She disappeared into the inner room where the body was lying, and a few seconds later I heard a low and anguished cry. Then I knew that she had recognized the poor fellow as some one who was near and dear to her.
Kindly hands drew her away from beside the body, and when I saw her again her face was convulsed with anguish, and tears were streaming from her eyes.
For fully half an hour she continued weeping, and not a man of us was there who did not feel uncomfortable. We did not venture to console her, for it seemed like sacrilege to intrude on her during the first period of her sorrow.
Then her sobbing became less loud, and gradually she subdued the more demonstrative expressions of grief.
She finally lifted her head, and in a hollow voice asked to hear the story of his death.
The captain briefly outlined what was known, and she calmly listened to the tale.
"Can I see the person who first reached him?" she asked, when the captain had finished.
"Yes," was the reply. "Detective Howard here is the man you want."
She wished to see me alone, and I conducted her into another room.
Arrived here, she begged me minutely to relate what had happened; and, exhibiting a singular self-control, asked for as close a description of the assassin as I could give.
"You knew him very well?" said I, when an opportunity occurred.
"Yes."
"Perhaps he was your brother?"
"No," she said, and a faint flush flitted into her pallid face for an instant. "No," and then her voice sank to a whisper, "he was to have been my husband."
"Ah! And now, miss, you don't suppose that the assassin could have been an enemy of his? Did he have any enemies, who might rob him, as a blind to cover up their real motive?"
"Tom have an enemy? No—no—he was too good and kind for that. It was done by some murderous wretch for the sake of plunder. Tom must have resisted being robbed, and the ruffian killed him."
"That is my own theory. And—I do not wish to pain you, miss—but what about the body? Has he any family or relations?"
"No, none in this world. He and I were all in all to each other," and the eyes of the girl became moist again; but she fought back the tears, and quite calmly said:
"I will take care of the body."
Then a troubled expression crossed her face; and, to make a long story short, I gained her confidence, learned that she had not enough to properly inter her lover, and loaned her the money.
With tears of gratitude in her eyes, she thanked me, and every word came straight from her heart.
Her name was Nellie Millbank, she said, and she was utterly alone in the world. Until several days before, she had been employed in a store, but had then been discharged.
Tom was a clerk, but had only a small salary, as soon as which was raised they were to have been married. He had been to see her on that fatal night, to tell her he had obtained a day off, and was going to take her on an excursion on the morrow.
She had been dressed and waiting for him, but he had not come.
Alarmed, for he had always kept his word, she knew not what to do, nor what to think, until, having bought an afternoon paper, she saw an account of the shooting.
This was her simple history.
After the inquest, the body was delivered to her, and then she faded from my sight and knowledge for a long while. Exactly how long, the ensuing chapters will inform you.
CHAPTER II. MAT MORRIS.
"I've been discharged, mother."
"What?"
"I've been discharged."
The face of Mrs. Morris became very grave, and presently her eyes were turned on the boyish yet manly face of her son Mat. Earnestly she gazed at him for several seconds, and then her lips parted with a smile which, wan as it was, expressed satisfaction.
"It was no fault of yours. You did nothing wrong, my son?"
"No, mother, it was not through any fault of mine that I was discharged. Business has fallen off so very much of late that they were compelled to reduce the number of hands. And as I was one of the newest, I was among those laid off."
"Of course I am sorry," said poor Mrs. Morris, "but we must do the best we can."
"I'll not act the part of a sluggard, mother, you can depend on that. I'll try and find something to do to keep the wolf from the door. And my boss gave me a splendid recommendation, and said if business got better he'd send for me at once."
Mat was a good son.
Few better were to be found.
His worst fault, perhaps, was in being a little reckless, or over-brave and independent.
None could insult him with impunity, nor could he nor would he stand by and silently witness anybody being imposed upon. He invariably took the part of the under dog in the fight.
Hardly had Mat finished speaking, when the door opened and a girl entered; a girl whom both mother and son greeted with glances of affection.
Her name was Helen Dilt.
Five years before, when the circumstances of the Morris family had been better, they had taken her from the street—found starving and freezing there on a cold winter's night—and had cared for her.
Mr. Morris had died only a year later, since which time Helen had clung to them, doing what little she could to keep the roof above their heads.
She was not yet sixteen—a slight and winsome little creature; not beautiful, but with a sweet face that when lighted by a smile was remarkably winning.
Of her history she knew nothing.
Her knowledge of herself could be summed up in a few words.
For years cared for by a drunken old hag, with only a faint remembrance of a sweet, sad face before that, she had lost even such a squalid home as she had when the hag died.
Then she had come with the Morris family.
And well did they love her.
Mrs. Morris loved her like a daughter, and Mat loved her much better than a sister. And Helen returned the latter's deep regard.
While no word had openly been spoken, it was tacitly understood by all three that some day, when Mat and Helen were old enough, and the circumstances permitted, they were to be married.
Mat was of slight build, of lithe and willowy frame, in which, however, resided an amount of strength which few would have dreamed possible.
He was just eighteen.
There is an old saying—"that it never rains but it pours."
It seems true sometimes.
Helen, employed in a situation bringing her three dollars a week, had also come home with the news of having been discharged.
It was a grave little trio that gathered about the supper table that night.
Latterly they had been getting along comfortably, but now destitution and want again stared them in the face, and must inevitably take up quarters in the household, unless some one obtained work of some kind to bring in some money.
Mat was up and away early the next morning, and for many mornings thereafter, but although he honestly searched all day long for employment,