A BAFFLED IMPOSTOR,

Pelorus Guardian and Miners' Advocate., Volume 25, Issue 41, 29 May 1914, Page 7

A BAFFLED IMPOSTOR,

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

THE HEIR TO A DUKEDOM : A HUG® PERSONATION FRAUD.

Of S. W. Hopkins, Author of "On Four Braes Plates,” etc., etc.

SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS PART. A young man, who calls himself »enry Barnes, and from his speech appears to he a man of education, uas been sentenced by the magistrate of a New York' Court to thirty days’ imprisonment on a charge of vagrancy. During bis confinement in the penitentiary, he becomes acquainted with Bill Jones, a fellowprisoner. Both are released the same day, each going his own way. That night Barnes finds himself in a New York lodging-house. The room he occupies is shared by another, about his own age and physique. During the night his companion shows signs of great distress. Early in the morning Barnes is horrified to discover that is room-mate is dead. Following his natural instinct Barnes proceeds to possess himself of the man’s valuables, and papers. Among the latter is a long letter signed by George Lovering, addressed to Sir Peter Steede, of Lombard-street London, introducing Gerald Lovering—his son —who it appears, is related,to the Duke of Ohiltern, a friend of Sir Peter’s. Bames is not long in grasping the situation, and turning it to his own benefit. He decides upon thle bold enterprise of impersonating Gerald Lovering. The letter provides many details regarding the life of the dead man. It discloses the fact of strained relations that existed between father and son, owing to a weakness the latter developed towards a certain popular' variety singer known as Miss Mildred Moore. Bames exchanges clothes with the deceased, and shortly after leaves tbe lodging-house unseen. The body of the dead man is discovered by the coloured porter, who informs Mr. Powell, the proprietor, PART 2. CHAPTER ll.—(Continued.) In ten minutes after Harper Ferry had notified Mr. Powell, there were two policemen in uniform and two ummiformed detectives in room number thirty-two. "Send for the coroner,” said one of the officers, looking at Mr. Powell. Then he added solemnly : "The man is dead.”

Harper Perry was again sent off with a rush, and the police-officers began an examination. “This is murder,” said Officer Yager, of the two in uniform. “See the marks on the head and neck ? The man has been knocked out with a black-jack.” “Looks like it,” assented one of the detectives.

“I think you’re wrong,” said the other police officer. “To me this is simply a case of too much drink. Why, .he reeks with whisky.”

The other detective nodded in a most ko owing manner, and put his face near that of the dead man's. "Alcoholic excess,” he remarked, sagely. "There is no sign of a struggle here."

"True for you,” said Officer Yager. "Signs of a struggle are wanting ; but if he died of alcoholic excess, how is it he died in his clothes ? ffhat bed was occupied ; this onenot, except by this man. Looks to me as if the murderer slept there and escaped.” “Impossible,” said Mr. Powell. "I have examined the hooks, and find that only one man entered this room last night. We are very particular here about having every guest register his rfhme. It is the law, and I am not one who disregards the law. Henry Barnes occupied this room last night. Now, U this is Henry Barnes, he” "Search Mm,” said one of the detectives. "May be something in his clothes to show.”

They 1 carefully wentfthrough all the pockets. They found a Bible that was all. "Ha ! Sec here !” exclaimed one of the detectives, i opening the book. "Listen ! ‘Prom the City Missionary Society at New York, to Henry Barnes.' ”

' “That's dear enough,” said Officer Yager. ‘‘That shows he was Henry Barnes. But It does not show how he died.”

They stood looking at one another in some perplexity, when a young man came bounding up the stairs. "Here’s Cameron, the coroner’s doctor,” said a detective. "What’s this ?” asked Dr. Cameron.

"Just what you see, no more and no less,” replied Yager. "This man was found dead, ;'ust as he lies, this morning,/ when the porter came in to make up the room.” The doctor fumbled with the dead m/an’s wrist, and felt over his silent heart.

"He’s dead,” he said. "Indeed ?” answered one of the detectives, a s if in irony. "We knew that ages ago. The thing is, what tilled him ?”

"Murdered, I say,” said Yager. "Whisky, I Say,” I said the other policeman. The doctor looked round the room.

‘‘You 'tend to him,” said the detective, who had done most of the talking. ‘‘We can do the detective work.” ‘‘Suppose you go on and do it, then,” returned the coroner’s doctor. It was much more important to retain the prerogatives in authority

than to solve this mystery. "Who is Henry Barnes ? Where did he come from ?” asked the doctor. No one knew. "Find out from the City Missionary Society,” said Yager. One of the detectives started out to obtain the needed information. The others remained, studying the room and the situation. The coroner’s doctor applied himself to examining the corpse.

In fortj-flve minutes the detective who had gone to the offices of the City Missionary Society returned. There was distinctly to he seen a disgusted look on his face. "Do you know who this fellow is ?” he asked. The tone of his voice caused all the others to gather round eagerly. "Tell us.”

"Why, he’s a common tramp that just spent thirty days on the island. One of the women who* visited the place saw him, and he told her a nice yarn about wishing he had a Bible, and how he was going to try to do better, and the society gave

hi'm this one. All this fuss about a tramp. Get the thing up to the morgue as quick as you can. Four of us wasting our time over a tramp.”

"Even if he was murdered no one would care,” said Yager. This • seemed to furnish a clue to the doctor. "There are contusions on the head and face,” he said. "These might he caused by blows, or by heavy falls. If the man was a tramp, he probably got drunk after he left the island. They all do that, you know 1 . The first -thing a.man does after he has been kept on prison rations for a month or so is to get mad drunk. It isn’t so with long term prisoners. They go without the stuff long enough to lose the taste for it. But a short term man will (get drunk before the sun goes down on his first day of liberty. This seems to me to be the most probable explanation. But what bothers me is his good clothes —and that bed.” "Bother th© clothes,” said a detective. "It is easy to account for them. He probably had no decent clothes when he went there, and they gave him this suit. They do that sometimes.”

“Not such clothes as these,” said the other detective. "This suit came from Wilson’s.”

“Yes, it’s a mighty good suit for a tramp,” said Yager. “But about that bed. If this fellow was the only man in the room last night, he certainly slept there. How, then, does he come to die on this one ?” “I should say,” said the young physician, as if balancing the thing nicely in his mind—“l should say it was something like this. He came from the prison and got drunk as a lord. He fell down several times, or it is possible that he got into a row. Well, he came here, and went to bed. Towards morning he felt ill, and, thinking he needed a doctor, got up and dressed, and started for the He felt weak, or, perhaps, dizzy, and sat down' on this bed to rest. You see it is nearest the door. Well, instead of recovering, he died. That’s simple enough.” "Simple enough, indeed,” said a detective. "But I think we want to interview the clerki on duty here last night. Where is he, Mr. Powell ?” “Home, I suppose. He leaves here at six o’clock.” “Where does he live 7” “Pifty-third-street and Third-ave-nue.”

"I’ll go up and get him,” said one of the detectives.

"But for Heaven’s sake, get tMa thing out of my house,” said Powell. "It’s a Jonah.” "All right. The dead waggon will he here in a few minutes.” An hour from then Mr. Powell’s hotel was as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. The body of Henry Barnes lay on a slab in the morgue, and the investigation was being continued at the precinct station house.

When the detective had got the night clerk out of bed and told him what was the matter, that individual trembled with terror, for he thought he was going to he accused of murder.

"All we want to know,” said the detective, on the way down in the train, "is whether any one else went into that room last night—any one besides Henry Barnes, I mean.” The/ night clerk of Powell’s lodg-ing-house did some lively thinking in the next few minutes. He remembered the entrance of Henry Barnes, and the conversation about a single room or a double-up. .He also remembered that he had been to the races that day, and had not had much sleep. He recalled the fact that about two in the morning, a naan had come in, and seemed to be suffering. He had put Mm in room thirty-two, hut here was the trouble—he had been so very sleepy he neglected to make the last man register his name. It is the. law that every person occupying a room in an hotel shall register his' name in a hook kept for that purpose. The night clerk knew that Mr. Powell was exceedingly straight in this matter, and if it was known that he had neglected his duty—especially under the present circumstanced —ho would lose his place, if nothing worse hefeil him. This was something, to study over. If one of the men who occupied the room had disappeared and no one knew anything about him it was manifestly to the interest of the clerk to say that Henry Barnes had occupied that room alone.

‘‘He’s only a tramp, anyway,” the detective said. ‘‘l don’t suppose there will be any stir, but we must make a show, you know.”

This encouraged the clerk mightily. If It was only a tramp, his course was easy. But he could not in his own mind reconcile the tramp theory

with either of the two well-dressed men he had seen.

Before the investigating magistrate he deposed as follows : Henry Barnes had entered the) hotel about midnight. He seemed to be eithter under the influence of liquor or suffering from some unexplained cause. The clerk had asked him if be wanted a doctor, and he said be dfd not. He wanted only a room where be could rest. The clerk had given him room thirty-two, and that’s all he knew about it. There was no disturbance during, the night. There was nothing to indicate that the guests of the hotel were not sleeping soundly. This, of course, settled the question of the occupancy of the room, hut it did not satisfy the wise minds of the law that murder had not been committed. The case must now go to the coroner. It was certainly impossible to make any arrests at this stage of the investigation. The coroner took up the case and proceeded to solve the identity of the man. It was not sufficient to know that the dead man was Henry Barnes. It must be known who Henry Bames was. To this end the facts 'were published in all the morning papers of New York.

There never was a dead body waiting for' identification that did not bring an army of anxious relatives to the morgue looking for some wayward relative —son, father, brother, or sister, or missing sweet'heart. A hundred people viewed the remains of Henry Barnes the firsfi day, and thirts -seven out of thle hundred positively identified him—as thirty-seven different individuals. On the second day, when the discolourations of the face had become so marked that identification by the features was almost impossible, a fatherly old gentleman came in.

"I saw this article about ( Henry Barnes,” he said to the attendant. "I saw a man by that name in the penitentiary on Blackwell’s Island. I thought perhaps I could identify him and so help the case along. I gave him a suit of clothes, in fact, .a complete outfit, when he left, to give him a fair start in th© world.”

"Are these the duds ?” asked the attendant, showing the coat and vest.

“Yes, yes ; the very ones,” said the philanthropist. “Yes, I know the cloth and the maker’s name. Yes, those are the things I gave to the man Barnes.” “Do you know who he was ?” “No. I met him but the once. A tnost "unfortunate young man, who might have been something in the world if he had had a chance. He was not a common tramp. He may have been a vagrant at this time as it is charged. But I fancy he was more a victim of circumstances than anything else. He spoke to me of looking for work, and said that if he had worn decent clothing he could have found it. He had no money to buy any, and so was looked upoh with disgust and suspicion. It is often so, and though we say to ourselves and each other that clothes do not make the man, we know very well that they help to make up our appreciation of him. I am sorry that this has happened. I really believe that if he had lived he woiild have made an honest man of himself.” Having done his duty, the missionary took himself and his regrets away, and inside an hour after his departure a sweet-faced woman "came

"You know me, lam sure,” she said to the attendant, with a smile. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, truthfully, for that sweet face was well known in all parts of New York where there were poverty, suffering, and death. "You are from the City Missionary Society.” “Yes, lam Mrs. Gedney. I have come to look at that poor fellow who was brought here day before yesterday. I did not see the account of it in the paper, as I was out of the city. But my attention was called to it on my return. His name was Henry Barnes.” "Yes, ma’am ; he’s here.”

By this time one of the detectives had come round to leam If any one had identified the dead man. He stood one side, waiting for Mrs. Gedney to speak. "I would not know him,” she said, "he has changed so. But I might not, any way. I saw him but once. But there was a Bible. I gave Henry Barnes a Bible for the society. I could identify that. Is it here ?” “It is here, ma’am.” "Yes, that is the Bible,” said Mrs. Gedney, with a sigh. "I know it perfectly well. Yes, this must he poor Henry Barnes. I had quite a long talk with him i in the penitentiary, and he seemed so far removed from the ordinary prisoner, I am sure he was/a gentleman by birth. He spoke like a young man who had received some education. And was this Bible all ?”

"That was all, madam,” said ttie detective. "I was present when they —when we searched his clothes.”

‘‘That is strange. With this Bible I gave; him twenty dollars from my own pocket. Of course, the society knew nothing of that.” “You gave him twenty dollars !” ‘‘Yes. I left it for him at the institution, and the officers have returned to me his receipt for it.” “Ah !” This opened up a new line of theorizing. If Barnes had twenty dollars at three o’clock that day, and died penniless in the night, he must have been either on a reckless spree, or was robbed and beaten so severely, that he died from the effects of it. “You had better keep that receipt, madam,” said the detective. “It may be wanted.”

Later on that same day a man with a forbidding face wandered hesl-

fcatlngiy into the morgue. He was not like the ordinary anxious searcher for some missing one. He looked more as if he might be one of the kind brought there some clay like Barnes. Ho was powerfully built,with a wicked mouth and prominent brows commonly known as "beetle brows."

This was Mr. Bill Jones, who had been with Henry Bames on Blackwell’s Island.

"Well,” said the attendant, "what do you want ?” "Lookin’ fur a friend,” sail) Mr. Jones. "Saw that a feller by the name of Henry '.Barnes was here."

"Do you know Henry .Barnes ?”

"1 knew him—over there,"—pointi»»* in the direction of the peniton-

"Bah ! There are plenty who knew him there. There is no doubt th!at this is the man who was sent to the island as Henry Barnes. A dozen people have identified him as that. What they want to know now is, who Henry Barnes was before he was sent there as a vagrant.” "Oh, I don’t know nothin’ about that. Can I see him ?” "I suppose so."

The sheet was turned back, andMr. Jones stood gazing down jLhto the upturned discoloured face. He stared at it a moment, and a bewildered look came over his face. He touched the hair, and rubbed his own chin meditatively. There was a perplexed look in his eyes. "Lemme see the clothes,” he said.

The attendant accommodated him. The perplexed look in his eyes increased. He thrust his hands into his pockets, and went back to the slab. He looked at , the body from all directions. The peculiar look of bewilderment in his eyes deepened. "Trim ?” asked the attendant.

Mr. Jones nodded and walked out.

When he got outside the door he stood in the fresh air a moment as if gathering his wits. He looked dreamily off to the right, and then dreamily off to the left. He began to whistle softly l to himself. "Well, I’m jiggered !” he exclaimed, as he walked away. CHAPTER 111. “This is a great game,” Barnes said to himself. "The thing is to play it to a successful finish. That’s not so easy, either. But I’ve made the break, and there’s too much to be won to falter now.” He had enjoyed a good breakfast, and was sauntering down Broadway towards the Battery. He turned into the office of the White Star Steamship Company.

"I want to go to Liverpool," he said to the clerk who apokje to him.

"Yes, sir. Have you any choice of ship ?”

“Decidedly. I want to go on the one that sails first.” "I doubt if that is possible. The Adriatic sails to-morrow, and there is no first-class passage to he had.”

Barnes looked like a man who would have first-class or none.

“I am sorrj,” he said; “but circumstances demand my presence in London at once. If I cannot go first, I will go second cabin.”

For a man who had been sent to Blackwell’s Island as a 'vagrant, Barnes knew his subject pretty well.

The clerk examined his books. “That can be done,” he said. “There is room on the Adriatic, if second-class will do.”

"It must do. Under ordinary circumstances I would wait until I could obtain a state room ; but I am in a hurry. I will take the second cabin.”

The clerk proceeded to make out the passage ticket. "Forty-five dollars, please.”

Barnes paid the money, and wrote the name "Gerald Lovering” in the book the clerk swung open before him.

"Where does the Adriatic lie ?” he asked, pocketing his ticket. "White Star Dock, at the foot of West Tenth-street. Sleep on board, sir ?”

“Sleep on board ?” “I mean to-night. A great many passengers sleep on board the night before sailing, to avoid all danger of being left behind.” “Oh'. Yes, I think I will.” “A good idea, that,” Barnes, continued, communing with himself as he left the office. “A cabin on board will be about as comfortable a spot as ,1 can find, and as safe. Well, I’ve got plenty to do to-day. Let’s see. First, I must learn sometlJbg about this Lovering crowd. It would hardly do to rush over to London to my dear friend, Sir Peter, and not be able to talk about my father. I must get that down pat. i Then I must buy some things. And there’s that Mildred Moore. I wonder if I ought not. to see her. It might make it easier for me over there if I could tell something about her. Well, the Loverings first.” Whatever Barnes was, or had been, he possessed a cool, shrewd, calculating mind. He had jumped into this scheme on the spur of the moment, when he had what seemed like an empire to gain, and nothing at all to lose. Now, on reflection, the difficulties of the game presented themselves to him with considerable force ; but he was not the man to buck down. So far everything seemed to favour him. Even if hie was detected in the fraud, nothing worse could befall him than would in any event, if he continued a life of dishonesty, which seemed to be the only life left for him to live—that is, to live without suffering, poverty or the drudgery of honest labour.

In a drug store he found a New York City Directory. Turning to the proper page, he found these entries : "Loverixug, George, accountant, boards No. 97, West Thirty-fourth-strcet.”

"Lovering, Gerald, clerk, boards

No. 97, West Thirtj-fourth-street.” “Now, let’s see,” said Barnes. “It would appear to me that this George Lovering, then, is one of these public or expert accountants, with an office somewhere or other, and Gerald was his clerk. That may be wrong, but it will do to start on. In all propability the old man is at his office, and the proper place for me to go for information is to the house, where I am sure not to see him. I won’t see, Gerald —he's safe enough. Wonder if they’ve found him yet. I’ll bet there’ll be a row when they do.”

With all his coolness there was a dash of recklessness in Barnes—any one could' see that —and this projected visit to the house where Gerald Lovering had lived was nothing less than reckless. But Barnes had resolved to go, and spent no further thought on the danger of the proceeding. He got on a Broadway car bound /up town, and in an hour was at 97.

His ring at the bell was answered by a servant. “Is Mr. Gerald Lovering in ?” he asked.

“He is not,” replied the servant. “Can you tell me where I could find him ? I wish to see him on important business.” “Perhaps the missus can.”

The servant left, and in a few moments there appeared an elderly woman, evidently the mistress of the house.

“You wish to see Gerald Lovering, sir ?” she asked.

"I do, madam. I found his name in the directory, and came here, not so much expecting to find him at home as to obtain information where he could be found.”

"Well, this is a difficult matter to say. Mr. Lovering—both Mr. Loverings—have an office in the Equitable Buildings. Mr. George Lovering, the father, left this morning as usual to go to his office. He is probably there now ; but I do not know just what to say about Gerald. IHe is employed by his father, and invariably leaves here in the morning! with him. But he did not come home last night. He did not sleep in the house, so did not, of course, appear at the breakfast table. He and his father spoke a few days ago about Gerald going to London. It is quite possible he has gone. They are not very communicative, and Gerald might easily be on shipboard now without me knowing anything about it.” "I knew he was going to London,” said Barnes. “I wished to see him before he went.”

"I fear you. are too late. If you go to the office and see his father, you can learn.” "Yes, thanks. I will do so.”

Mr. Barnes stepped down into the street and examined the front of the house.

"Well, it is clear that the Loverings are not rich. They make a living—that’s about all. Gerald is—that is, I am my father’s clerk. I think that is enough to know about the matter.” Barnes then directed his steps towards Broadway, and turned into a gentleman’s furnishing store. Here he made sundry purchases, including sets of underclothing, socks collars, ties, handkerchiefs, toilet articles, and, in fact, supplied himself with those necessities of life none of which he had before. His stock, when he ha'd completed his purchases, was so .large that he bethought himself of a satchel. Even a trunk would come in handy. He saw, not far from the store he was in, a trunk and leather store. He left his purchases, and went in search of a receptacle for them. After considering the question, he determined on a large travelling-bag, capable of holding all that he hafl acquired. He paid for this, and returned for his outfit. "What about clothes ?” he asked himself. "If I present myself to Sir Peter in this one suit, which will be somewhat the worse for wear by the time I get to London, he will —well, what will he think ? No, I must have a complete change-—or two of them. The deuce J Then I must have a trunk !”

So he went back and bought a trunk, and then, to fit himself out completely, went to a well-known clothing house and bought two suits and a silk hat. Next hejbought some shoes, and could think of nothing more. Oh, yes. It came to him after a deal of thinking, although it was a warm season, he would need a heavy coat on board. So he bought an overcoat.

Pie took all these articles to the trunk store, and packed them in the trunk he had selected. The proprietor looked at these unusual preparations with something like wonder. He sold a good many trunks, but he never had them packed in his store before.

“You see,” said Barnes, noting the look and thinking it was suspicious. “I came from a small town in New Jersey. I am going to Europe to claim a small inheritance, and had no fit clothes to wear. I just thought I would do the whole thing here—if you have no objections, of course.”

• “Oh, no objections,■ I assure you, sir. Make yourself at home, and take your time about it. When do you sail ?” “To-morrow.”

Barnes, having finished his work, next got an expressman, and had his trunk and satchel taken to thJe boat. He went there himself, found his baggage, and had it properly cared for. He took a look at his cabin, satisfied himself that he was in for a week of solid comfort, and strolled off again.

He had done everything now that had occurred to him as necessary. He still had nearly half a day before him. He bad more than that, for it was now about two o’clock, and it

would not be necessary for him to be ton the steamer before ten that night. He had had no lunch, and that was his next thought. He found a restaurant, bought a paper at the door, and went in. While he was waiting for bis order to be brought, he turned the paper inside out and looked at the amusement page.' He scanned the advertising columns htere, and after a diligent search found the name of Mildred Moore. "Proctor's, eh, to-night 7 Well, I'll have time. I can drop in there and bear this young woman sing, and get to the ship by ten. I’d like to see 'ttie girl that Gerald Lovering was willing to throw up a title for. By Jove, he must have loved her ! Wonder what she’d say if she knew he was lying dead in a cheap lodg-ing-house, or probably in the morgue by this time. Perhaps she wouldn’t sing so gaily, eh 7 Wonder what they will say when they find that fellow 7 By Jove, if some one sees him that knows him, it’s all up with me ! But, pshp,w ! How could any one who knew Gerald Lovering expect to find him there 7 And then, as the old lady at the house said, they probably think he has started for England.”

Barnes’s cogitations were cut short by the appearanre of his order, and he applied himself , to it with an energy that spoke of good digestion and a n easy conscience. Barnes’s conscience was. not one that would be likely to trouble bim as long as the game played his way. Having made a good meal, he lighted a cigar and strolled out. As he was paying his bill at the desk, he heard one man say to another :

"So we have another mystery for the police to unravel, eh 7” "What’s that ?” asked the person' addressed. “I did not sec it in the paper.” “No, it was not in the paper. A young fellow was found dead in Mr. Powell’s 'hiotel in '• Park-row thW morning. Nobody knows who he is.” "Nothing on him to identify him, eh 7” asked the other, with little interest. These things were common enough in New York. "Oh, yes, they know who he is—in a sense. He is a tramp.” "A tramp? A tramp in. a hotel 7” "Well, the circumstances are peculiar. The case will no doubt attract attention. It seems that a month ago Magistrate Pratt sent a vagrant to the penitentiary for thirty days. He gave the name of Henry Barnes. The City Missionary Society took an interest in him, and one man gave him a new suit of clothes, and a woman gave him a Bible and twenty dollars. They identify the clothes and the Bible. Of course, no one saw enough of Barnes to identify him. A man looks different in a prison suit. But it is Barnes, for he had the suit on, and the Bible in the pocket, and registered his name when he took the room.”

“What killed him ? Sudden acquisition of wealth ?” asked the listener, facetiously.

“Indirectly it did. They think he either drank himself to deaths—alcoholic syncope, .1 believe they call it —or he fell in with thieves, who beat him and stole his money.”

“In either event, he was only a tramp, so I fail to'see why the city should be upset about it,” said the other. "There are too many of these fellows. If a few more of them would die suddenly the country would be better off.” Barnes heard all this while he lingered at the cigar-lighter. “Good !” he said to himself, as he strolled out, puffing at the weed. “They have done just what I wanted them to do. If they only stick to that, I’ll have plain sailing. I, as Gerald Loverihg, must remember that I’ve had a terrible row with the old man, and will not write. It is not likely he will come to London to see a son who has turned against him.” That evening found Barnes at Proctor’s. To be Continued.