say anything you will git us into a scrape.”
“Don’t say the firsht woord about it, Mistress McGuire,” interposed her
husband, solemnly.
“I don’t see that I can say anything,” added the wife.
“Of course the body was buried.”
“Av coorse,” replied Sandy, who seemed to be disposed to manage the
difficult part of the case himself.
“And you buried it?”
“Ish’t me? Sorra one woord I’ll say about it.”
“How much did you get for this business?” asked Dick, finding that the
man would be obstinate.
“A hundr’d dollars,” replied the woman.
“Have you the money?”
“To be sure I have,” said Sandy.
“How much did Dr. Bilks give you for telling this story?” demanded
Dick, sharply.
“Dr. Bilks!” repeated Mrs. McGuire. “Not a cent.”
“Are you willing to go into court and swear to all you have stated?”
“Ivery word of it!” exclaimed Sandy, emphatically; and, whether true or
false, there was no doubt he would do so.
Eugene proposed, in a whisper, that the man should be arrested for not
reporting the birth and death of the child; but Dick assured him that a
householder was not liable under six months for the penalty, which was
only five dollars. As Dr. Bilks was the real manager of the case, it
was best to fight the enemy with his own weapons.
“McGuire,” said Hungerford, “I will give you five hundred dollars if
you will show me where you buried the child.”
The man was indignant, and positively refused. Eugene then offered him
the same sum if he would tell the whole truth. He was tempted, shaken,
but finally refused, evidently from fear of consequences.
“I will leave the offer open to you, McGuire. Dr. Bilks has probably
given you one hundred dollars to tell this story. No woman has been
here, no child has been born; it is all humbug.”
“D’ yous mane to say I lied to yous?” said McGuire, indignantly.
“That is what I mean; but you were paid for it,” replied Eugene. “We
care nothing about the child or the woman. If you wish to make five
hundred dollars, you have only to tell the truth.”
“That’s just what I’ve been doin’, your honor.”
“If you change your mind, let me know.”
It was not probable that he would change his mind till he had seen Dr.
Bilks, who would give him the five hundred dollars rather than have his
scheme exposed. McGuire was shaken and tempted by the large offer; and
Dick saw it.
“McGuire, I will give you a thousand dollars for the truth,” continued
Eugene, at Dick’s suggestion.
“A tousand dollars!” exclaimed the wretch, who had never seen so much
money.
“Yes; five thousand,” added the _millionnaire_, without any prompting
this time.
Dick laughed. Dick enjoyed a joke.
“O modther o’ Mary!” ejaculated the bewildered miscreant.
“Five thousand!” repeated Eugene, laughing heartily, as he glanced at
his friend.
“Sure, you don’t mane so! You’re makin shport uv a poor man.”
“I’m in earnest. I will make my offer in writing,” added Eugene; and he
took from his pocket a piece of paper on which he wrote in pencil, “_I
agree to give Sandy McGuire five thousand dollars for the whole truth
in regard to the child alleged to have been born at his house on Monday
night last._” He dated and signed it.
“Let me witness it,” said Dick, laughing.
It was duly witnessed, though, being written in pencil and without a
seal, it was hardly a legal document, yet the two gentlemen had no
doubt it would prove to be a valuable instrument in the hands of its
possessor.
“I’ll see your honor to-morrow,” said Sandy.
“After you have consulted Dr. Bilks,” laughed Dick.
“What would I want wid Dr. Bilks?” replied he, a gleam of caution