Won by Crime

by A. Frank Pinkerton

  "I'm not. One can't offer too little for stolen goods."

  "Do you think this is stolen?"

  "I am sure it is. That man never came honestly by it."

  Scarcely had the poignard been put on one side, when two young men, handsomely dressed, entered the shop, and asked for some emeralds.

  "While you are choosing, I will have a look round at all these curiosities, Miguel," the youngest of the men remarked.

  "As you like; I shan't be long, Diniz."

  Sampayo nodded, and commenced his search, turning over every object that took his fancy, aided by Miriam.

  "I will show you something very curious—a poignard strangely fashioned," the girl said, drawing the weapon her grandfather had just bought from its hiding place.

  Diniz took it up and examined it attentively, then a low cry broke from his lips, and his face grew pale.

  "Where did you get this?"

  "I have just bought it. It is a very pretty toy for a gentleman," Phenee broke in persuasively.

  With almost eager haste Diniz bargained for the poignard, and at last managed to bring the Jew down to ten times the sum he had given the fisherman.

  After his friend, Miguel Reale, had chosen the jewels he wanted, Diniz hurried him away.

  Not many hours later, as the young Jewess sat alone, her grandfather having gone some distance off on business, she was startled by Sampayo suddenly reappearing, a look of intense anxiety on his face.

  "Senora," he said politely, drawing from his breast the poignard, "can you tell me from whom your father bought this?"

  "I do not know his name, but I believe he is a fisherman and lives in yonder village," Miriam answered simply.

  "Should you know him again? Pardon my asking, but it is very important I should discover the owner of this weapon. By doing so I may be able to bring a murderer to meet his doom, and avenge the death of my best friend!"

  Miriam gazed at him compassionately, a serious light in her dark eyes.

  "I will help you," she said suddenly, moved as it were by a strange impulse; "I have long wished for occupation—some useful work, though I should have liked something less terrible than helping to trace a murderer; still, I will aid you if I can."

  "Thank you. But if he never came here again?"

  "I shall not wait for that. To-morrow I will visit those huts in which the fishermen dwell; I may then find the man who sold the poignard, or at least a clew to the mystery."

  Diniz took one of the small hands in his, and pressed it reverently to his lips.

  "You will not go alone; I will be your companion. Together we shall work better. But your father will he consent to your accompanying me?"

  "My grandfather loves me too dearly, and trusts me too fully, to refuse me anything. He need not know the errand upon which I am bent," a faint blush rising to her cheeks.

  After making all necessary arrangements for the next day, Sampayo left the Jewess, to wait impatiently until the hour arrived for him to start on his melancholy errand.

  It was still early when he left the crowed streets, to walk quickly in the direction of a small fishing village, some distance off.

  Half way he saw the tall, graceful figure of a young girl, whose long veil of soft silky gauze hid her face from passers-by. He recognized her at once—it was the beautiful Jewess. So, hastening his steps, he soon stood before her.

  "Senora," he said gently.

  The girl started, turned, then smiled through the screening folds of gray.

  "It is you? I was afraid you would not come," in a relieved tone.

  "I am too anxious to find that man, to lose the chance you have so kindly given me. I only hope I am not putting you to any inconvenience," Diniz said, gallantly.

  "Not at all. I am only too happy to be of some use," earnestly.

  For many hours they wandered about from house to house, Miriam having armed herself with a large sum of money, hoping by acts of charity to gain access into the poor dwellings.

  They were almost despairing of finding a clew to the whereabouts of the fisherman, when three little children, poor and hungry-looking, playing outside a tiny hut, attracted Miriam's attention.

  Stooping, she spoke gently to the little things, and won from them the tale of their excessive poverty, which she promised to relieve if they would take her to their mother.

  This they willingly did, and Miriam found a pale, delicate-looking woman, who, notwithstanding the raggedness of her dress, still bore traces of having been at one time different to a poor fisherman's wife.

  Encouraged by the soft tones of her mysterious visitor, the woman gradually unburdened her troubled heart by telling her the history of her wretched life; how she had been doomed to follow her husband, an Indian chief, to death; but, loving life better, she escaped with her little children, but would have died of hunger on the seashore if Jarima, her second husband, had not rescued her and offered her his name and home.

  "He is very good to me and my children; the past seems but a dream now. If only we had money, all would be well."

  Miriam, with a few gentle, consoling words, slipped a few bright coins into the tiny brown hands of the astonished babies; then, with a sigh, she bade the grateful mother adieu and went out to where Diniz was waiting.

  He read by her face that she had no better tidings, and, drawing her hand through his arm, he turned away.

  "Will it never come—the proof I want?" he said, half bitterly.

  Scarcely had the words left his lips when a glad cry of "Father!" rent the air, and three small forms bounded over the white shingle towards a tall man, dressed in white linen.

  Almost convulsively Miriam pressed Sampayo's arm to arrest his hasty steps.

  "We need go no farther," she whispered. "That is the man you want; and if he is that woman's husband, his name is Jarima."

  "Thank Heaven! To-morrow he will be arrested and the truth discovered," Diniz muttered.

  Silently they watched the man walk towards his humble home, the children clinging lovingly to his hands. The woman came forward with a bright smile, holding up her face to receive his caress.

  "There can be no doubt. It is Jarima, and the man who sold the poignard."

  "Luiz's murderer," Diniz added between his set teeth.

  Almost feverishly Sampayo hurried Miriam away. He was anxious to tell Lianor of his success, and bring the assassin to justice.

  Some distance from the Jew's shop he bade Miriam adieu, promising to call and let her know the result.

  On reaching Don Garcia's palace Diniz was surprised at the sounds of bright music, mingled with happy voices, that floated on the air.

  Satzavan was the first to meet him, and he went forward with a welcoming smile.

  "Where is Lianor?" Diniz asked anxiously, glancing round the deserted halls.

  "In the grounds. Don Garcia has his home full of guests in honor of his daughter's betrothal with Manuel Tonza."

  "Lianor betrothed, and to him!" in consternation.

  "Yes," sadly; "her father has commanded her to accept him, and, since she lost poor Falcam, she is indifferent whom she weds."

  "But Tonza above all other men!" bitterly.

  With a dark shadow on his brow, Diniz followed the young Indian into the spacious grounds, where Lianor, surrounded by many richly-dressed ladies, was sitting.

  I cannot speak to her before all those people. Go, Satzavan, and bring her to me.

  The youth darted off obediently, and presently returned to the tree where Diniz stood almost hidden by its shady branches, leading Lianor, whose face wore a look of some wonder.

  "Diniz, is it really you? Have you brought me any news?" she asked eagerly.

  Sampayo took her outstretched hand and kissed it reverently.

  "Yes," he said softly; "good news."

  "What is it? Tell me!"

  "I have discovered the man who, I think, struck the blow by instigation of the real murderer. Until he is taken I can do nothing further."
>
  "But who is he? How did you find him?"

  "He is a poor fisherman, named Jarima, and it was through a young Jewess, Phenee's grandchild, to whom the poignard was sold, I found him."

  "That was very good of her to help you."

  "It was, indeed. The whole morning she has searched with me for the man, and at last our labor was rewarded. To-morrow Jarima will be under arrest."

  As the words left his lips, a sudden movement amongst the trees startled them.

  "I am sure that was some one," Lianor cried, turning pale, and clasping Diniz's arm.

  Satzavan glided noiselessly away, but soon returned to say no one had passed by.

  Possibly the noise was occasioned by the wind rustling through the leaves.

  "Very likely," Lianor said quietly, "though it made me nervous. Suppose any one overheard us?"

  "Rest assured, dear, that nothing now can come between me and my revenge. But, Lianor, is it true you are betrothed to Tonza?"

  "Yes, Diniz, it is true. Papa has commanded me to accept him. I hate him; but now poor Luiz is dead, I care not who becomes my husband," hopelessly.

  "I wish it were other than Tonza, Lianor. I cannot trust him; nor will I believe but what he had a hand in Luiz's death."

  "That is what I think, but papa says it is only fancy; Manuel is too upright to do such a treacherous thing."

  A silvery laugh broke suddenly on the silence which had fallen between them, and Savitre, leaning lightly on Panteleone's arm, stood before them.

  The rajah's young widow made a strange contrast to Lianor, gay with rich colors.

  Judging from Panteleone's ardent gaze, he, at least, saw some beauty in the dusky, changing face.

  "What, Sampayo! I did not know you were here," the young man cried gladly, seizing Diniz's hand in a warm grip. "Have you brought good news?"

  "Yes, better than I expected," Diniz answered; and briefly recounted the success which had attended his morning's search.

  "I do not wish to meet your father to-night, Lianor; until this business is settled, I could not enter into any amusement. First, I will go to Henrique Ferriera, the magistrate, and arrange with him about Jarima's capture."

  "But you will come to-morrow, will you not—to tell me the result?" Lianor asked anxiously.

  "Assuredly; unless anything serious prevents me."

  "Thank you," she murmured gratefully.

  A kind hand-pressure from all, and Sampayo walked quickly away; while Lianor, her heart somewhat lightened by this news, returned to her father's guests with Satzavan.

  Savitre would have followed, but Panteleone held her back with a few whispered words, and, nothing loth, the little widow sauntered with him through the shady grounds, apart from the rest.

  "Savitre," Leone said suddenly, "would you be willing to leave your country—to go with me to Portugal?"

  Savitre gazed at him in some wonderment.

  "Surely you are not thinking of leaving India?" she cried, a sudden anxiety dawning in her dark eyes.

  "Yes; my father wishes me to return, and as soon as Lianor is married we are going."

  The girl remained silent; only a few pearly tears rolled down her cheeks.

  "Savitre, dearest one, do not weep! Would it be so dreadful for you to quit the country?"

  "It is not that," with a stifled sob; "but I had not thought of your leaving us, or the friendship between us being broken."

  "Nor will it, my darling! Don't you understand? I love you too dearly to give you up; I want you to be my wife, so that none can part us. Say my hopes are not all in vain!"

  A vivid flush mantled the clear, dark skin, and the lustrous eyes drooped in confusion.

  "You really mean that? You love me, a girl who is not even of your own kind?"

  "I love you with all my heart and soul. Ever since the day when It drew you half-fainting from off the already lighted pile, I have felt my affection growing deeper and deeper, until it has absorbed my whole being. My happiness is never complete unless I am near you. Tell me, darling, that you return my love!" "How could I help but love you—you who saved my life? Oh, Leone, you cannot think how proud I am at being chosen by you before all others!"

  With a joyous exclamation, Panteleone drew her to his breast, pressing passionate kisses on her brow, cheeks, and lips, his heart thrilling with rapture at the realization of his dreams.

  Chapter IV.

  The next morning a small band of soldiers, headed by Henrique Ferriera, wound their way toward the humble home of Jarima.

  On arriving, they found to their astonishment the door fastened close, and no one to answer their knock.

  "Never mind, break it down," Henrique said, roughly.

  In obedience a few heavy blows fell on the woodwork, which soon gave way beneath their force.

  Stepping over the scattered splinters, Henrique saw a sight which filled him with horror.

  Crouching on the bare floor, her hands twined convulsively in her long hair, was a woman, with three sleeping children leaning against her.

  On a hard straw mattress, almost in shadow, lay Jarima, his face covered with blood, which oozed in streams from his mouth.

  Henrique gazed for an instant on the awful sight, then turned towards his men.

  "We have arrived a little too late; blind men cannot see, or dumb ones tell tales. Some horrible wretch has done this deed, fearful of his betraying them. I wonder who?"

  The woman, when questioned, could tell them nothing. She only knew her husband had been brought home in his present condition at daybreak, and remained unconscious since.

  "I regret to say it is our painful duty to take him; every care will be given him. He is suspected of having murdered Luiz Falcam."

  "No, no; you are mistaken! It is some one else, not he. Jarima was much too gentle to kill any one!" the woman cried, passionately.

  Her prayers and supplications were unavailing. Henrique was obliged to do his duty, and bade his men take the suffering man to prison.

  Some hours later, as Diniz stood in his room, just before setting out in search of Henrique, that man entered the house, followed by several soldiers.

  "Diniz Sampayo, I arrest you on the charge of having stolen a poignard, set with jewels, from Manuel Tonza de Sepulveda."

  Diniz started, and flushed angrily.

  "I steal? When you know it is the weapon I bought from Phenee, the Jew, as proof against the murderer."

  "So you said; but we have heard another tale to that. Anyhow, if you are innocent, you will be set free as soon as you are tried."

  "But the man Jarima? Have you not been for him?"

  "Yes, but he is useless; when we arrived, some one had been before us, and not only blinded him, but cut out his tongue, so that he could not speak."

  "How horrible! How could any one have been so cold-blooded?" Diniz gasped, turning pale.

  "Evidently it was done for some purpose. But come, Sampayo, I cannot wait here."

  "Will nothing I say convince you I am innocent? If innocence gives strength, I shall soon be at liberty."

  Henrique smiled scornfully, and hurried the young man away.

  "You will not be alone; your prison-cell is shared by another—Phenee, the Jew. An old friend of yours, is he not?" Henrique asked.

  "Friend—no! I have only spoken to him once in my life. What is he arrested for?"

  "Being a receiver of stolen goods," grimly.

  Diniz thought suddenly of Miriam, and wondered how she would bear this blow. Her only relative and dearly-loved parent torn from her side, to linger in a damp cell. How bitterly he blamed himself for having been the cause of Phenee's capture! If he had not disclosed the secret of Phenee having bought the poignard from Jarima, no one would have suspected him.

  "Poor girl! She will regret now having helped a stranger, who, in return, has brought her only grief and desolation," he murmured, sorrowfully.

  Miriam passed nearly three days in sad thought, when her solitary mourning was bro
ken by the visit of a thickly-veiled woman, whose low, sweet tones fell like softest music on Miriam's ear.

  "Are you alone?" she asked, glancing questioningly round the room.

  "Yes. Did you want me?"

  "I do, very badly. I remembered only to-day that you once proved a true friend to Diniz Sampayo, and I came to know if you would again aid him?" throwing back her veil, and disclosing a pale, sweet face, stamped by deepest grief.

  "Diniz Sampayo! But is he, then, in need of help—in danger?" a sudden fear lighting up her face.

  Yes, he is in prison," sadly.

  "You are sure? How can it be possible? What has he done?" in amazed wonder.

  "He has done nothing. Only his enemies have thrown the suspicion of his having stolen a poignard from Manuel Tonza—a poignard which I know he bought here. It is my fault this has happened. It was to avenge the death of the man I loved—his dearest friend—that he placed his life in peril!"

  "I remember well. It is quite true he bought it here, soon after Jarima, the fisherman, had sold it to my grandfather. He, poor dear, is also in sorrow, imprisoned for having received stolen goods, as if he could tell when things are stolen!" indignantly.

  "I am very sorry, Miriam; but if you help me, you will help your grandfather also," Lianor urged gently.

  "I will!" Miriam cried firmly; "I will never give up until I have them both safely outside that odious prison!"

  Lianor gazed with grateful affection at the girl's expressive face, which now wore such a look of determined courage.

  "If I can do anything, let me know directly," Lianor said, useful, and I have much."

  "Thank you, but I am rich; and I know grandfather would You are Don Garcia's daughter, are you not?"

  "Yes," somewhat sadly. "You know me?"

  "By sight, yes."

  "I shall see you again, I hope," Lianor said, as Miriam followed her to the door. "You will tell me of your success or failure?"

  "Yes; I will come or write."

  When her charming visitor had gone, Miriam returned to her seat, a pained expression on her bright face.

  "He also there. Poor Diniz! But I will save him yet," determinedly.

  Hastily opening a heavy iron box, she drew out a handful of gold.