The detective a was fully convinced, from what he over-heard,
that the smugglers were innocent of old Tom Pearce's death;
indeed, he had so believed from the first; but it was
one of his methods to make sure, and when once really
convinced he knew as stated, where to look for the real
assassin, and he folded his tent, like the Arab, and as
silently stole away.
CHAPTER XLIII.
Upon the day following the scenes described in our preceding
chapter, a strange interview was in progress in a magnificent
apartment in a house situated in one of the most fashionable
quarters of New York.
A beautiful young lady, richly attired, had been sitting alone
in the elegant apartment described when a man of dark
complexion entered the room, and, with silent step and a
pleased smile upon his dark face, he advanced toward the girl.
Just a moment preceding the entrance of the dark-faced man,
the girl had indulged in a brief soliloquy. She murmured:
"Well-well, my mind is made up. I have fooled that villain!
He thinks I love him. He thinks I have been dazzled and
bewildered by the possession of all these fine clothes and the
wearing of these costly jewels; but he is mistaken. I hate
him--I abhor him! He is an assassin! He thinks I do not know
it; but I saw him strike down that good old man, Tom Pearce,
and I have but hired him on with a promise of my love, only
that I might hold him until an opportunity offers to hand him
over to justice."
A moment the girl was thoughtful and silent, but speedily she
resumed her soliloquy, salving:
"I wonder what could have become of Vance! He lives--he has
been successful, I saw in a paper yesterday.
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