{
"id": "p16022coll398:13295",
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"set_spec": "p16022coll398",
"collection_name": "Old Cap. Collier Library",
"collection_name_s": "Old Cap. Collier Library",
"collection_description": "Old Cap. Collier was an American weekly focusing on detective stories involving various crimes and criminals. The collection housed in the University of Minnesota's Children's Literature Research Collection contains issues dating between 1883 and 1899.",
"title": "Old Cap. Collier Library, Number 570",
"title_s": "Old Cap. Collier Library, Number 570",
"title_t": "Old Cap. Collier Library, Number 570",
"title_search": "Old Cap. Collier Library, Number 570",
"title_sort": "oldcapcollierlibrarynumber570",
"title_alternative": "Old Search's London Tangle; or, The Woman Who Vanished",
"title_alternative_s": "Old Search's London Tangle; or, The Woman Who Vanished",
"title_alternative_t": "Old Search's London Tangle; or, The Woman Who Vanished",
"date_created": [
"1894-11-17"
],
"date_created_ss": [
"1894-11-17"
],
"date_created_sort": "1894",
"creator": [
"Grant, Major A. F."
],
"creator_ss": [
"Grant, Major A. F."
],
"creator_sort": "grantmajoraf",
"publisher": "Munro's Publishing House (New York), 1894",
"publisher_s": "Munro's Publishing House (New York), 1894",
"publisher_t": "Munro's Publishing House (New York), 1894",
"types": [
"Text"
],
"format": [
"Newspapers | http://vocab.getty.edu/aat/300026656"
],
"format_name": [
"Newspapers"
],
"dimensions": "27 - 32 centimeters",
"subject": [
"Dime Novels Periodicals",
"Detective and Mystery Stories, American Periodicals"
],
"subject_ss": [
"Dime Novels Periodicals",
"Detective and Mystery Stories, American Periodicals"
],
"language": [
"English"
],
"contributing_organization": "University of Minnesota Libraries, The Kerlan Collection of Children's Literature.",
"contributing_organization_name": "University of Minnesota Libraries, The Kerlan Collection of Children's Literature.",
"contributing_organization_name_s": "University of Minnesota Libraries, The Kerlan Collection of Children's Literature.",
"contact_information": "University of Minnesota Libraries, The Kerlan Collection of Children's Literature. 113 Elmer L. Andersen Library, 222 - 21st Avenue South, Minneapolis, MN 55455; https://www.lib.umn.edu/collections/special/kerlan",
"barcode": "UMN_BARCODE:31951T00199279U",
"system_identifier": "UMN_ALMA:9924261680001701",
"dls_identifier": [
"1894_no570"
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"rights_statement_uri": "http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/NoC-US/1.0/",
"page_count": 31,
"record_type": "primary",
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"viewer_type": "COMPOUND_PARENT_NO_VIEWER",
"attachment": "13296.cpd",
"document_type": "item",
"featured_collection_order": 999,
"date_added": "2021-10-04T00:00:00Z",
"date_added_sort": "2021-10-04T00:00:00Z",
"date_modified": "2021-10-04T00:00:00Z",
"transcription": "LARGEST CIRCULATION OF ANY FIVE-CENT LIBRARY PUBLISHED, MUNROS PUBLISHING HOUSE. 24 & 26 Vandewater Street, New York.November 17, 1S94, OLD CAP. COLLIER LIBRARY IS ISSUED WEEKLY.BY SUBSCRIPTION $2.00 PER ANNUM. Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 18%, by NORMAN L. MXJNRO, in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C.[Entered at Post Office, N. Y., as Second Class Matter.] ^ JBv/Aajor. A.F.'Srmh. Marks, the Mixer, instantly drew a pistol, aimed it at Old Search, and fired d Searchs London Iangle; OR, THE WOMAN WHO VANISHED. By MAJOR A. F. GRANT. COPYRIGHTED, 1894, BY NORMAN L. MTTNRO. CHAPTER I. TWO GREAT FERRETS. London seemed to have reached the climax of the sensational. The Regents Park Puzzle was no longer talked about, the Woolwich case seemed to be forgotten, and the Whitechapel crime to have passed out of public notice. The new mystery was the talk of the town. Not a drop of blood had been found, but this absence seemed only to deepen the puzzle and to make things look darker to the shrewd ferrets of Bow Street. Lady Carcross had vanished. Who was Lady Carcross? She was a lady of rank and fashion, the leader of the latter in Kensington, where her drawing-rooms were conceded to be the finest in London, and her entertainments the most magnificent ever seen in the great metropolis. Beautiful, and surrounded by wealth and comfort, she was the admired of a throng of admirers, and to her every one seemed to look when a titled stranger was to be properly entertained in London society. It was very hard to believe that this woman had disappeared. London was almost ready to believe anything now. Some said that the prince would vanish next and, indeed, there were those who feared that the heir to the throne would follow Lady Carcross example and vanish also. It was the fourth day after the event, and not a trace had been obtained of the missing woman. But let us go back. It is night. The elegant mansion, almost a palace, in Kensington Road is ablaze with light. It is illuminated like a fairy palace from sidewalk to its last floor, and the spacious parlors are thronged with the rich, the handsome and the titled of London. There are earls, dukes, marquises, lords, duchesses, and lesser lights in the titled firmament. Lady Carcross is all smiles and witchery. Her thirty-nine years sit lightly on her brow, and she looks as young as the youngest beauty beneath her roof. It is near midnight, and she retires from amid the throng and flits up the stairs to her boudoir. It is thought that she has gone to assume another costume in which to bid her guests good-night. Half an hour passes. Lady Carcross comes not. Her guests look at one another and seem to wonder why she does not reappear. An hour has flown, and there is subdued excitement in the corners and throughout the house. Where is Lady Carcross? Is she sick, or has she fainted amid the heated air of her sumptuous room? Her maid ascends the stairs and ventures to open the carved door. In another moment the girl is inside. The room is untenanted. Lady Carcross jewel box stands on the mahogany dresser, and it is shut. The maid opens it. The Carcross gems are all there. On the bed lies the rich gown which the woman seems to have selected for her last evening toilet. It has been taken from the wardrobe, but not worn. Lady Carcross herself is not to be seen. The horrified maid for a moment feels faint herself, and then runs to the head of the stairs. In another second she is screaming at the top of her voice, and it seems as though every guest is bounding into the hall. The stair is a mass of struggling human beings, all eager to reach the upper story first. A search of the mansion confirms the story and deepens the mystery. Lady Carcross is gone. She has vanished like a sunbeam. Without a sign of her going she has disappeared from the midst of her guests and no one knows where to look for her. It is the beginning of Londons big sensation. The guests go back to their carriages, and are driven home. They discuss the affair in the vehicles as they rattle over the stones of London and come to no definite conclusion. Some are charitable enough to think that Lady Carcross has been seized by a whim \"\"of some kind and has vanished for a spell. Others shake their heads and darkly hint of murder. London has so many rascals that, in hopes of reaping a reward, they might become bold enough to abduct Lady Carcross, and thus spring the greatest sensation of the times. Three days have passed, and the sharp ferrets of the city are still at fault. No one seems to know where to look for the slightest clew. The sharp men of Bow Street and Wellington Road shake their heads over the new mystery, and would turn to something not quite so dark. The fourth day comes. The Times announces that no clew has yet been found to the Carcross Mystery, as it has come to be called, and then leads off in a long article, which is claimed to be the opinion of a high authority in Scotland Yard, to the effect that the river might tell the story of Lady Carcross vanishment. On the evening of the fourth day of the mystery a man walked into the spacious reception-room of the Charing Cross Hotel, and quietly approaches the desk. Any letters for Burton Pennant? he asks. The clerk on duty throws a lot of letters before him and he runs them over. 4 OLD SEARCHS LONDON TANGLE. To his evident surprise the stranger, who is a guest of the hotel, finds one which he appropriates. It is addressed to Burton H. Pennant, Charing Cross Hotel. The man, who is rather good looking, well built, and apparently about forty-five, retreats with his letter, and selects a quiet chair in one corner of the room. There lie opens th^letter and reads as follows: My Dear Captain Search,I would like to see an old friend as soon as you can call. I am laid up with a sprained ankle, as you may have heard, and if you will drop in at No. Wellington Street, Strand, I will cross palms with you, and we will open a bottle, besides. Stalker. Burton H. Pennant, who is our friend Sam Search, ferret, looks up a little mystified, but with a smile on his face. Theres no beating Old Stalker, says he. I didnt care to have him discover so soon that I was in the city, but he smells a fellow out whether he wants to be smelled out or not. Old Stalker laid up with a sprained ankle! Ill wager my head that it costs him many a bottle these times and some wicked words. And just now when all London is looking for Lady Carcross! Ill go. Old Search rises and quits the hotel. He calls a hansom and gets inside. No. Wellington Street, Strand, he says and away rushes the cab. As the famous old ferret settles back into the little cab he becomes serious of face. He has been a week in London. His last great success which he obtained in Paris had heralded his name all over Europe, and he had retired to London under a neat disguise for a little rest. Thus far he had found it, but all at once came the Car-cross Mystery, and he has been drawn into the vortex of excitement. More than this, he has taken the trail, but so far with very little success. It was not his first visit to London. He may be said to know it like a book. He knew it from the far East side to the dingy spots of Whitechapel and the Woolwich Dusthole. He knew it from the busy pave of Pall Mall to the dark corners of the dock streets. He had tracked the guilty all along the Thames embankment, and had watched for the thief and murderer among the shadows of Burr Street and Little Bourke Alley. The cab carried him on and on until it turned into Wellington Street. At last it stopped in front of a small two-story house which the detective looked at as he alighted. It was not a prepossessing place, but he knew whom he would find inside. One of the famous Bow Street runners and a man well known for his success in ferreting out the guilty. They had met before. He and Old Stalker had been friends for five years. Old Search ran up-stairs and without knocking, opened a door at the right of the first hall and entered a little room. I was right, wasnt I? cried a voice as he advanced toward a man seated in a chair with a bundled foot resting on a low stool. Old Search laughed in reply. Dont tell me that I didnt know that Burton Pennant was my old friend Captain Search, continued Old Stalker. I found it out, ha, ha, and here you are! In another moment the old friends were chatting, and after Old Stalker had told how he happened to sprain his ankle he turned suddenly to Old Search and said: Well, why dont you find Lady Carcross? The American sleuth looked at Old Stalker till a smile seemed to light up that worthys eye. Why dont some of your famous trail-finders solve the mystery? he replies. For a moment the smile seems to broaden 011 the English ferrets face, then it vanishes and the face becomes serious, almost Sphinx-like in looks. The fools dont, know where to look for the clew, thats it in a nutshell, says Old Stalker. Its the deepest thing weve ever had in my twenty years of London life. Ill tell you, Captain Search. You see how Im fixed. Im good for a week yet in this hole, and I have been swearing all the time. But look here, I sent for you; I want you to be my eyes this time. I want you to find Lady Carcross or to clear up the mystery. Will you do it? Almost unconsciously Old Search answers: Yes! CHAPTER II. IN THE WOOLWICH DUSTHOLE. Old Search was closeted for two hours with Inspector Stalker, and the two friends discussed the Carcross mystery over a bottle of prime Madeira. Stalker seemed his old self in spite of his mishap, which had laid him up for a few days, and he talked with his old-time vivacity. He was one of the celebrated trackers in London. A crime would have to be very full of mystery to bother the old inspector very long, and the other ferrets were jealous of him. Therefore, when he met with his accident there was a good deal of secret joy at Scotland Yard, and the detectives of the metropolis really hoped that he would not be able to take a hand in the now celebrated Lady Carcross matter. At the end of the two hours, and when Old Search was ready to take his leave, Inspector Stalker said: I cant add anything more. I have given you my theories and opinions. They may be wrong, but 1 think them right. This is a deep, dark and dangerous case. The unknown may turn up at any time, and the man who undertakes to solve the enigma will meet with striking adventures. You are going into the lions den. You know who inhabits it and what sort of teeth the animal has. I need not tell you what the Woolwich Dusthole is, for we have been there together. You will keep your head, for to be discovered in that place means death. Watch out for Marks, the Mixer, and his class. They are the lions of that terrible cage, of which London, I fear, will never rid herself. Keep in view all the time the case before you; but here I am giving my superior advice. Well, good luck to you, captain. Good-night. Old Search squeezed the inspectors hand and walked from the little room. Night had come. The cab was waiting for him where he had alighted, and he sprang inside again. In a moment he was once more riding hard over the stones of London, and he heard Big Ben strike the hour. As Old Stalker had said, the Woolwich Dusthole is the eyesore of London. It is the worse plague spot in the great city. Human life is not safe there; virtue has no business within its limits, and it is the paradise of vice. No policeman walks alone through its tangle, and the badge of office seems to be a provocation for murder. More than one officer has yielded up his life in the Dust-hole. The lowest of the low of both sexes congregate there, and amid crime and squalor, they thrive where gentility never comes. Dangerous by day, the Dusthole is ten times worse after dark. Murder holds carnival there, and drink and kindred evils make the district a veritable pandemonium. It is near midnight in the heart of the Woolwich Dust-hole. In a small room, reeking with the mingled fumes of to-baaco and vile liquor, sit two men. They have a little table between them, and its boards are adorned with bottles and glasses. There is but little furniture in the room; but it needs none, for the men have little use for anything of the kind. A sputtering candle gives a poor light, which throws their shadows on the walls, and they are talking as they lean over a newspaper which they have spread out on the table. Five thousand pounds, he offers, said one, a smallish man with a peaked face, adorned with a scar running nearly across one cheek. He can do that, and not miss the sum, i6 the answer. But, Mr. Flash, did you ever think that that offer may be a blind? The man called Mr. Flash -laughs as he leans back and puts his thumbs into the armholes of his dirty waistcoat. Dont I know the titled cove? he grins. Dont I know Sir Jarvis? They both laugh together. OLD SEARCHS LONDON TANGLE. 5 All at once some one raps on the door, and then the voice of a woman is heard as she begs to be admitted. One of the men rises to let her in, when the other interposes. Its Woolwich Meg, he says. Dont let the woman in here now while we are confabbing. I will. She is shrewd, is Meg, and may help us out, and with this he opens the door and Woolwich Meg nearly falls into the room. This woman had been handsome at one time, but some years must have passed since she laid any claims to good looks. She is well built, and looks as strong as a female San-dow, but liquor such as they sell in the Dusthole has set its seal on her face, and she is no longer the good-looking lass she was before she crossed the precincts of that hell. Whats up, my hearties? cried Woolwich Meg as she came forward, her eyes falling suddenly upon the newspaper on the table. Gypsy Elash made room for her: and his companion, Marks, the Mixer, pointed to a paragraph on the first page. Woolwich Meg read aloud: Five Thousand Pounds Reward. Offered by Sir Jarvis Jelks, for information leading to the finding of Lady Carcross, of Kensington Road. Ho! ho! laughed the woman as she fell back. So he wants to know whats become of her ladyship? Of course he does, Meg, said Marks. And hes her cousin, too. And heir. Meg seemed to resent the last words. Dont be too sure of that, she exclaimed. But Lady Carcross is a widow, and childlesslost her haby when the Petrel went down. So they say, smiled the woman, reaching out for the bottle, which she held to her lips without ceremony. I know what they saythat she lost her husband and baby that time, and that Sir Jarvis Jelks is her only heir. Thats all right. The two men exchanged glances. Immediately Marks, the Mixer, rose and took a fresh bottle from the sideboard. Meg eyed it a moment and shook her head. No more, if you please, she said. I have had enough for to-night. She looked again at the paper, reading the offer of reward for the solution of the Carcross mystery, nor looking up again till she had reached the end of it. That reward will stimulate all the detectives in the city, remarked Gypsy Flash. The ground will swarm with them, but they wont find er. How do you know they wont? And Meg turned upon the speaker, whom she transfixed with a look. Because the mystery is too deep, and Sir Jarvis wont have to pay a pound of that reward. Do you think hell be sorry? asked the woman. Dont I know him?how he drives through the parks behind his white cobs, and how he swells up with the prospects he has? I hate the man. I never did like him, and I hate him now more than ever. Come, old girl, what has Sir Jarvis ever done to you? Has he soiled your fine feathers since 3rou came to the Dusthole? With an answer which was, almost a scream, Woolwich Meg flew at her tormentor, and the next minute she had torn him from his chair and flung him against the wall. Gypsy Flash seemed to sink to the floor badly hurt and out of breath. Meg stepped back and clinched her fists as she looked at him. She seemed on the eve of following up her assault, but she did not. Gypsy Flash gathered himself up and rose to his feet. Youre rough to-night, said he. Where did you get your firewater? Never mind that. No man shall taunt me and see the insult pass unnoticed. Ho! thats it, eh? I merely asked Meg took a threatening step toward the man, and he became silent. He knew better than to repeat his words. Come, Meg, said Marks, the Mixer, in a softer tone. We are friends, and cant afford to fall out. In fact, we are birds of a feather, and the dear old Dusthole is our nest. The woman seemed to grin and looked at Gypsy Flash half apologetically a moment. You are with as, Meg? We might get that reward. We? I wouldnt touch a farthing of his money! But you see I would throw it into the Thames, for I know the abominable rascal. Hes a vulture in fine feathers, Sir Jarvis is, and now he offers five thousand pounds reward for the solution to the mystery which is exciting all Lun-nun. Whj-, hes her cousin, Meg. Yes, yes. And if we could strike the trail ahead of the ferrets, we might feather our nest in great shape, besides relieve Sir Jarvis of some of his loose cash. The woman straightened in the middle of the room and looked down at the two men. She was about to reply, when a voice was heard at the door. Theres a cove at the back window, said this voice. Es been there some time. Both Gypsy Flash and Marks, the Mixer, sprang up and bounded across the room. The first named opened the door and sprang out into a dark alley, which ran past the rear of the den. As he did so a figure was seen to fall back from the window. Here he is! cried Gypsy Flash, as he threw himself upon the figure and pinned it against the den with his strong hands. Choke him to death! cried the Mixer. Dead men tell no tales, Gypsy. The man captured so suddenly by the London thief was struggling with all his might, and all at once he freed himself, and by a well-directed blow sent Mr. Flash staggering across the alley. Marks, the Mixer, ran up with an oath. He received a duplicate blow which sent him to join his pard, but Marks steadied himself before he reached the opposite house and drew a pistol. He aimed at the man and fired. But he missed, owing to the blow he had received, for the man vanished, and Woolwich Meg came up to where he stood. Who was he, Meg? He ran past you in the light of the door. There was a strange look on the womans face. A man jtou dont want to meet again, she said. CHAPTER III. AN OBNOXIOUS VISITOR. Marks, the Mixer, replied to the girl with an oath. You dont mean to tell me that you knew him? said he. I did, and hes a person whom you dont want to cross, Marks, the Mixer. With this Woolwich Meg turned and went back into the den, to be followed by the others, Gypsy Flash already showing signs of the punishment his optics had received. Meantime the person so suddenly discovered by the men in the alley was making tracks from the Woolwich Dust-hole. He managed to get beyond the precincts of that dangerous place and stood once more is a more respectable part of London. During his flight he had changed his costume and now he looked like a gentleman of some account, and quite unlike the burly person who had knocked Gypsy Flash against the wall. An hour later he entered the Charing Cross Hotel and went up to Room 99. The door of this room he locked behind him and made a memorandum in a leather note-book. It was Old Search. The acute detective, already after the Carcross Mystery, had picked up something in the Dusthole worth recording in his note-book, for he looked up after writing there with a smile of satisfaction, and crossed his legs for a smoke. About the same hour in another part of the great city a man, well known in swell circles, was having an audience with a person whom he would not care to meet openly and in a friendly manner on the street. Sir Jarvis Jelks, the cousin of Lady Carcross, was a man of two-and-forty, a bachelor, and a person courted and feasted by the would-be swells of the city. He was a good-looking person, rather tall and well-built, and his eyes were as dark as the wing of the raven. 6 OLD SEARCHS LONDON TANGLE. It was known that he was Lady Carcross heir, since the missing person was a childless widow, and he deported himself in a manner intended at all times to convey the idea that he cared but little for the fact, that he had money enough of his own to live, and that he didnt want to be considered dependent on any ones bounty. It was said that he had mines in some parts of the world which brought a good deal of gold to his coffers, and that all he had to do was to sit back and live at his ease. Hence his liberality, when it came to offering a reward for the solution of the Carcross Mystery; hence Sir Jarvis interest in the mysterious matter. We have said that Sir Jarvis was entertaining a person whom, at another place and another time, he would not have noticed. Clad in his embroidered dressing-gown, Sir Jarvis occupied an armchair, while his visitor sat opposite him, dressed in an entirely different manner. The rich mans caller was a person about thirty-five, with evil eyes, a dark face and long hands. He was dressed in ill-fitting garments, which emitted an unpleasant odor, as if the wearer had slept along the Thames embankment with the hundreds of other river rats of London. Im glad to see you, of course, Gripps, said Sir Jarvis. But you understand that we cant be as close to one another as we were once. The man seemed to wince. Mebbenot, for youre in the swim now, and all Lun-nun is after you. Thats not it, Gripps, but you see that you are not the gentleman you used to be, and Right you are, Sir Jarvis. Gods! how oddly that name sounds to me! Im not used to it, you see. No, of course not, but I came by it honestly. Gripps lay back in his chair and fixed his thumbs in the armpits of his waistcoat. It nearly makes me laugh, said he, with a broad grin. You remember the time when we were tramping over Sea-turtle Island, under the hot sun, huntin eggs and sich. Sir Jarvis turned his head and changed color. Them was hard times, continued the man. Them was times what tried our souls, and Of course, of course, said Sir Jarvis, a little nervously. Did you come to me to tell me this? No, I did not, but they came back to me the moment you called yourself Sir Jarvis. There was no reply. They tell me that Lady Carcross is missin. She is.\"\" And that youve offered five thousand pouns reward for information of her. Yes. Thats lots of money, more than we found on Sea-turtle See here, and Sir Jarvis leaned forward and transfixed the man with a brutal look. I wont listen to you another moment if youre to go constantly back to that place. I wont, but you see, it comes back to me an I cant help it, I cant. Talk business, then. Youre her heir, said Gripps. The heir of this rich lady who goes out like a flame and you cant tell where the light goes, you see'. Eunny, eh? Anall the dogs of the trail are huntin for her and that reward. Where did you first meet her, anyway, Sir Jarvis? Im her cousin. Of course, but where did you first strike her? Thats what puzzles me. Thats none of your business just now, Gripps. Just as you say, said the man, smiling again. Ill remember; youre her cousin, but youve got enough without what she would leave you if they should fish her from beneath Waterloo Bridge or find her with her throat cut in Whitechapel. Just so. You dont want her money. Of course you dont. Youre rich enough; live at your ease here in a house fit for the Tudors, and, by George! we didnt think of such a house when we was trying to shade ourselves under the palms on Sea-turtle Island The dark frown which came to Sir Jarvis Jelks face at this moment seemed to break the mans sentence. Beg pardon, simpered Gripps. You see those old days come back, as Ive said, in spite of me. But I wont refer to em again, positively I wont. See that you dont! snarled Sir Jarvis. Gripps crossed his legs and looked round at the costly paintings that covered the walls. What if I should start out to find Lady Carcross? said he. Would I be in line for the five thousand? Certainly you would. Well, I believe Ill try. You see Im rather run down' so far as pounds and pence are concerned, and a little would just now do me a world of good. Sir Jarvis drew his pocketbook and proceeded to count out some notes. Gripps watched him keenly till he was done. In a little while three ten-pound notes lay on the table, and the hand of Sir Jarvis had pushed them toward his visitor. Gripps look at them a moment and shook his head. I dont want to rob you, said he. Its no robbery, replied Sir Jarvis. Ive got a few more, and I guess I can live without those. Gripps, thus assured, took the money and crushed it into his pocket. You have all things to your liking here, eh? he asked. Yes. Butlers, cooks, pages, and so forth? Yes. We didnt think of these things when Gripps stopped suddenly. He was getting back to Sea-turtle Island, and thought it policy to stop in time. Would you like to see the house? said Sir Jarvis. Nothing would give me more pleasure. Come along, then. Sir Jarvis sprang up and unlocked a drawer from which he took a bunch of keys. Gripps went out at his heels. Youve got it nice here, nicer than Never mind that, broke in Sir Jarvis with a laugh. He took his caller all over the handsome house, which was the pride of that quarter of London. He showed him the rich rooms, the library, the parlors, the wine cellars, and lastly the strange subterranean passages underneath the place. Where do these passages lead? asked Gripps, as they stood in one of the corridors. That is my secret you see, old boy, and Sir Jarvis patted his friend on the shoulder. I must have secrets of my own, you see. Gripps nodded. Now, here is a strange place which may remind you of the little hole back of the cave on Sea-turtle Island, continued the Englishman, opening a door set in the solid masonry of the wall. This is darkness personified. Step inside and see. Sir Jarvis held the light above his head, and Gripps walked into the little chamber. Now Ill give you an idea of the darkness, chuckled the rich Briton. All right! The door was shut. A devilish smile overspread Sir Jarvis face. He bent forward and listened at the door, but everything was quiet. Two minutes passed. No sound came from the dungeon. How do you like it, Gripps? Is it darker than the hole back of our island cave? A faint voice came through the door as it were: Letmeout! Not yet, my man. For Godssakelet meout, Sir Jarvis! You are to die where you are! You should have stayed away. I dont want men of your kind about me just now / A terrible oath came from the dungeon, and the next moment Sir Jarvis Jelks was walking away from the man he had immured for life in the awful place. CHAPTER IV. OLD SEARCH AT WORK IN LONDON. Old Search, the American ferret, was deep into the Car-cross Mystery. He had inquired into a good many of the theories advanced by detectives and the newspapers regarding the strange case, and after all he had done, he was compelled to admit that it was the oddest affair of his life. The hint that Lady Carcross was involved was met by the discovery of thousands of pounds in bank notes in her house, and there was no ground on which those who had advanced this theory could remain a moment. Then it was said that she had grown tired of her enter EAI>HEAI> PASSEi^'GEK; or, Old lronnerve Among- tlie Hoonsliiners, by Old Ironnerve, Jr., will be published in No. of the Old Cap. Coij.ter Library. Out next Saturday. Price five cents. For sale by all newsdealers. Issues IN THE OLD CAP. COLLIER LIBRARY, 544 Gideon Gaults Mysterious Clew, by Lieutenant Carlton, 545 On to Washington, by author of Old Cap. Collier, 546 The Pretty Typewriter Mystery, author Old Cap. Collier series, 547 Old Ironnerves Double, by Old lronnerve, Jr., 548 Calvert Coles Combination, by T. W. King, 549 Old Forge, the Blacksmith Detective, by Warne Miller, M. D 550 Larry Murtaghs Brilliant Case, by Bernard Wsiyde, 551 Dave Dotson on Hand, by Old Cap. Collier, 552 Dick Aston, the Railway Detective, by F. Lusk Broughton, 553 Three Smartest Detectives in Gotham, by Lieut. Carlton, 554 Mountain Mart, by Will Winch, .... 555 Baldo, the Ferret, by Old Cap. Collier, 556 Old SeaJcli in Paris, by Major A. F. Grant, 557 Old Ironnerves Magnetic Gloves, by Old lronnerve, Jr., 558 Larry Murtagh on West Street, by Lieutenant Carlton, 559 Old Cap. Collier and the Flat Mystery, by Old Cap. Collier, 560 Dash Dare on Time, by Ed. Strayer, 561 The Globe-Trotter Detective, by Mark Merrick, 562 Gideon Gaults Puzzling Clew, by Lieutenant Carlton, 563 The Princess of Gotham, by Old Cap. Collier, 564 Japanese Joes Daring Deed, by Detective Edenhope, 565 Jerry Tulliver, by Bernard Wayde, 566 Old Cap. Collier and the Pantatas, author of Old Cap. Collier, 567 Tracked Through Fire, by Will Winch, 568 Gideon Gault in Ireland, by Lieutenant Carlton, 569 Dave Dotson and the Counterfeiters, by Old Cap. Collier, 570 Old Searchs London Tangle, by Major A. F. Grant, 571 The Deadhead Passenger, by Old lronnerve, Jr., cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. 5 cts. 5 cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. OLD CAP. COLLIER LIBRARY can be obtained at any- news-stand, or will be sent to any address, postage paid, on receipt of five cents per copy. Order by numbers. Address Munro?s Publishing House, P. 0. BOX 1929. 24 AND 20 YANDEWATER STREET, NEW YORK.LARGEST CIRCULATION OF ANY FIVE-CENT LIBRARY PUBLISHED, MUNROS PUBLISHING HOUSE. 24 & 26 Vandewater Street, New York.November 17, 1S94, OLD CAP. COLLIER LIBRARY IS ISSUED WEEKLY.BY SUBSCRIPTION $2.00 PER ANNUM. Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 18%, by NORMAN L. MXJNRO, in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C.[Entered at Post Office, N. Y., as Second Class Matter.] ^ JBv/Aajor. A.F.'Srmh. Marks, the Mixer, instantly drew a pistol, aimed it at Old Search, and fired d Searchs London Iangle; OR, THE WOMAN WHO VANISHED. By MAJOR A. F. GRANT. COPYRIGHTED, 1894, BY NORMAN L. MTTNRO. CHAPTER I. TWO GREAT FERRETS. London seemed to have reached the climax of the sensational. The Regents Park Puzzle was no longer talked about, the Woolwich case seemed to be forgotten, and the Whitechapel crime to have passed out of public notice. The new mystery was the talk of the town. Not a drop of blood had been found, but this absence seemed only to deepen the puzzle and to make things look darker to the shrewd ferrets of Bow Street. Lady Carcross had vanished. Who was Lady Carcross? She was a lady of rank and fashion, the leader of the latter in Kensington, where her drawing-rooms were conceded to be the finest in London, and her entertainments the most magnificent ever seen in the great metropolis. Beautiful, and surrounded by wealth and comfort, she was the admired of a throng of admirers, and to her every one seemed to look when a titled stranger was to be properly entertained in London society. It was very hard to believe that this woman had disappeared. London was almost ready to believe anything now. Some said that the prince would vanish next and, indeed, there were those who feared that the heir to the throne would follow Lady Carcross example and vanish also. It was the fourth day after the event, and not a trace had been obtained of the missing woman. But let us go back. It is night. The elegant mansion, almost a palace, in Kensington Road is ablaze with light. It is illuminated like a fairy palace from sidewalk to its last floor, and the spacious parlors are thronged with the rich, the handsome and the titled of London. There are earls, dukes, marquises, lords, duchesses, and lesser lights in the titled firmament. Lady Carcross is all smiles and witchery. Her thirty-nine years sit lightly on her brow, and she looks as young as the youngest beauty beneath her roof. It is near midnight, and she retires from amid the throng and flits up the stairs to her boudoir. It is thought that she has gone to assume another costume in which to bid her guests good-night. Half an hour passes. Lady Carcross comes not. Her guests look at one another and seem to wonder why she does not reappear. An hour has flown, and there is subdued excitement in the corners and throughout the house. Where is Lady Carcross? Is she sick, or has she fainted amid the heated air of her sumptuous room? Her maid ascends the stairs and ventures to open the carved door. In another moment the girl is inside. The room is untenanted. Lady Carcross jewel box stands on the mahogany dresser, and it is shut. The maid opens it. The Carcross gems are all there. On the bed lies the rich gown which the woman seems to have selected for her last evening toilet. It has been taken from the wardrobe, but not worn. Lady Carcross herself is not to be seen. The horrified maid for a moment feels faint herself, and then runs to the head of the stairs. In another second she is screaming at the top of her voice, and it seems as though every guest is bounding into the hall. The stair is a mass of struggling human beings, all eager to reach the upper story first. A search of the mansion confirms the story and deepens the mystery. Lady Carcross is gone. She has vanished like a sunbeam. Without a sign of her going she has disappeared from the midst of her guests and no one knows where to look for her. It is the beginning of Londons big sensation. The guests go back to their carriages, and are driven home. They discuss the affair in the vehicles as they rattle over the stones of London and come to no definite conclusion. Some are charitable enough to think that Lady Carcross has been seized by a whim \"\"of some kind and has vanished for a spell. Others shake their heads and darkly hint of murder. London has so many rascals that, in hopes of reaping a reward, they might become bold enough to abduct Lady Carcross, and thus spring the greatest sensation of the times. Three days have passed, and the sharp ferrets of the city are still at fault. No one seems to know where to look for the slightest clew. The sharp men of Bow Street and Wellington Road shake their heads over the new mystery, and would turn to something not quite so dark. The fourth day comes. The Times announces that no clew has yet been found to the Carcross Mystery, as it has come to be called, and then leads off in a long article, which is claimed to be the opinion of a high authority in Scotland Yard, to the effect that the river might tell the story of Lady Carcross vanishment. On the evening of the fourth day of the mystery a man walked into the spacious reception-room of the Charing Cross Hotel, and quietly approaches the desk. Any letters for Burton Pennant? he asks. The clerk on duty throws a lot of letters before him and he runs them over. 4 OLD SEARCHS LONDON TANGLE. To his evident surprise the stranger, who is a guest of the hotel, finds one which he appropriates. It is addressed to Burton H. Pennant, Charing Cross Hotel. The man, who is rather good looking, well built, and apparently about forty-five, retreats with his letter, and selects a quiet chair in one corner of the room. There lie opens th^letter and reads as follows: My Dear Captain Search,I would like to see an old friend as soon as you can call. I am laid up with a sprained ankle, as you may have heard, and if you will drop in at No. Wellington Street, Strand, I will cross palms with you, and we will open a bottle, besides. Stalker. Burton H. Pennant, who is our friend Sam Search, ferret, looks up a little mystified, but with a smile on his face. Theres no beating Old Stalker, says he. I didnt care to have him discover so soon that I was in the city, but he smells a fellow out whether he wants to be smelled out or not. Old Stalker laid up with a sprained ankle! Ill wager my head that it costs him many a bottle these times and some wicked words. And just now when all London is looking for Lady Carcross! Ill go. Old Search rises and quits the hotel. He calls a hansom and gets inside. No. Wellington Street, Strand, he says and away rushes the cab. As the famous old ferret settles back into the little cab he becomes serious of face. He has been a week in London. His last great success which he obtained in Paris had heralded his name all over Europe, and he had retired to London under a neat disguise for a little rest. Thus far he had found it, but all at once came the Car-cross Mystery, and he has been drawn into the vortex of excitement. More than this, he has taken the trail, but so far with very little success. It was not his first visit to London. He may be said to know it like a book. He knew it from the far East side to the dingy spots of Whitechapel and the Woolwich Dusthole. He knew it from the busy pave of Pall Mall to the dark corners of the dock streets. He had tracked the guilty all along the Thames embankment, and had watched for the thief and murderer among the shadows of Burr Street and Little Bourke Alley. The cab carried him on and on until it turned into Wellington Street. At last it stopped in front of a small two-story house which the detective looked at as he alighted. It was not a prepossessing place, but he knew whom he would find inside. One of the famous Bow Street runners and a man well known for his success in ferreting out the guilty. They had met before. He and Old Stalker had been friends for five years. Old Search ran up-stairs and without knocking, opened a door at the right of the first hall and entered a little room. I was right, wasnt I? cried a voice as he advanced toward a man seated in a chair with a bundled foot resting on a low stool. Old Search laughed in reply. Dont tell me that I didnt know that Burton Pennant was my old friend Captain Search, continued Old Stalker. I found it out, ha, ha, and here you are! In another moment the old friends were chatting, and after Old Stalker had told how he happened to sprain his ankle he turned suddenly to Old Search and said: Well, why dont you find Lady Carcross? The American sleuth looked at Old Stalker till a smile seemed to light up that worthys eye. Why dont some of your famous trail-finders solve the mystery? he replies. For a moment the smile seems to broaden 011 the English ferrets face, then it vanishes and the face becomes serious, almost Sphinx-like in looks. The fools dont, know where to look for the clew, thats it in a nutshell, says Old Stalker. Its the deepest thing weve ever had in my twenty years of London life. Ill tell you, Captain Search. You see how Im fixed. Im good for a week yet in this hole, and I have been swearing all the time. But look here, I sent for you; I want you to be my eyes this time. I want you to find Lady Carcross or to clear up the mystery. Will you do it? Almost unconsciously Old Search answers: Yes! CHAPTER II. IN THE WOOLWICH DUSTHOLE. Old Search was closeted for two hours with Inspector Stalker, and the two friends discussed the Carcross mystery over a bottle of prime Madeira. Stalker seemed his old self in spite of his mishap, which had laid him up for a few days, and he talked with his old-time vivacity. He was one of the celebrated trackers in London. A crime would have to be very full of mystery to bother the old inspector very long, and the other ferrets were jealous of him. Therefore, when he met with his accident there was a good deal of secret joy at Scotland Yard, and the detectives of the metropolis really hoped that he would not be able to take a hand in the now celebrated Lady Carcross matter. At the end of the two hours, and when Old Search was ready to take his leave, Inspector Stalker said: I cant add anything more. I have given you my theories and opinions. They may be wrong, but 1 think them right. This is a deep, dark and dangerous case. The unknown may turn up at any time, and the man who undertakes to solve the enigma will meet with striking adventures. You are going into the lions den. You know who inhabits it and what sort of teeth the animal has. I need not tell you what the Woolwich Dusthole is, for we have been there together. You will keep your head, for to be discovered in that place means death. Watch out for Marks, the Mixer, and his class. They are the lions of that terrible cage, of which London, I fear, will never rid herself. Keep in view all the time the case before you; but here I am giving my superior advice. Well, good luck to you, captain. Good-night. Old Search squeezed the inspectors hand and walked from the little room. Night had come. The cab was waiting for him where he had alighted, and he sprang inside again. In a moment he was once more riding hard over the stones of London, and he heard Big Ben strike the hour. As Old Stalker had said, the Woolwich Dusthole is the eyesore of London. It is the worse plague spot in the great city. Human life is not safe there; virtue has no business within its limits, and it is the paradise of vice. No policeman walks alone through its tangle, and the badge of office seems to be a provocation for murder. More than one officer has yielded up his life in the Dust-hole. The lowest of the low of both sexes congregate there, and amid crime and squalor, they thrive where gentility never comes. Dangerous by day, the Dusthole is ten times worse after dark. Murder holds carnival there, and drink and kindred evils make the district a veritable pandemonium. It is near midnight in the heart of the Woolwich Dust-hole. In a small room, reeking with the mingled fumes of to-baaco and vile liquor, sit two men. They have a little table between them, and its boards are adorned with bottles and glasses. There is but little furniture in the room; but it needs none, for the men have little use for anything of the kind. A sputtering candle gives a poor light, which throws their shadows on the walls, and they are talking as they lean over a newspaper which they have spread out on the table. Five thousand pounds, he offers, said one, a smallish man with a peaked face, adorned with a scar running nearly across one cheek. He can do that, and not miss the sum, i6 the answer. But, Mr. Flash, did you ever think that that offer may be a blind? The man called Mr. Flash -laughs as he leans back and puts his thumbs into the armholes of his dirty waistcoat. Dont I know the titled cove? he grins. Dont I know Sir Jarvis? They both laugh together. OLD SEARCHS LONDON TANGLE. 5 All at once some one raps on the door, and then the voice of a woman is heard as she begs to be admitted. One of the men rises to let her in, when the other interposes. Its Woolwich Meg, he says. Dont let the woman in here now while we are confabbing. I will. She is shrewd, is Meg, and may help us out, and with this he opens the door and Woolwich Meg nearly falls into the room. This woman had been handsome at one time, but some years must have passed since she laid any claims to good looks. She is well built, and looks as strong as a female San-dow, but liquor such as they sell in the Dusthole has set its seal on her face, and she is no longer the good-looking lass she was before she crossed the precincts of that hell. Whats up, my hearties? cried Woolwich Meg as she came forward, her eyes falling suddenly upon the newspaper on the table. Gypsy Elash made room for her: and his companion, Marks, the Mixer, pointed to a paragraph on the first page. Woolwich Meg read aloud: Five Thousand Pounds Reward. Offered by Sir Jarvis Jelks, for information leading to the finding of Lady Carcross, of Kensington Road. Ho! ho! laughed the woman as she fell back. So he wants to know whats become of her ladyship? Of course he does, Meg, said Marks. And hes her cousin, too. And heir. Meg seemed to resent the last words. Dont be too sure of that, she exclaimed. But Lady Carcross is a widow, and childlesslost her haby when the Petrel went down. So they say, smiled the woman, reaching out for the bottle, which she held to her lips without ceremony. I know what they saythat she lost her husband and baby that time, and that Sir Jarvis Jelks is her only heir. Thats all right. The two men exchanged glances. Immediately Marks, the Mixer, rose and took a fresh bottle from the sideboard. Meg eyed it a moment and shook her head. No more, if you please, she said. I have had enough for to-night. She looked again at the paper, reading the offer of reward for the solution of the Carcross mystery, nor looking up again till she had reached the end of it. That reward will stimulate all the detectives in the city, remarked Gypsy Flash. The ground will swarm with them, but they wont find er. How do you know they wont? And Meg turned upon the speaker, whom she transfixed with a look. Because the mystery is too deep, and Sir Jarvis wont have to pay a pound of that reward. Do you think hell be sorry? asked the woman. Dont I know him?how he drives through the parks behind his white cobs, and how he swells up with the prospects he has? I hate the man. I never did like him, and I hate him now more than ever. Come, old girl, what has Sir Jarvis ever done to you? Has he soiled your fine feathers since 3rou came to the Dusthole? With an answer which was, almost a scream, Woolwich Meg flew at her tormentor, and the next minute she had torn him from his chair and flung him against the wall. Gypsy Flash seemed to sink to the floor badly hurt and out of breath. Meg stepped back and clinched her fists as she looked at him. She seemed on the eve of following up her assault, but she did not. Gypsy Flash gathered himself up and rose to his feet. Youre rough to-night, said he. Where did you get your firewater? Never mind that. No man shall taunt me and see the insult pass unnoticed. Ho! thats it, eh? I merely asked Meg took a threatening step toward the man, and he became silent. He knew better than to repeat his words. Come, Meg, said Marks, the Mixer, in a softer tone. We are friends, and cant afford to fall out. In fact, we are birds of a feather, and the dear old Dusthole is our nest. The woman seemed to grin and looked at Gypsy Flash half apologetically a moment. You are with as, Meg? We might get that reward. We? I wouldnt touch a farthing of his money! But you see I would throw it into the Thames, for I know the abominable rascal. Hes a vulture in fine feathers, Sir Jarvis is, and now he offers five thousand pounds reward for the solution to the mystery which is exciting all Lun-nun. Whj-, hes her cousin, Meg. Yes, yes. And if we could strike the trail ahead of the ferrets, we might feather our nest in great shape, besides relieve Sir Jarvis of some of his loose cash. The woman straightened in the middle of the room and looked down at the two men. She was about to reply, when a voice was heard at the door. Theres a cove at the back window, said this voice. Es been there some time. Both Gypsy Flash and Marks, the Mixer, sprang up and bounded across the room. The first named opened the door and sprang out into a dark alley, which ran past the rear of the den. As he did so a figure was seen to fall back from the window. Here he is! cried Gypsy Flash, as he threw himself upon the figure and pinned it against the den with his strong hands. Choke him to death! cried the Mixer. Dead men tell no tales, Gypsy. The man captured so suddenly by the London thief was struggling with all his might, and all at once he freed himself, and by a well-directed blow sent Mr. Flash staggering across the alley. Marks, the Mixer, ran up with an oath. He received a duplicate blow which sent him to join his pard, but Marks steadied himself before he reached the opposite house and drew a pistol. He aimed at the man and fired. But he missed, owing to the blow he had received, for the man vanished, and Woolwich Meg came up to where he stood. Who was he, Meg? He ran past you in the light of the door. There was a strange look on the womans face. A man jtou dont want to meet again, she said. CHAPTER III. AN OBNOXIOUS VISITOR. Marks, the Mixer, replied to the girl with an oath. You dont mean to tell me that you knew him? said he. I did, and hes a person whom you dont want to cross, Marks, the Mixer. With this Woolwich Meg turned and went back into the den, to be followed by the others, Gypsy Flash already showing signs of the punishment his optics had received. Meantime the person so suddenly discovered by the men in the alley was making tracks from the Woolwich Dust-hole. He managed to get beyond the precincts of that dangerous place and stood once more is a more respectable part of London. During his flight he had changed his costume and now he looked like a gentleman of some account, and quite unlike the burly person who had knocked Gypsy Flash against the wall. An hour later he entered the Charing Cross Hotel and went up to Room 99. The door of this room he locked behind him and made a memorandum in a leather note-book. It was Old Search. The acute detective, already after the Carcross Mystery, had picked up something in the Dusthole worth recording in his note-book, for he looked up after writing there with a smile of satisfaction, and crossed his legs for a smoke. About the same hour in another part of the great city a man, well known in swell circles, was having an audience with a person whom he would not care to meet openly and in a friendly manner on the street. Sir Jarvis Jelks, the cousin of Lady Carcross, was a man of two-and-forty, a bachelor, and a person courted and feasted by the would-be swells of the city. He was a good-looking person, rather tall and well-built, and his eyes were as dark as the wing of the raven. 6 OLD SEARCHS LONDON TANGLE. It was known that he was Lady Carcross heir, since the missing person was a childless widow, and he deported himself in a manner intended at all times to convey the idea that he cared but little for the fact, that he had money enough of his own to live, and that he didnt want to be considered dependent on any ones bounty. It was said that he had mines in some parts of the world which brought a good deal of gold to his coffers, and that all he had to do was to sit back and live at his ease. Hence his liberality, when it came to offering a reward for the solution of the Carcross Mystery; hence Sir Jarvis interest in the mysterious matter. We have said that Sir Jarvis was entertaining a person whom, at another place and another time, he would not have noticed. Clad in his embroidered dressing-gown, Sir Jarvis occupied an armchair, while his visitor sat opposite him, dressed in an entirely different manner. The rich mans caller was a person about thirty-five, with evil eyes, a dark face and long hands. He was dressed in ill-fitting garments, which emitted an unpleasant odor, as if the wearer had slept along the Thames embankment with the hundreds of other river rats of London. Im glad to see you, of course, Gripps, said Sir Jarvis. But you understand that we cant be as close to one another as we were once. The man seemed to wince. Mebbenot, for youre in the swim now, and all Lun-nun is after you. Thats not it, Gripps, but you see that you are not the gentleman you used to be, and Right you are, Sir Jarvis. Gods! how oddly that name sounds to me! Im not used to it, you see. No, of course not, but I came by it honestly. Gripps lay back in his chair and fixed his thumbs in the armpits of his waistcoat. It nearly makes me laugh, said he, with a broad grin. You remember the time when we were tramping over Sea-turtle Island, under the hot sun, huntin eggs and sich. Sir Jarvis turned his head and changed color. Them was hard times, continued the man. Them was times what tried our souls, and Of course, of course, said Sir Jarvis, a little nervously. Did you come to me to tell me this? No, I did not, but they came back to me the moment you called yourself Sir Jarvis. There was no reply. They tell me that Lady Carcross is missin. She is.\"\" And that youve offered five thousand pouns reward for information of her. Yes. Thats lots of money, more than we found on Sea-turtle See here, and Sir Jarvis leaned forward and transfixed the man with a brutal look. I wont listen to you another moment if youre to go constantly back to that place. I wont, but you see, it comes back to me an I cant help it, I cant. Talk business, then. Youre her heir, said Gripps. The heir of this rich lady who goes out like a flame and you cant tell where the light goes, you see'. Eunny, eh? Anall the dogs of the trail are huntin for her and that reward. Where did you first meet her, anyway, Sir Jarvis? Im her cousin. Of course, but where did you first strike her? Thats what puzzles me. Thats none of your business just now, Gripps. Just as you say, said the man, smiling again. Ill remember; youre her cousin, but youve got enough without what she would leave you if they should fish her from beneath Waterloo Bridge or find her with her throat cut in Whitechapel. Just so. You dont want her money. Of course you dont. Youre rich enough; live at your ease here in a house fit for the Tudors, and, by George! we didnt think of such a house when we was trying to shade ourselves under the palms on Sea-turtle Island The dark frown which came to Sir Jarvis Jelks face at this moment seemed to break the mans sentence. Beg pardon, simpered Gripps. You see those old days come back, as Ive said, in spite of me. But I wont refer to em again, positively I wont. See that you dont! snarled Sir Jarvis. Gripps crossed his legs and looked round at the costly paintings that covered the walls. What if I should start out to find Lady Carcross? said he. Would I be in line for the five thousand? Certainly you would. Well, I believe Ill try. You see Im rather run down' so far as pounds and pence are concerned, and a little would just now do me a world of good. Sir Jarvis drew his pocketbook and proceeded to count out some notes. Gripps watched him keenly till he was done. In a little while three ten-pound notes lay on the table, and the hand of Sir Jarvis had pushed them toward his visitor. Gripps look at them a moment and shook his head. I dont want to rob you, said he. Its no robbery, replied Sir Jarvis. Ive got a few more, and I guess I can live without those. Gripps, thus assured, took the money and crushed it into his pocket. You have all things to your liking here, eh? he asked. Yes. Butlers, cooks, pages, and so forth? Yes. We didnt think of these things when Gripps stopped suddenly. He was getting back to Sea-turtle Island, and thought it policy to stop in time. Would you like to see the house? said Sir Jarvis. Nothing would give me more pleasure. Come along, then. Sir Jarvis sprang up and unlocked a drawer from which he took a bunch of keys. Gripps went out at his heels. Youve got it nice here, nicer than Never mind that, broke in Sir Jarvis with a laugh. He took his caller all over the handsome house, which was the pride of that quarter of London. He showed him the rich rooms, the library, the parlors, the wine cellars, and lastly the strange subterranean passages underneath the place. Where do these passages lead? asked Gripps, as they stood in one of the corridors. That is my secret you see, old boy, and Sir Jarvis patted his friend on the shoulder. I must have secrets of my own, you see. Gripps nodded. Now, here is a strange place which may remind you of the little hole back of the cave on Sea-turtle Island, continued the Englishman, opening a door set in the solid masonry of the wall. This is darkness personified. Step inside and see. Sir Jarvis held the light above his head, and Gripps walked into the little chamber. Now Ill give you an idea of the darkness, chuckled the rich Briton. All right! The door was shut. A devilish smile overspread Sir Jarvis face. He bent forward and listened at the door, but everything was quiet. Two minutes passed. No sound came from the dungeon. How do you like it, Gripps? Is it darker than the hole back of our island cave? A faint voice came through the door as it were: Letmeout! Not yet, my man. For Godssakelet meout, Sir Jarvis! You are to die where you are! You should have stayed away. I dont want men of your kind about me just now / A terrible oath came from the dungeon, and the next moment Sir Jarvis Jelks was walking away from the man he had immured for life in the awful place. CHAPTER IV. OLD SEARCH AT WORK IN LONDON. Old Search, the American ferret, was deep into the Car-cross Mystery. He had inquired into a good many of the theories advanced by detectives and the newspapers regarding the strange case, and after all he had done, he was compelled to admit that it was the oddest affair of his life. The hint that Lady Carcross was involved was met by the discovery of thousands of pounds in bank notes in her house, and there was no ground on which those who had advanced this theory could remain a moment. Then it was said that she had grown tired of her enter EAI>HEAI> PASSEi^'GEK; or, Old lronnerve Among- tlie Hoonsliiners, by Old Ironnerve, Jr., will be published in No. of the Old Cap. Coij.ter Library. Out next Saturday. Price five cents. For sale by all newsdealers. Issues IN THE OLD CAP. COLLIER LIBRARY, 544 Gideon Gaults Mysterious Clew, by Lieutenant Carlton, 545 On to Washington, by author of Old Cap. Collier, 546 The Pretty Typewriter Mystery, author Old Cap. Collier series, 547 Old Ironnerves Double, by Old lronnerve, Jr., 548 Calvert Coles Combination, by T. W. King, 549 Old Forge, the Blacksmith Detective, by Warne Miller, M. D 550 Larry Murtaghs Brilliant Case, by Bernard Wsiyde, 551 Dave Dotson on Hand, by Old Cap. Collier, 552 Dick Aston, the Railway Detective, by F. Lusk Broughton, 553 Three Smartest Detectives in Gotham, by Lieut. Carlton, 554 Mountain Mart, by Will Winch, .... 555 Baldo, the Ferret, by Old Cap. Collier, 556 Old SeaJcli in Paris, by Major A. F. Grant, 557 Old Ironnerves Magnetic Gloves, by Old lronnerve, Jr., 558 Larry Murtagh on West Street, by Lieutenant Carlton, 559 Old Cap. Collier and the Flat Mystery, by Old Cap. Collier, 560 Dash Dare on Time, by Ed. Strayer, 561 The Globe-Trotter Detective, by Mark Merrick, 562 Gideon Gaults Puzzling Clew, by Lieutenant Carlton, 563 The Princess of Gotham, by Old Cap. Collier, 564 Japanese Joes Daring Deed, by Detective Edenhope, 565 Jerry Tulliver, by Bernard Wayde, 566 Old Cap. Collier and the Pantatas, author of Old Cap. Collier, 567 Tracked Through Fire, by Will Winch, 568 Gideon Gault in Ireland, by Lieutenant Carlton, 569 Dave Dotson and the Counterfeiters, by Old Cap. Collier, 570 Old Searchs London Tangle, by Major A. F. Grant, 571 The Deadhead Passenger, by Old lronnerve, Jr., cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. 5 cts. 5 cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. OLD CAP. COLLIER LIBRARY can be obtained at any- news-stand, or will be sent to any address, postage paid, on receipt of five cents per copy. Order by numbers. Address Munro?s Publishing House, P. 0. BOX 1929. 24 AND 20 YANDEWATER STREET, NEW YORK.",
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"transcription": "LARGEST CIRCULATION OF ANY FIVE-CENT LIBRARY PUBLISHED, MUNROS PUBLISHING HOUSE. 24 & 26 Vandewater Street, New York.November 17, 1S94, OLD CAP. COLLIER LIBRARY IS ISSUED WEEKLY.BY SUBSCRIPTION $2.00 PER ANNUM. Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 18%, by NORMAN L. MXJNRO, in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C.[Entered at Post Office, N. Y., as Second Class Matter.] ^ JBv/Aajor. A.F.'Srmh. Marks, the Mixer, instantly drew a pistol, aimed it at Old Search, and fired",
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"transcription": "d Searchs London Iangle; OR, THE WOMAN WHO VANISHED. By MAJOR A. F. GRANT. COPYRIGHTED, 1894, BY NORMAN L. MTTNRO. CHAPTER I. TWO GREAT FERRETS. London seemed to have reached the climax of the sensational. The Regents Park Puzzle was no longer talked about, the Woolwich case seemed to be forgotten, and the Whitechapel crime to have passed out of public notice. The new mystery was the talk of the town. Not a drop of blood had been found, but this absence seemed only to deepen the puzzle and to make things look darker to the shrewd ferrets of Bow Street. Lady Carcross had vanished. Who was Lady Carcross? She was a lady of rank and fashion, the leader of the latter in Kensington, where her drawing-rooms were conceded to be the finest in London, and her entertainments the most magnificent ever seen in the great metropolis. Beautiful, and surrounded by wealth and comfort, she was the admired of a throng of admirers, and to her every one seemed to look when a titled stranger was to be properly entertained in London society. It was very hard to believe that this woman had disappeared. London was almost ready to believe anything now. Some said that the prince would vanish next and, indeed, there were those who feared that the heir to the throne would follow Lady Carcross example and vanish also. It was the fourth day after the event, and not a trace had been obtained of the missing woman. But let us go back. It is night. The elegant mansion, almost a palace, in Kensington Road is ablaze with light. It is illuminated like a fairy palace from sidewalk to its last floor, and the spacious parlors are thronged with the rich, the handsome and the titled of London. There are earls, dukes, marquises, lords, duchesses, and lesser lights in the titled firmament. Lady Carcross is all smiles and witchery. Her thirty-nine years sit lightly on her brow, and she looks as young as the youngest beauty beneath her roof. It is near midnight, and she retires from amid the throng and flits up the stairs to her boudoir. It is thought that she has gone to assume another costume in which to bid her guests good-night. Half an hour passes. Lady Carcross comes not. Her guests look at one another and seem to wonder why she does not reappear. An hour has flown, and there is subdued excitement in the corners and throughout the house. Where is Lady Carcross? Is she sick, or has she fainted amid the heated air of her sumptuous room? Her maid ascends the stairs and ventures to open the carved door. In another moment the girl is inside. The room is untenanted. Lady Carcross jewel box stands on the mahogany dresser, and it is shut. The maid opens it. The Carcross gems are all there. On the bed lies the rich gown which the woman seems to have selected for her last evening toilet. It has been taken from the wardrobe, but not worn. Lady Carcross herself is not to be seen. The horrified maid for a moment feels faint herself, and then runs to the head of the stairs. In another second she is screaming at the top of her voice, and it seems as though every guest is bounding into the hall. The stair is a mass of struggling human beings, all eager to reach the upper story first. A search of the mansion confirms the story and deepens the mystery. Lady Carcross is gone. She has vanished like a sunbeam. Without a sign of her going she has disappeared from the midst of her guests and no one knows where to look for her. It is the beginning of Londons big sensation. The guests go back to their carriages, and are driven home. They discuss the affair in the vehicles as they rattle over the stones of London and come to no definite conclusion. Some are charitable enough to think that Lady Carcross has been seized by a whim \"\"of some kind and has vanished for a spell. Others shake their heads and darkly hint of murder. London has so many rascals that, in hopes of reaping a reward, they might become bold enough to abduct Lady Carcross, and thus spring the greatest sensation of the times. Three days have passed, and the sharp ferrets of the city are still at fault. No one seems to know where to look for the slightest clew. The sharp men of Bow Street and Wellington Road shake their heads over the new mystery, and would turn to something not quite so dark. The fourth day comes. The Times announces that no clew has yet been found to the Carcross Mystery, as it has come to be called, and then leads off in a long article, which is claimed to be the opinion of a high authority in Scotland Yard, to the effect that the river might tell the story of Lady Carcross vanishment. On the evening of the fourth day of the mystery a man walked into the spacious reception-room of the Charing Cross Hotel, and quietly approaches the desk. Any letters for Burton Pennant? he asks. The clerk on duty throws a lot of letters before him and he runs them over.",
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"transcription": "4 OLD SEARCHS LONDON TANGLE. To his evident surprise the stranger, who is a guest of the hotel, finds one which he appropriates. It is addressed to Burton H. Pennant, Charing Cross Hotel. The man, who is rather good looking, well built, and apparently about forty-five, retreats with his letter, and selects a quiet chair in one corner of the room. There lie opens th^letter and reads as follows: My Dear Captain Search,I would like to see an old friend as soon as you can call. I am laid up with a sprained ankle, as you may have heard, and if you will drop in at No. Wellington Street, Strand, I will cross palms with you, and we will open a bottle, besides. Stalker. Burton H. Pennant, who is our friend Sam Search, ferret, looks up a little mystified, but with a smile on his face. Theres no beating Old Stalker, says he. I didnt care to have him discover so soon that I was in the city, but he smells a fellow out whether he wants to be smelled out or not. Old Stalker laid up with a sprained ankle! Ill wager my head that it costs him many a bottle these times and some wicked words. And just now when all London is looking for Lady Carcross! Ill go. Old Search rises and quits the hotel. He calls a hansom and gets inside. No. Wellington Street, Strand, he says and away rushes the cab. As the famous old ferret settles back into the little cab he becomes serious of face. He has been a week in London. His last great success which he obtained in Paris had heralded his name all over Europe, and he had retired to London under a neat disguise for a little rest. Thus far he had found it, but all at once came the Car-cross Mystery, and he has been drawn into the vortex of excitement. More than this, he has taken the trail, but so far with very little success. It was not his first visit to London. He may be said to know it like a book. He knew it from the far East side to the dingy spots of Whitechapel and the Woolwich Dusthole. He knew it from the busy pave of Pall Mall to the dark corners of the dock streets. He had tracked the guilty all along the Thames embankment, and had watched for the thief and murderer among the shadows of Burr Street and Little Bourke Alley. The cab carried him on and on until it turned into Wellington Street. At last it stopped in front of a small two-story house which the detective looked at as he alighted. It was not a prepossessing place, but he knew whom he would find inside. One of the famous Bow Street runners and a man well known for his success in ferreting out the guilty. They had met before. He and Old Stalker had been friends for five years. Old Search ran up-stairs and without knocking, opened a door at the right of the first hall and entered a little room. I was right, wasnt I? cried a voice as he advanced toward a man seated in a chair with a bundled foot resting on a low stool. Old Search laughed in reply. Dont tell me that I didnt know that Burton Pennant was my old friend Captain Search, continued Old Stalker. I found it out, ha, ha, and here you are! In another moment the old friends were chatting, and after Old Stalker had told how he happened to sprain his ankle he turned suddenly to Old Search and said: Well, why dont you find Lady Carcross? The American sleuth looked at Old Stalker till a smile seemed to light up that worthys eye. Why dont some of your famous trail-finders solve the mystery? he replies. For a moment the smile seems to broaden 011 the English ferrets face, then it vanishes and the face becomes serious, almost Sphinx-like in looks. The fools dont, know where to look for the clew, thats it in a nutshell, says Old Stalker. Its the deepest thing weve ever had in my twenty years of London life. Ill tell you, Captain Search. You see how Im fixed. Im good for a week yet in this hole, and I have been swearing all the time. But look here, I sent for you; I want you to be my eyes this time. I want you to find Lady Carcross or to clear up the mystery. Will you do it? Almost unconsciously Old Search answers: Yes! CHAPTER II. IN THE WOOLWICH DUSTHOLE. Old Search was closeted for two hours with Inspector Stalker, and the two friends discussed the Carcross mystery over a bottle of prime Madeira. Stalker seemed his old self in spite of his mishap, which had laid him up for a few days, and he talked with his old-time vivacity. He was one of the celebrated trackers in London. A crime would have to be very full of mystery to bother the old inspector very long, and the other ferrets were jealous of him. Therefore, when he met with his accident there was a good deal of secret joy at Scotland Yard, and the detectives of the metropolis really hoped that he would not be able to take a hand in the now celebrated Lady Carcross matter. At the end of the two hours, and when Old Search was ready to take his leave, Inspector Stalker said: I cant add anything more. I have given you my theories and opinions. They may be wrong, but 1 think them right. This is a deep, dark and dangerous case. The unknown may turn up at any time, and the man who undertakes to solve the enigma will meet with striking adventures. You are going into the lions den. You know who inhabits it and what sort of teeth the animal has. I need not tell you what the Woolwich Dusthole is, for we have been there together. You will keep your head, for to be discovered in that place means death. Watch out for Marks, the Mixer, and his class. They are the lions of that terrible cage, of which London, I fear, will never rid herself. Keep in view all the time the case before you; but here I am giving my superior advice. Well, good luck to you, captain. Good-night. Old Search squeezed the inspectors hand and walked from the little room. Night had come. The cab was waiting for him where he had alighted, and he sprang inside again. In a moment he was once more riding hard over the stones of London, and he heard Big Ben strike the hour. As Old Stalker had said, the Woolwich Dusthole is the eyesore of London. It is the worse plague spot in the great city. Human life is not safe there; virtue has no business within its limits, and it is the paradise of vice. No policeman walks alone through its tangle, and the badge of office seems to be a provocation for murder. More than one officer has yielded up his life in the Dust-hole. The lowest of the low of both sexes congregate there, and amid crime and squalor, they thrive where gentility never comes. Dangerous by day, the Dusthole is ten times worse after dark. Murder holds carnival there, and drink and kindred evils make the district a veritable pandemonium. It is near midnight in the heart of the Woolwich Dust-hole. In a small room, reeking with the mingled fumes of to-baaco and vile liquor, sit two men. They have a little table between them, and its boards are adorned with bottles and glasses. There is but little furniture in the room; but it needs none, for the men have little use for anything of the kind. A sputtering candle gives a poor light, which throws their shadows on the walls, and they are talking as they lean over a newspaper which they have spread out on the table. Five thousand pounds, he offers, said one, a smallish man with a peaked face, adorned with a scar running nearly across one cheek. He can do that, and not miss the sum, i6 the answer. But, Mr. Flash, did you ever think that that offer may be a blind? The man called Mr. Flash -laughs as he leans back and puts his thumbs into the armholes of his dirty waistcoat. Dont I know the titled cove? he grins. Dont I know Sir Jarvis? They both laugh together.",
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"transcription": "OLD SEARCHS LONDON TANGLE. 5 All at once some one raps on the door, and then the voice of a woman is heard as she begs to be admitted. One of the men rises to let her in, when the other interposes. Its Woolwich Meg, he says. Dont let the woman in here now while we are confabbing. I will. She is shrewd, is Meg, and may help us out, and with this he opens the door and Woolwich Meg nearly falls into the room. This woman had been handsome at one time, but some years must have passed since she laid any claims to good looks. She is well built, and looks as strong as a female San-dow, but liquor such as they sell in the Dusthole has set its seal on her face, and she is no longer the good-looking lass she was before she crossed the precincts of that hell. Whats up, my hearties? cried Woolwich Meg as she came forward, her eyes falling suddenly upon the newspaper on the table. Gypsy Elash made room for her: and his companion, Marks, the Mixer, pointed to a paragraph on the first page. Woolwich Meg read aloud: Five Thousand Pounds Reward. Offered by Sir Jarvis Jelks, for information leading to the finding of Lady Carcross, of Kensington Road. Ho! ho! laughed the woman as she fell back. So he wants to know whats become of her ladyship? Of course he does, Meg, said Marks. And hes her cousin, too. And heir. Meg seemed to resent the last words. Dont be too sure of that, she exclaimed. But Lady Carcross is a widow, and childlesslost her haby when the Petrel went down. So they say, smiled the woman, reaching out for the bottle, which she held to her lips without ceremony. I know what they saythat she lost her husband and baby that time, and that Sir Jarvis Jelks is her only heir. Thats all right. The two men exchanged glances. Immediately Marks, the Mixer, rose and took a fresh bottle from the sideboard. Meg eyed it a moment and shook her head. No more, if you please, she said. I have had enough for to-night. She looked again at the paper, reading the offer of reward for the solution of the Carcross mystery, nor looking up again till she had reached the end of it. That reward will stimulate all the detectives in the city, remarked Gypsy Flash. The ground will swarm with them, but they wont find er. How do you know they wont? And Meg turned upon the speaker, whom she transfixed with a look. Because the mystery is too deep, and Sir Jarvis wont have to pay a pound of that reward. Do you think hell be sorry? asked the woman. Dont I know him?how he drives through the parks behind his white cobs, and how he swells up with the prospects he has? I hate the man. I never did like him, and I hate him now more than ever. Come, old girl, what has Sir Jarvis ever done to you? Has he soiled your fine feathers since 3rou came to the Dusthole? With an answer which was, almost a scream, Woolwich Meg flew at her tormentor, and the next minute she had torn him from his chair and flung him against the wall. Gypsy Flash seemed to sink to the floor badly hurt and out of breath. Meg stepped back and clinched her fists as she looked at him. She seemed on the eve of following up her assault, but she did not. Gypsy Flash gathered himself up and rose to his feet. Youre rough to-night, said he. Where did you get your firewater? Never mind that. No man shall taunt me and see the insult pass unnoticed. Ho! thats it, eh? I merely asked Meg took a threatening step toward the man, and he became silent. He knew better than to repeat his words. Come, Meg, said Marks, the Mixer, in a softer tone. We are friends, and cant afford to fall out. In fact, we are birds of a feather, and the dear old Dusthole is our nest. The woman seemed to grin and looked at Gypsy Flash half apologetically a moment. You are with as, Meg? We might get that reward. We? I wouldnt touch a farthing of his money! But you see I would throw it into the Thames, for I know the abominable rascal. Hes a vulture in fine feathers, Sir Jarvis is, and now he offers five thousand pounds reward for the solution to the mystery which is exciting all Lun-nun. Whj-, hes her cousin, Meg. Yes, yes. And if we could strike the trail ahead of the ferrets, we might feather our nest in great shape, besides relieve Sir Jarvis of some of his loose cash. The woman straightened in the middle of the room and looked down at the two men. She was about to reply, when a voice was heard at the door. Theres a cove at the back window, said this voice. Es been there some time. Both Gypsy Flash and Marks, the Mixer, sprang up and bounded across the room. The first named opened the door and sprang out into a dark alley, which ran past the rear of the den. As he did so a figure was seen to fall back from the window. Here he is! cried Gypsy Flash, as he threw himself upon the figure and pinned it against the den with his strong hands. Choke him to death! cried the Mixer. Dead men tell no tales, Gypsy. The man captured so suddenly by the London thief was struggling with all his might, and all at once he freed himself, and by a well-directed blow sent Mr. Flash staggering across the alley. Marks, the Mixer, ran up with an oath. He received a duplicate blow which sent him to join his pard, but Marks steadied himself before he reached the opposite house and drew a pistol. He aimed at the man and fired. But he missed, owing to the blow he had received, for the man vanished, and Woolwich Meg came up to where he stood. Who was he, Meg? He ran past you in the light of the door. There was a strange look on the womans face. A man jtou dont want to meet again, she said. CHAPTER III. AN OBNOXIOUS VISITOR. Marks, the Mixer, replied to the girl with an oath. You dont mean to tell me that you knew him? said he. I did, and hes a person whom you dont want to cross, Marks, the Mixer. With this Woolwich Meg turned and went back into the den, to be followed by the others, Gypsy Flash already showing signs of the punishment his optics had received. Meantime the person so suddenly discovered by the men in the alley was making tracks from the Woolwich Dust-hole. He managed to get beyond the precincts of that dangerous place and stood once more is a more respectable part of London. During his flight he had changed his costume and now he looked like a gentleman of some account, and quite unlike the burly person who had knocked Gypsy Flash against the wall. An hour later he entered the Charing Cross Hotel and went up to Room 99. The door of this room he locked behind him and made a memorandum in a leather note-book. It was Old Search. The acute detective, already after the Carcross Mystery, had picked up something in the Dusthole worth recording in his note-book, for he looked up after writing there with a smile of satisfaction, and crossed his legs for a smoke. About the same hour in another part of the great city a man, well known in swell circles, was having an audience with a person whom he would not care to meet openly and in a friendly manner on the street. Sir Jarvis Jelks, the cousin of Lady Carcross, was a man of two-and-forty, a bachelor, and a person courted and feasted by the would-be swells of the city. He was a good-looking person, rather tall and well-built, and his eyes were as dark as the wing of the raven.",
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"transcription": "6 OLD SEARCHS LONDON TANGLE. It was known that he was Lady Carcross heir, since the missing person was a childless widow, and he deported himself in a manner intended at all times to convey the idea that he cared but little for the fact, that he had money enough of his own to live, and that he didnt want to be considered dependent on any ones bounty. It was said that he had mines in some parts of the world which brought a good deal of gold to his coffers, and that all he had to do was to sit back and live at his ease. Hence his liberality, when it came to offering a reward for the solution of the Carcross Mystery; hence Sir Jarvis interest in the mysterious matter. We have said that Sir Jarvis was entertaining a person whom, at another place and another time, he would not have noticed. Clad in his embroidered dressing-gown, Sir Jarvis occupied an armchair, while his visitor sat opposite him, dressed in an entirely different manner. The rich mans caller was a person about thirty-five, with evil eyes, a dark face and long hands. He was dressed in ill-fitting garments, which emitted an unpleasant odor, as if the wearer had slept along the Thames embankment with the hundreds of other river rats of London. Im glad to see you, of course, Gripps, said Sir Jarvis. But you understand that we cant be as close to one another as we were once. The man seemed to wince. Mebbenot, for youre in the swim now, and all Lun-nun is after you. Thats not it, Gripps, but you see that you are not the gentleman you used to be, and Right you are, Sir Jarvis. Gods! how oddly that name sounds to me! Im not used to it, you see. No, of course not, but I came by it honestly. Gripps lay back in his chair and fixed his thumbs in the armpits of his waistcoat. It nearly makes me laugh, said he, with a broad grin. You remember the time when we were tramping over Sea-turtle Island, under the hot sun, huntin eggs and sich. Sir Jarvis turned his head and changed color. Them was hard times, continued the man. Them was times what tried our souls, and Of course, of course, said Sir Jarvis, a little nervously. Did you come to me to tell me this? No, I did not, but they came back to me the moment you called yourself Sir Jarvis. There was no reply. They tell me that Lady Carcross is missin. She is.\"\" And that youve offered five thousand pouns reward for information of her. Yes. Thats lots of money, more than we found on Sea-turtle See here, and Sir Jarvis leaned forward and transfixed the man with a brutal look. I wont listen to you another moment if youre to go constantly back to that place. I wont, but you see, it comes back to me an I cant help it, I cant. Talk business, then. Youre her heir, said Gripps. The heir of this rich lady who goes out like a flame and you cant tell where the light goes, you see'. Eunny, eh? Anall the dogs of the trail are huntin for her and that reward. Where did you first meet her, anyway, Sir Jarvis? Im her cousin. Of course, but where did you first strike her? Thats what puzzles me. Thats none of your business just now, Gripps. Just as you say, said the man, smiling again. Ill remember; youre her cousin, but youve got enough without what she would leave you if they should fish her from beneath Waterloo Bridge or find her with her throat cut in Whitechapel. Just so. You dont want her money. Of course you dont. Youre rich enough; live at your ease here in a house fit for the Tudors, and, by George! we didnt think of such a house when we was trying to shade ourselves under the palms on Sea-turtle Island The dark frown which came to Sir Jarvis Jelks face at this moment seemed to break the mans sentence. Beg pardon, simpered Gripps. You see those old days come back, as Ive said, in spite of me. But I wont refer to em again, positively I wont. See that you dont! snarled Sir Jarvis. Gripps crossed his legs and looked round at the costly paintings that covered the walls. What if I should start out to find Lady Carcross? said he. Would I be in line for the five thousand? Certainly you would. Well, I believe Ill try. You see Im rather run down' so far as pounds and pence are concerned, and a little would just now do me a world of good. Sir Jarvis drew his pocketbook and proceeded to count out some notes. Gripps watched him keenly till he was done. In a little while three ten-pound notes lay on the table, and the hand of Sir Jarvis had pushed them toward his visitor. Gripps look at them a moment and shook his head. I dont want to rob you, said he. Its no robbery, replied Sir Jarvis. Ive got a few more, and I guess I can live without those. Gripps, thus assured, took the money and crushed it into his pocket. You have all things to your liking here, eh? he asked. Yes. Butlers, cooks, pages, and so forth? Yes. We didnt think of these things when Gripps stopped suddenly. He was getting back to Sea-turtle Island, and thought it policy to stop in time. Would you like to see the house? said Sir Jarvis. Nothing would give me more pleasure. Come along, then. Sir Jarvis sprang up and unlocked a drawer from which he took a bunch of keys. Gripps went out at his heels. Youve got it nice here, nicer than Never mind that, broke in Sir Jarvis with a laugh. He took his caller all over the handsome house, which was the pride of that quarter of London. He showed him the rich rooms, the library, the parlors, the wine cellars, and lastly the strange subterranean passages underneath the place. Where do these passages lead? asked Gripps, as they stood in one of the corridors. That is my secret you see, old boy, and Sir Jarvis patted his friend on the shoulder. I must have secrets of my own, you see. Gripps nodded. Now, here is a strange place which may remind you of the little hole back of the cave on Sea-turtle Island, continued the Englishman, opening a door set in the solid masonry of the wall. This is darkness personified. Step inside and see. Sir Jarvis held the light above his head, and Gripps walked into the little chamber. Now Ill give you an idea of the darkness, chuckled the rich Briton. All right! The door was shut. A devilish smile overspread Sir Jarvis face. He bent forward and listened at the door, but everything was quiet. Two minutes passed. No sound came from the dungeon. How do you like it, Gripps? Is it darker than the hole back of our island cave? A faint voice came through the door as it were: Letmeout! Not yet, my man. For Godssakelet meout, Sir Jarvis! You are to die where you are! You should have stayed away. I dont want men of your kind about me just now / A terrible oath came from the dungeon, and the next moment Sir Jarvis Jelks was walking away from the man he had immured for life in the awful place. CHAPTER IV. OLD SEARCH AT WORK IN LONDON. Old Search, the American ferret, was deep into the Car-cross Mystery. He had inquired into a good many of the theories advanced by detectives and the newspapers regarding the strange case, and after all he had done, he was compelled to admit that it was the oddest affair of his life. The hint that Lady Carcross was involved was met by the discovery of thousands of pounds in bank notes in her house, and there was no ground on which those who had advanced this theory could remain a moment. Then it was said that she had grown tired of her enter",
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"transcription": "EAI>HEAI> PASSEi^'GEK; or, Old lronnerve Among- tlie Hoonsliiners, by Old Ironnerve, Jr., will be published in No. of the Old Cap. Coij.ter Library. Out next Saturday. Price five cents. For sale by all newsdealers. Issues IN THE OLD CAP. COLLIER LIBRARY, 544 Gideon Gaults Mysterious Clew, by Lieutenant Carlton, 545 On to Washington, by author of Old Cap. Collier, 546 The Pretty Typewriter Mystery, author Old Cap. Collier series, 547 Old Ironnerves Double, by Old lronnerve, Jr., 548 Calvert Coles Combination, by T. W. King, 549 Old Forge, the Blacksmith Detective, by Warne Miller, M. D 550 Larry Murtaghs Brilliant Case, by Bernard Wsiyde, 551 Dave Dotson on Hand, by Old Cap. Collier, 552 Dick Aston, the Railway Detective, by F. Lusk Broughton, 553 Three Smartest Detectives in Gotham, by Lieut. Carlton, 554 Mountain Mart, by Will Winch, .... 555 Baldo, the Ferret, by Old Cap. Collier, 556 Old SeaJcli in Paris, by Major A. F. Grant, 557 Old Ironnerves Magnetic Gloves, by Old lronnerve, Jr., 558 Larry Murtagh on West Street, by Lieutenant Carlton, 559 Old Cap. Collier and the Flat Mystery, by Old Cap. Collier, 560 Dash Dare on Time, by Ed. Strayer, 561 The Globe-Trotter Detective, by Mark Merrick, 562 Gideon Gaults Puzzling Clew, by Lieutenant Carlton, 563 The Princess of Gotham, by Old Cap. Collier, 564 Japanese Joes Daring Deed, by Detective Edenhope, 565 Jerry Tulliver, by Bernard Wayde, 566 Old Cap. Collier and the Pantatas, author of Old Cap. Collier, 567 Tracked Through Fire, by Will Winch, 568 Gideon Gault in Ireland, by Lieutenant Carlton, 569 Dave Dotson and the Counterfeiters, by Old Cap. Collier, 570 Old Searchs London Tangle, by Major A. F. Grant, 571 The Deadhead Passenger, by Old lronnerve, Jr., cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. 5 cts. 5 cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. cts. OLD CAP. COLLIER LIBRARY can be obtained at any- news-stand, or will be sent to any address, postage paid, on receipt of five cents per copy. Order by numbers. Address Munro?s Publishing House, P. 0. BOX 1929. 24 AND 20 YANDEWATER STREET, NEW YORK.",
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