6 THE LOOM OF GOD. Bay's curtains blue are furled; their muf fling glare. That shuts Infinity from eyes of earth, is drawn aside; and now, august and bare, The loom of God in majesty stands forth. 0 swift and sure the shining shuttles fly, Reaving apace the w< b of destiny; "fet neither throb nor jar nor snapping thread ®reakcth the awful hush where God doth tread; And I, an atom's atom, still am hurled Onward and onward with this fleeing world, 1 know not where, nor why; the vast de sign Benumbs, engulfs, each struggling thought of mine; I tremble in the starry stillness grand That powerless I stand. Tet with the web a weft subllmer still Is wrought—as flowers bloom on warp and woof, 80 bloom God's thoughts In man If he but .. will. Nor from his holy purpose hold aloof. O. swift and sure as ulanets' swerveless flight, Drawing the threads that bind »he Infinite, Our days go flashing—shuttles in the loom, "Weaving the web whereon God's thoughts may bloom; For living souls to rhythmic sun and star The meaning give that doth complete or mar The plan Divine; and whatsoe'er it be, The mystic thread shall span eternity! I tremble In the stillness, that one strand I hold In mine own hand! Frances Moore Geiger, In N. Y. Ob server. | THE STUROIS WAGER I « A DETECTIVE STORY. £ J J By EDGAR MORETTE. 112 Copyright, 1890, by Frederick A. Stokes Co. CHAPTER XX.—CONTINUED. There was a brief silence, broken at last, by Sprague, who asked: "Has he escaped?" Sturgis hesitated. "That depends upon how we look at It,"he said, gravely, at length; "he has paid the penalty of his crimes." "What do you mean?" "He is dead," answered the reporter. "Dead? But 1 tell you I saw him—" "I know; but he has died since." "Suicide?" "No;" the reporter's voice sank to a ■whisper; "murder." "Murder?" repeated the artist, star ■tled. "But how do you know that?" "This lump of lead tells the story," •said Sturgis, holding up the shapeless piece of metal which he had taken out of the vat. "What is it? A bullet?" "Yes; the bullet which Chatham car ried iii his arm from the time that he was wounded by Arbogast, the bullet •which has enabled me to trace him step •by step, from his flight from the over turned cab to Dr. Thurston's and finally to his death in this very room; the bullet whose peculiar shape is record ed in this shadow picture taken by Thurston by means of the Roentgen jrays." So saying, he handed Sprague the photograph. But the artist had ceased to listen. "In this very room?" he mused aloud, looking about him with awe. "Yes. The story is simple enough. The man whose instrument Chatham •was is not one who would care to be lumbered up with tools, which become positively dangerous as soon as they cease to be useful. This man, totally unhampered by pity, gratitude or fear, determined to destroy the accountant, whose discovery might have imperiled bis own welfare. What mattered a human life or two, when weighed against Ilie possible loss of his own life or liberty, or of his high social ■standing and his enormous wealth; for this man is both renowned and rich, and he appears to have brought whole- Bale murder to a science." "Do you mean to say that wholesale murder can be indulged in with im punity in a city like New York, at the end of the nineteenth century?" asked 6prague, aghast. "Yes; when it is done in the system atic and scientific manner that has been •employed here. For this murderer is the most, remarkable criminal of mod ern times. He has not been satisfied ■with killing his victims; he has suc ceeded in completely wiping them out •of existence. Criminals have often at tempted to destroy the bodies of their victims, but they have never before suc ceeded as this man has. He is a chem ist. of remarkable talent, and he has discovered a compound in which bone as well as human tissue is rapidly and totally dissolved. There it is in yon der tank. See how completely the liquid has destroyed the bone handle of this knife." Sturgis, after showing the damaged Tcnife to his companion, resumed his whittling upon the cover of the box •on which the artist was seated. "Chatham's body has been dissolved In that tank within a very v short time. It has entirely disappeared; this flat tened bullet alone is left, lead being one of the few substances which are •not soluble in the contents of the •tank. Fortunately he overlooked that ■fact. Genius has its lapses." Presently Sprague ventured to say: "lf numerous crimes have been com mitted here, as you intimate, I do not understand how it is that suspicion has never rested ou this house be fore." "The author of these crimes has taken every precaution to render ihe chance of discovery quite remote. His dwelling-house on one street, and the bogus Chemical company on the other, «rein communication through this ■Underground passage, while appar ently having no connection with each •ther. Moreover, he is too shrewd to make frequent use of this death cham ber. That does well enough as a last resort, when lie is obliged to commit the murders with his own liiwids; but I suspect that this man has other agents like Chatham, who do the dirty work for him and then quietly ship the bodies here for annihilation. as it 'yua intended should be done with Arbogast's. Ah! yes; I thought so. You are sitting upon one of those bodies now." Sprague started to his feet; and, following the direction in which Stur gis was pointing with his open knife, he vaguely discerned, through the opening which the reporter had whit tled, a small surface of what had once been the features of a human being. After gazing for some minutes in horror-stricken silence at the distort ed face, the artist asked iu a low voice: "How did Chatham meet his death?" "I don't know yet," answered Stur gis. gravely; "this man is no ordinary criminal. His work is clean and leaves no blood-stains and no disorder to tell of its accomplishment. He takes life with his own hands only when he is forced to do so; but, when he does, his method is masterly. It was easier to make away with Chat ham than to pay him the price agreed upon for his complicity in the Knick erbocker bank embezzlement; and so liis life was taken. I hope to discover how before I leave here." Sprague started as the reporter ceased speaking. "The price of his complicity?" he claimed, laying his hand upon Sturgis' arm and looking earnestly into his eyes. "Yes," replied the reporter, steadi ly meeting his friend's gaze, "his daughter's hand." Sprague looked away from the hon est eyes of the reporter, as if he dreaded to read in them the answer to his next question. "Who is this fiend incarnate, who is willing to traffic in his own flesh and blood, and with whom murder is a science?" "The man who is capable of these crimes, and of any others which might serve to remove an obstacle from his way is—" The reporter did not finish his sen tence. He suddenly grasped his com panion by the arm and stood trans fixed, his eyes dilated, his neck craned in a listening attitude, every muscle tense like those of a wild animal in ambush about to spring upou its ap proaching prey. Presently a click was heard as though a bolt had been shot from its socket. "Draw your revolver!" Sturgis whis pered hoarsely to his companion. "Quick! —Look there!" At the same time he drew his own weapon and pointed in the direction of the door at the head of the stairs. The door opened and a man entered, quietly smoking a cigar. "Dr. Murdock!" exclaimed Sprague with horror. Murdock, still holding the door ajar, eyed the two men for an instant, his impassive face betraying not the slightest sign of emotion. Then, tak ing his cigar from his lips: "Ah, gentlemen," he drawled, in his ironical way, "I am delighted to see you. I trust you will mak<* yourselves perfectly at home for a few minutes. I shall return directly. You can con tinue to work out your little prob lem in the meantime, Mr. Sturgis." With these words he calmly turned to leave the room. "Stop!" shouted Sturgis, leveling his revolver at Murdoch's head; "stand where you are or I fire!" The reporter's shot rang out almost before he had finished his sentence; but Murdock, unscathed, passed out of the room, closing the door behind him. Sprague, dazed by the rapidity with which this scene had been acted, stood rooted to the spot, without having made any attempt to use the revolver which he had drawn at Sturgis' bid ding. The reporter sprang up the stairs and threw his weight against the door. But it was doubtless intended to withstand great shocks, for it re mained unshaken. "Check!" came the sound of a mock ing voice from the other side of the door. Then, rushing down the staix-s again, Sturgis shouted to his com panion: "Come quick! We must get out of here!" And he led the way through the subterranean passage toward the cel lar of the Manhattan Chemical com pany. CHAPTER XXI. THE DEATH CHAMBER. Before the men had g«jne many steps a grating sound reached their ears from the direction of the sky light. Tiiey looked up and saw slid ing steel shutters slowly and ponder ously close, like grim jaws; and sud denly they felt themselves cut off from the outside world. Sturgis, taking up his lighted can dle, made his way to the door of the subterranean passage and tried in vain to open it; the heavy iron bolt remained immovable in its socket. Inch by inch he scrutinized the door with growing anxiety. At last he abandoned the search and returned iu the direction of the square chamber. "That explains why he wanted to shut me in here when I was in his office," lie muttered under his breath. "What is the matter?" asked Sprague. "We are caught like rats in a trap," replied Sturgis. Then with feeling he added: "I do not know how this will end, old man. I have bungled, and I fear the game is lost. If our lives are the forfeit, you will owe your death to my stupidity." Sprague looked at his friend, as if surprised to hear him apparently abandon the fight. "Don't worry about me," he said, kindly; "I came here of my own free will. But," he added', as a vision of Agnes Murdock flashed upon his mind, "I have no intention to die just yet, if I can help it. Are we not both able CAMERON COUNTY PRESS, THURSDAY, NOVEMBER I, 1900. bodied nit?n and armed? What can one man do against two?" "It is not an open fight," said Stur gis, "but 1 am glad to see your spirit. 1 do not give up; but I want you to realize that we are in a critical situa tion, with the odds enormously against us." "Why, what can Murdock do?" "Perhaps what he did to Chatham. It will probably not be long before we discover what that was." "But there must be some way of opening that door from the inside," said Sprague. "There evidently is none,'' replied Sturgis; "he probably controls these doors from the outside by electrical connection." The men were back in the srjunre chamber. Sturgis' eyes were roving restlessly over the walls, ceiling and floor in search of a loophole of escape. "There is no chance to reach the sky light without a ladder; and even if we could reach it, we should be no fur ther advanced, as it would be impos sible to make any impression on the steel shutters. That leaves the regis ter and the speaking tube. While 1 examine the register, suppose you try the tube. If it connects with the Man hattan Chemical company's office, there is a bare chance that we may at tract the attention of the detectives whom we left there." "As we were saying, Mr. Sturgis—" The words came in Murdoch's mock ing tones. Sturgis quickly held the lighted can dle above his head and peered in the lirection whence came the sound. A panel of the door at the head of the stairs had been pushed up, revealing a small opening, covered by a strong and closely-woven wire netting. "As we were saying, 'murder will out!' Nevertheless? it is sometimes easier to weld a chain, even of circum stantial evidence, than it is to pre dict who will be bound in it." Sturgis and Sprague stood in the glimmering light of the candle, silent ly watching the glowing eyes behind the screen. "Mr. Sturgis, you are a clever man," continued Murdock, "an uncommonly "AH. GENTLEMEN, I AM DELIGHTED TO SEE YOU." clever man. I frankly admit that I had underrated your ability. Hut then we are all fallible, after all. I made my share of blunders, as you seem to have discovered; but. you will doubtless now concede that your own course has not been entirely free from errors. And now that we have reached the conclu sion of this interesting game, 1 have the honor to announce: 'Mate in one move!' Perhaps you are surprised that I should take the trouble to explain the situation to you so clearly. Idoso in recognition of your superior intelli gence. I see in you a peer. If matters could have been so arranged, I should have been proud to work in harmony with such a man as you; and indeed, when a short time ago I invited you to my laboratory, it was my intention to offer you a compromise which I hoped I might be able to persuade you to ac cept. I felt that you would prove an ally who could be trusted. Hut, alas, that is impossible now, on account of your friend's presence. With all due respect to Mr. Sprague, as an amiable man of the world and a prince of good fellows, ft. may be said that he is not one of us. Much to my sorrow, there fore, I am left no alternative to the course I am about to adopt. The fault, if anybody's, is your own, after all, Mr. Sprague. There is a homely but ex pressive adage concerning the danger of 'monkeying' with a buzz saw. Why, my dear friend, did you 'monkey' with Mr. Sturgis' buzz saw, instead of stick ing to your palette and maulstick? "Hut 1 fear I am growing garrulous, gentlemen. If I had time, I should like to explain to Mr. Sturgis the details of some of tbe more important, and, in my humble opinion, more brilliant, schemed of which I have been the—ah —the promoter; for I dislike to be judged by the bungling operations which have so nearly caused me to lose this latest little game. But this can not be. I shall have to continue to con fide to the pages, of my journal, as 1 have done for years, the interesting events of, I may say, a somewhat re markable career, which I hope will some day, after my death, find' their way in print to public favor. My dream has always been that some such man as Mr. Sturgis might ultimately edft these memoirs; but, alas, the fondest of human dreams are seldom destined to be realized. "Now, then, gentlemen, before final ly parting with you, I wish to honor ably carry out the terms of my wager with Mr. Sturgis. I concede the fact that, to all intents and purposes, lie has won the bet, and I authorize you, Mr. Sprague, as stakeholder, to pay him the amount I deposited with you. As I have already suggested, he has made some perhaps excusable mis takes; but, then as he himself stated the other tight, 'a detective has a 11ft timo in which to correct a blunder.' A lifetime! It is not in accordance with Mr. Sturgiij' usual practice to use so vague a term. A lifetime is not neces sarily a very long time, Mr. Sturgis." During this tirade Sturgis and Sprague had remained standing with their eyes fixed upon the gleainingcar buncles which peered at them from be hind the grated peephole at the top of the stairs. The artist seemed to real ize that the fight was lost. His attitude was that of a brave man accepting, with calm despair, an unpleasant but Inevitable doom. 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