it) soon passed away. His face became calm and almost radiant in its every line. His eyes, no longer glassy, shone with clear and healthy light; a slight flush animated his hitherto sallow cheeks; in a word, his countenance, in a moment, underwent a wonderful change.
Frank uttered an exclamation of surprise.
"Ah! I begin to live!" said Nameless, passing his hand over his forehead—"Yes, yes," he uttered, with a sigh of mingled sorrow and delight, "I have risen from the grave. For two years the victim of a living death, I now begin to live. The cloud is gone; I see, I see the light!"
He rose and confronted Frank.
"There was another child—yes, my mother gave birth to two children, one of whom your father stole on the night of its birth and reared as his own. His purpose you may guess. But what has become of that child? It disappeared, I know, at the time when your father arrived from Paris—disappeared, ha, ha, Frank! Did it not disappear to rise into light again, on the 25th of December, 1844, as the only child of Gulian Van Huyden? Your father is a bold gamester; he plays with a fearless hand!"
He paced the room, while Frank, listening intently to his words, watched with dumb wonder the delight which gave a new life to his countenance.
"And Cornelius Berman, Frank—" he turned abruptly.
"Died last year."
His countenance fell.
"And Mary—"
"Followed her father to the grave."
He fell back upon the sofa like a wounded man. It was some moments before he recovered the appearance of calmness.
"How knew you this?"
"A year ago, an artist reduced to poverty, through the agency of Israel Yorke, came to my home to paint my portrait. It was Cornelius Berman. Yorke had employed Buggles as his agent in the affair of the transfer of the property of Cornelius; Buggles the agent was dead indeed, but Yorke appeared upon the scene, as the principal, and sold Cornelius out of house and home. The papers which you took from the dead body of Buggles were only copies; the originals were in the possession of Israel Yorke."
Nameless hid his face in his hands. He did not speak again until many minutes had elapsed.
"And you thought that Cornelius had put Buggles to death?"
"I gathered it from a rumor which has crept through New York for the last two years. The haggard face and wandering eye of the dying artist, who painted my picture, confirmed this impression."
"And Cornelius came to this house?"'
"No; to another house, where I had been placed by my father. He procured a person to represent a southern gentleman, and personate my father. That is, I was represented as the only child of a rich southerner; and in that capacity my picture was painted, and—and—I afterward visited the home of the artist, in a miserable garret, and saw his daughter, who assisted her father, by the humblest kind of work. She was a seamstress—she worked for 'sixteen cents per day.'"
"And she is dead," said Nameless, in a low voice.
"I lost sight of Mary and her father about a year ago, and have since received intelligence of their death."
"How did you receive this intelligence?"
"It was in all the papers. Beverly Barron wrote quite a touching poem upon the Death of the Artist and his Daughter. Beverly, you are aware, was eloquent upon such occasions: the death of a friend was always a godsend to him."
Nameless did not reply, but seemed for a moment to surrender himself to the influence of unalloyed despair.
"Look you, Frank," he said, after a long pause, "I have seventy-one thousand dollars—"
"Seventy-one thousand dollars!" she ejaculated.
"Yes, and it is 'Frank and Nameless and Ninety-One against the World.' To-morrow is the 24th of December; the day after will be THE DAY. We must lay our plans; we must track Martin Fulmer to his haunt; we must foil your father, and, in a word, show the world that its cunning can be baffled and its crime brought to justice, by the combination of three persons—a Fallen Woman, a Convict and a Murderer! O, does it not make your heart bound to think of the good work we can do with seventy-one thousand dollars!"
She gave him her hand, quietly, but her dark eye answered the excitement which flashed from every line of his countenance.
"And will it not be a glorious thing for us, if we can wash away our crimes—yes, Frank, our crimes—and show the world what virtue lurks in the breast of the abandoned and the lost?"
"Then I can atone for the crime of which I am guilty—for I am guilty of being the child of a man who sold me into shame—you are guilty of having stained your hands in the blood of a wretch who cursed the very air which he breathed—and Ninety-One, is guilty, yes guilty of having once been in—my father's way. These are terrible crimes, Gulian—"
"Call me not by that name until the 25th of December," exclaimed Nameless.
At this moment, Frank turned aside and from the drawer of a cabinet, drew forth a long and slender vial, which she held before the eyes of Nameless.
"And if we fail, this will give us peace. It is a quiet messenger, Gulian. Within twelve hours after the contents of this vial have passed the lips, the body will sink into a peaceful sleep, without one sign or token to tell the tale of suicide. Yes, Gulian, if we fail, this vial, which I procured with difficulty, and which I have treasured for years, will enable us to fall asleep in each other's arms, and—forever!"
"Suicide!" echoed Nameless, gazing now upon the vial, then upon her countenance, imbued with a look of somber enthusiasm—"You have thought of that?"
"O had this vial been mine, in the hour when, pure and hopeful, I was sold into the arms of shame, do you think that for an instant I would have hesitated between the death that lays you quietly asleep in the coffin, and that death which leaves the body living, while it cankers and kills the soul?"
Nameless took the vial from her hand and regarded it long and ardently. O what words can picture the strange look, which then came over his face! He uttered a deep sigh and placed the vial in her hands again. She silently placed it in the drawer of the cabinet.
As she again confronted him, their eyes met—they understood each other.
"Frank," said Nameless in a measured tone—"Who owns this house? What is its true character?"
Seating herself beside him on the sofa she replied:
"As to the owner of this house, you may be sure that he is a man of property and moral worth, a church-member and a respectable citizen. But do not imagine for a moment that this is a common haunt of infamy—no, my friend, no! None but the most select, the most aristocratic, ever cross the threshold of this place. Remain until twelve o'clock to-night and you will behold some of the guests who honor my house with their presence."
There was a mocking look upon her face as she gave utterance to these words. She beat the carpet with her slipper and grasped the cross which rested on her bosom with a nervous and impatient clutch.
"At twelve to-night!" echoed Nameless, and looked into her face. "I will remain;" and once more his whole being was enveloped in the magnetic influence which flowed from the eyes of the lost woman.
CHAPTER II.
FRANK AND HER SINGULAR VISITOR.
It will soon fall to our task to depict certain scenes, which took place in the Empire City on the 23d of December, between nightfall and midnight. The greater portion of these scenes will find their legitimate