Chapter 1

Sometimes in the course of his experience, a detective, while engaged in
ferreting out the mystery of one crime, runs inadvertently upon the clue
to another. But rarely has this been done in a manner more unexpected or
with attendant circumstances of greater interest than in the instance I
am now about to relate.

For some time the penetration of certain Washington officials had been
baffled by the clever devices of a gang of counterfeiters who had
inundated the western portion of Massachusetts with spurious Treasury
notes. Some of the best talent of the Secret Service had been expended
upon the matter, but with no favorable result, when, one day, notice
was received at Washington that a number of suspicious-looking letters,
addressed to the simple initials, X. Y. Z., Brandon, Mass., were being
daily forwarded through the mails of that region; and it being deemed
possible that a clue had at last been offered to the mystery in hand, I
was sent northward to investigate.

It was in the middle of June, 1881, and the weather was simply
delightful. As I stepped from the cars at Brandon and looked up the long
straight street with its double row of maple trees sparkling fresh and
beautiful in the noonday sun, I thought I had never seen a prettier
village or entered upon any enterprise with a lighter or more hopeful
heart.

Intent on my task, I went straight to the post-office, and after coming
to an understanding with the postmaster, proceeded at once to look over
the mail addressed to the mysterious X. Y. Z.

I found it to consist entirely of letters. They were about a dozen in
number, and were, with one exception, similar in general appearance and
manner of direction, though inscribed in widely different handwritings,
and posted from various New England towns. The exception to which I
allude had these few extra words written in the lower left-hand corner
of the envelope: "_To be kept till called for._" As I bundled up the
letters preparatory to thrusting them back into the box, I noticed that
the latter was the only one in a blue envelope, all the others being in
the various shades of cream-color and buff.

"Who is in the habit of calling for these letters?" I asked of the
postmaster.

"Well," said he, "I don't know his name. The fact is nobody knows him
around here. He usually drives up in a buggy about nightfall, calls for
letters addressed to X. Y. Z., and having got them, whips up his horse
and is off again before one can say a word."

"Describe him," said I.

"Well, he is very lean and very lank. In appearance he is both green and
awkward. His complexion is pale, almost sickly. Were it not for his eye,
which is keen and twinkling, I should call him an extremely
inoffensive-looking person."

The type was not new to me. "I should like to see him," said I.

"You will have to wait till nightfall, then," returned the postmaster.
"He never comes till about dusk. Drop in here, say at seven o'clock, and
I will see that you have the opportunity of handing him his mail."

I nodded acquiescence to this and sauntered out of the enclosure devoted
to the uses of the post-office. As I did so I ran against a young man
who was hurriedly approaching from the other end of the store.

"Your pardon," he cried; and I turned to look at him, so gentlemanly was
his tone, and so easy the bow with which he accompanied this simple
apology.

He was standing before the window of the post-office, waiting for his
mail; a good-looking, well-made young man, of a fine countenance, but
with a restless eye, whose alert yet anxious expression I could not but
note even in the casual glance I gave him. There appeared to be some
difficulty in procuring him his mail, and each minute he was kept
waiting seemed to increase his impatience almost beyond the bounds of
endurance. I saw him lean forward and gasp out a hurried word to the
postmaster, and was idly wondering over his anxiety and its probable
causes, when I heard a hasty exclamation near me, and looking around,
saw the postmaster himself beckoning to me from the door of the
enclosure. I immediately hastened forward.

"I don't know what it means," he whispered; "but here is a young man,
different from any who have been here before, asking for a letter
addressed to X. Y. Z."

"A letter?" I repeated.

"Yes, a letter."

"Give him the whole batch and see what he does," I returned, drawing
back where I could myself watch the result of my instructions. The
postmaster did as I requested. In another moment I saw the young man
start with amazement as a dozen letters were put in his hand. "These are
not all for me!" he cried, but even as he made the exclamation, drew to
one side, and with a look of mingled perplexity and concern, began
opening them one after another, his expression deepening to amazement as
he glanced at their contents. The one in the blue envelope, however,
seemed to awaken quite different emotions. With an unconscious look of
relief, he hastily read the short letter it contained, then with a quick
gesture, folded it up and thrust it back into the envelope he held,
together with the other letters, in his left hand.

"There must be another X. Y. Z.," said he, approaching the window of the
post-office and handing back all the letters he had received, with the
exception of the one in the blue envelope, which with a quick movement
he had separated from the rest and thrust into his coat-pocket. "I can
lay claim to none of these." And with a repetition of his easy bow he
turned away and hurriedly quitted the store, followed by the eyes of
clerks and customers, to whom he was evidently as much of a stranger as
he was to me. Without hesitation I went to the door and looked after
him. He was just crossing the street to the tavern on the other side of
the way. I saw him enter, felt that he was safe to remain there for a
few minutes, and conscious of the great opportunity awaiting me,
hastened back to the postmaster.

"Well," cried I, in secret exultation, "our plan has worked admirably.
Let me see the letters. As they have been opened, and through no fault
of ours, a peep at them now in the cause of justice will harm none but
the guilty."

The postmaster demurred, but I soon overcame his scruples; and taking
down the letters once more, hastily investigated their contents. I own
that I was considerably disappointed at the result. In fact, I found
nothing that pointed toward the counterfeiters; only in each letter a
written address, together with fifty cents' worth of stamps.

"Some common fraud," I exclaimed. "One of those cheap affairs where, for
fifty cents enclosed, a piece of information calculated to insure
fortune to the recipient is promised by return of mail."

And disgusted with the whole affair I bundled up the letters, and was
about to replace them in the box for the third time when I discovered
that it still held a folded paper. Drawing this out, I opened it and
started in fresh amazement. If I was not very much mistaken in the
appearance of the letter in the blue envelope which I had seen the
young man read with so much interest, this was certainly it. But how
came it here? Had I not seen him thrust it back into its envelope and
afterward put envelope and all into his pocket? But here was no
envelope, and here was the letter. By what freak of necromancy had it
been transferred from its legitimate quarters to this spot? I could not
imagine. Suddenly I remembered that his hand had been full of the other
letters when he put, or endeavored to put, this special one back into
its envelope, and however unaccountable it may seem, it must be that
from haste or agitation he had only succeeded in thrusting it between
two letters instead of into the envelope, as he supposed. Whether or not
this explanation be true, there was no doubt about my luck being in the
ascendant. Mastering my satisfaction, I read these lines written in what
appeared to be a disguised hand.

"All goes well. The time has come; every thing is in train, and
success is certain. Be in the shrubbery at the northeast corner
of the grounds at 9 P.M. precisely; you will be given a mask
and such other means as are necessary to insure you the
accomplishment of the end you have in view. He cannot hold out
against a surprise. The word, by which you will know your
friends, is
COUNTERFEIT."

"Ah, ha!" thought I, "this is more like it." And moved by a sudden
impulse, I hastily copied the letter into my memorandum-book, and then
returning to the original, scratched out with my penknife the word
northeast and carefully substituting that of southwest put the letter
back into the box, in the hope that when he came to consult the envelope
in his pocket (as he would be sure to do sooner or later) he would miss
its contents and return to the post-office in search of it.

Nor was I mistaken. I had scarcely accomplished my task, when he
reëntered the store, asked to see the letters he had returned, and
finding amongst them the one he had lost, disappeared with it back to
the tavern. "If he is surprised to read southwest this time instead of
northeast, he will think his memory played him false in the first
instance," cried I, in inward comment over my last doubtful stroke of
policy; and turning to the postmaster, I asked him what place there was
in the vicinity which could be said to possess grounds and a shrubbery.

"There is but one," he returned, "Mr. Benson's. All the rest of the
folks are too poor to indulge in any such gimcracks."

"And who is Mr. Benson?"

"Well, he is Mr. Benson, the richest man in these parts and the least
liked as I take it. He came here from Boston two years ago and built a
house fit for a king to live in. Why, nobody knows, for he seems to take
no pleasure in it. His children do though, and that is all he cares for
I suppose. Young Mr. Benson especially seems to be never tired of
walking about the grounds, looking at the trees and tying up the vines.
Miss Carrie is different; all she wants is company. But little of that
has her father ever allowed her till this very day. He seems to think
nobody is good enough to sit down in his parlors; and yet he don't sit
there himself, the strange man! but is always shut up in his library or
some other out-of-the-way place."

"A busy man?"

"I suppose so, but no one ever sees any thing he does."

"Writes, perhaps?"

"I don't know; he never talks about himself."

"How did he get his money?"

"That we don't know. It seems to accumulate without his help or
interference. When he came here he was called rich, but to-day he is
said to be worth three times what he was then."

"Perhaps he speculates?"

"If he does, it must be through his son, for he never leaves home
himself."

"Has two children, you say?"

"Yes, a son and a daughter: a famous young man, the son; not so much
liked, perhaps, as universally respected. He is too severe and reticent
to be a favorite, but no one ever found him doing any thing unworthy of
himself. He is the pride of the county, and if he were a bit suaver in
manner might have been in Congress at this minute."

"How old?"

"Thirty, I should say."

"And the girl?"

"Twenty-five, perhaps."

"A mother living?"

"No; there were some strange stories of her having died a year or so
before they came here, under circumstances of a somewhat distressing
nature, but they themselves say nothing about it."

"It seems to me they don't say much about any thing."

"That's just it; they are the most reserved people you ever saw. It
isn't from them we have heard there is another son floating somewhere
about the world. They never speak of him, and what's more, they never
write to him; as who should know better than myself?"

An interruption here occurred, and I took the opportunity to saunter out
into the crowd of idlers always to be found hanging around a country
store at mail-time. My purpose was, as you may conceive, to pick up any
stray bits of information that might be floating about concerning these
Bensons. Not that I had as yet discovered any thing definite connecting
this respectable family with the gang of counterfeiters upon whose
track I had been placed; but business is business, and no clue, however
slight or unpromising in its nature, is to be neglected when the way is
as dark as that which lay before me. With an easy smile, therefore,
calculated to allay apprehension and awaken confidence, I took my stand
among these loungers. But I soon found that I need do nothing to start
the wheel of gossip on the subject of the Bensons. It was already going,
and that with a force and spirit that almost took my breath away.

"A fancy ball!" were the first words I heard. "The Bensons give a fancy
ball, when they never had three persons at a time in their house
before!"

"Yes, and what's more, they are going to have folks over from Clayton
and Lawrence and Hollowell and devil knows where. It's to be a smash up,
a regular fandango, with masks and all that kind of nonsense."

"They say Miss Carrie teased her father till he had to give in in
self-defence. It's her birthday or something like that, and she _would_
have a party."

"But such a party! who ever heard the like in a respectable town like
this! It's wicked, that's what I call it, downright wicked to cover up
the face God has given you and go strutting around in clothes a
Christian man might well think borrowed from the Evil One if he had to
wear them in any decent company. All wrong, I say, all wrong, and I am
astonished at Mr. Benson. To keep his doors shut as he has, and then to
open them in a burst to all sorts of folly. We are not invited at our
house."

"Nor we, nor we," shouted some half dozen.

"And I don't know of any one in this town who is," cried a burly man,
presumably a butcher by trade. "We are not good enough for the Bensons.
They say he is even going to be mean enough to shut the gates and not
let a soul inside who hasn't a ticket. And they are going to light up
the grounds too!"

"We can peep through the fence."

"Much we will see that way. If you had said climb it--"

"We can't climb it. Big John is going to be there and Tom Henshaw. They
mean to keep their good times to themselves, just as they have kept
every thing else. It's a queer set they are anyway, and the less we
have to do with them the better."

"I should like to see Hartley Benson in masquerade costume, I would."

"Oh, he won't wear any of the fol-de-rol; he's too dignified." And with
that there fell a sudden hush over the crowd, for which I was at a loss
to account, till, upon looking up, I saw approaching on horseback, a
young man in whom I had no difficulty in recognizing the subject of the
last remark.

Straight, slight, elegant in appearance, but with an undoubted reserve
of manner apparent even at a distance, he rode up to where I stood, and
casting a slight glance around, bowed almost imperceptibly, and
alighted. A boy caught the bridle of his horse, and Mr. Benson, without
a word or further look, passed quickly into the office, leaving a
silence behind him that was not disturbed till he returned with what was
evidently his noonday mail. Remounting his horse, he stopped a moment to
speak to a man who had just come up, and I seized the opportunity to
study his face. I did not like it. It was handsome without doubt; the
features were regular, the complexion fair, the expression gentlemanly
if not commanding; but I did not like it. It was too impenetrable
perhaps; and to a detective anxious to probe a man for his motives, this
is ever a most fatal defect. His smile was without sunshine; his glance
was an inquiry, a rebuke, a sarcasm, every thing but a revelation. As he
rode away he carried with him the thought of all, yet I doubt if the
admiration he undoubtedly inspired, was in a single case mixed with any
warmer feeling than that of pride in a fellow townsman they could not
understand. "Ice," thought I; "ice in all but its transparency!" So much
for Benson the son.

The ball was to take place that very night; and the knowledge of this
fact threw a different light over the letter I had read. The word _mask_
had no longer any special significance, neither the word _counterfeit_,
and yet such was the tenor of the note itself, and such the exaggerated
nature of its phrases, I could not but feel that some plot of a
reprehensible if not criminal nature was in the process of formation,
which, as a rising young detective engaged in a mysterious and elusive
search, it behooved me to know. And moved by this consideration, I
turned to a new leaf in my memorandum-book, and put down in black and
white the following facts thus summarily collected:

"A mysterious family with a secret.

"Rich, but with no visible means of wealth.

"Secluded, with no apparent reason for the same.

"A father who is a hermit.

"A son who is impenetrable.

"A daughter whose tastes are seldom gratified.

"The strange fact of a ball being given by this family after years of
reserve and non-intercourse with their neighbors.

"The still stranger fact of it being a masquerade, a style of
entertainment which, from its novelty and the opportunities it affords,
makes this departure from ordinary rules seem marked and startling.

"The discovery of a letter appointing a rendezvous between two persons
of the male sex, in the grounds of the party giving this ball, in which
the opportunities afforded by a masquerade are to be used for forwarding
some long-cherished scheme."

At the bottom of this I wrote a deduction:

"Some connection between one or more members of this family giving the
ball, and the person called to the rendezvous; the entertainment being
used as a blind if not as a means."

It was now four o'clock, five hours before the time of rendezvous. How
should I employ the interval? A glance at the livery-stable hard by,
determined me. Procuring a horse, I rode out on the road toward Mr.
Benson's, for the purpose of reconnoitring the grounds; but as I
proceeded I was seized by an intense desire to penetrate into the midst
of this peculiar household, and judge for myself whether it was worth
while to cherish any further suspicions in regard to this family. But
how to effect such an entrance? What excuse could I give for my
intrusion that would be likely to serve me on a day of such tumult and
preoccupation? I looked up and down the road as if for inspiration. It
did not come. Meanwhile, the huge trees that surrounded the house had
loomed in sight, and presently the beauties of lawn and parterre began
to appear beyond the high iron fence, through which I could catch now
and then short glimpses of hurrying forms, as lanterns were hung on the
trees and all things put in readiness for the evening's entertainment.
Suddenly a thought struck me. If Mr. Benson was the man they said, he
was not engaged in any of these arrangements. Mr. Benson was a hermit.
Now what could I say that would interest a hermit? I racked my brains; a
single idea came. It was daring in its nature, but what of that! The
gate must be passed, Mr. Benson must be seen--or so my adventurous
curiosity decided,--and to do it, something must be ventured. Taking out
my card, which was simply inscribed with my name, I wrote on it,
"_Business private and immediate_," and assuming my most gentlemanly and
inoffensive manner, rode calmly through the gate to the front of the
house. If I had been on foot I doubt if I would have been allowed to
pass by the servant lounging about in that region, but the horse carried
me through in more senses than one, and almost before I realized it, I
found myself pausing before the portico, in full view of a dozen or more
busy men and boys.

Imitating the manner of Mr. Benson at the post-office, I jumped from my
horse and threw the bridle to the boy nearest me. Instantly and before I
could take a step, a servant issued from the open door, and with an
expression of anxiety somewhat surprising under the circumstances, took
his stand before me in a way to hinder my advance.

"Mr. Benson does not receive visitors to-day," said he.

"I am not a visitor," replied I; "I have business with Mr. Benson," and
I handed him my card, which he looked at with a doubtful expression.

"Mr. Benson's commands are not to be disobeyed," persisted the man. "My
master sees no one to-day."

"But this is an exceptional case," I urged, my curiosity rising at this
unexpected opposition. "My business is important and concerns him. He
cannot refuse to see me."

The servant shook his head with what appeared to me to be an unnecessary
expression of alarm, but nevertheless retreated a step, allowing me to
enter. "I will call Mr. Hartley," cried he.

But that was just what I did not wish. It was Benson the father I had
come to see, and I was not to be baffled in this way.

"Mr. Hartley won't do," said I, in my lowest but most determined
accents. "If Mr. Benson is not ill, I must beg to be admitted to his
presence." And stepping inside the small reception room at my right, I
sat down on the first chair I came to.

The man stood for a moment confounded at my pertinacity, then with a
last scrutinizing look, that took in every detail of my person and
apparel, drew slowly off, shaking his head and murmuring to himself.

Meanwhile the mingled splendor and elegance of my surroundings were
slowly making their impression upon me. The hall by which I had entered
was spacious and imposing; the room in which I sat, a model of beauty in
design and finish. I was allowing myself the luxury of studying its
pictures and numerous works of art, when the sound of voices reached my
ear from the next room. A man and woman were conversing there in
smothered tones, but my senses are very acute, and I had no difficulty
in overhearing what was said.

"Oh, what an exciting day this has been!" cried the female voice. "I
have wanted to ask you a dozen times what you think of it all. Will he
succeed this time? Has he the nerve to embrace his opportunity, or what
is more, the tact to make one? Failure now would be fatal. Father--"

"Hush!" broke in the other voice, in a masculine tone of repressed
intensity. "Do not forget that success depends upon your prudence. One
whisper of what you are about, and the whole scheme is destroyed."

"I will be careful; only do you think that all is going well and as we
planned it?"

"It will not be my fault if it does not," was the reply, uttered with an
accent so sinister I was conscious of a violent surprise when, in the
next instant, the other, with a burst of affectionate fervor, cried in
an ardent tone:

"Oh, how good you are, and what a comfort you are to me!"

I was just pondering over the incongruity thus presented, when the
servant returned with my card.

"Mr. Benson wishes to know the nature of your business," said he, in a
voice I was uncomfortably conscious must penetrate to the next room and
awake its inmates to a knowledge of my proximity.

"Let me have the card," said I; and taking it, I added to my words the
simple phrase, "_On behalf of the Constable of the town_," remembering I
had heard the postmaster say this position was held by his brother.
"There," said I, "carry that back to your master."

The servant took the card, glanced down at the words I had written,
started and hastily drew back. "You had better come," said he, leading
the way into the hall.

I was only too glad to comply; in fact, escape from that room seemed
imperative. But just as I was crossing the threshold, a sudden, quick
cry, half joyful, half fearful, rose behind me, and turning, I met the
eyes of a young lady peering upon me from a lifted _portière_, with an
expression of mingled terror and longing that would have astonished me
greatly, if it had not instantly disappeared at the first sight of my
face.

"Pardon me," she exclaimed, drawing back with an embarrassed movement
into the room from which she had emerged. But soon recovering herself,
she stepped hastily forward, and ignoring me, said to the servant at my
side: "Jonas, who is this gentleman, and where are you taking him?"

With a bow, Jonas replied: "He comes on business, miss, and Mr. Benson
consents to see him."

"But I thought my father had expressly commanded that no one was to be
allowed to enter the library to-day," she exclaimed, but in a musing
tone that asked for no response. And hastily as we passed down the hall,
I could not escape the uneasy sense that her eager eyes were following
us as we went.

"Too much emotion for so small a matter, and a strange desire on the
part of every one to keep Mr. Benson from being intruded upon to-day,"
was my mental comment. And I was scarcely surprised when upon our
arrival at the library door we found it locked. However, a knock,
followed by a few whispered words on the part of the servant, served to
arouse the hermit within, and with a quick turn of the key, the door
flew back on its hinges, and the master of the house stood before me.

It was a moment to be remembered: first, because the picture presented
to my eyes was of a marked and impressive character; and secondly,
because something in the expression of the gentleman before me showed
that he had received a shock at my introduction which was not to be
expected after the pains which had been taken to prepare his mind for my
visit. He was a tall, remarkable-looking man, with a head already
whitened, and a form which, if not bowed, had only retained its upright
carriage by means of the indomitable will that betrayed itself in his
eyes. Seen against the rich background of the stained-glass window that
adorned one end of the apartment, his stern, furrowed face and eagerly
repellant aspect imprinted itself upon me like a silhouette, while the
strong emotion I could not but detect in his bearing, lent to the whole
a poetic finish that made it a living picture which, as I have said, I
have never been able to forget.

"You have come from the constable of the town," said he, in a firm, hard
tone, impressive as his look. "May I ask for what purpose?"

Looking around, I saw the servant had disappeared. "Sir," said I,
gathering up my courage, as I became convinced that in this case I had a
thoroughly honest man to deal with, "you are going to give a fancy ball
to-night. Such an event is a novelty in these parts, and arouses much
curiosity. Some of the men about town have even been heard to threaten
to leap the fences and steal a look at your company, whether you will or
not. Mr. White wants to know whether you need any assistance in keeping
the grounds clear of all but your legitimate guests; if so, he is ready
to supply whatever force you may need."

"Mr. White is very kind," returned Mr. Benson, in a voice which, despite
his will-power, showed that his agitation had in some unaccountable way
been increased by my communication. "I had not thought of any such
contingency," he murmured, moving over to a window and looking out. "An
invasion of rowdies would not be agreeable. They might even find their
way into the house." He paused and cast a sudden look at me. "Who are
you?" he abruptly asked.

The question took me by surprise, but I answered bravely if not calmly:
"I am a man who sometimes assists Mr.