Five Thousand Dollars Reward | Page 5

enemy in the wide world.
There was something of mystery about the affair.
Once outside Bordine examined the ground closely. He saw nothing of the letter, and was about to move away, when a shadow fell athwart the grass giving him a sudden start.

CHAPTER III
.
ALL A MYSTERY.
"I beg your pardon, but does Mr. Vane live here?"
A man of small stature, smooth face and the keenest eyes Bordine had ever seen in human head, stood before him. He lifted a broad-brimmed straw hat and fanned himself as though heated, although the air was quite cool for the season.
"Do you mean Ransom Vane?"
"Yes, sir."
"He lives here."
"Very good--"
"But, sir," interrupted Bordine, "he is in no mood to receive visitors now."
"Indeed?"
"A terrible thing has happened."
Then glancing down, the small stranger caught sight of the blood. He did not shrink, but an interested look at once came to his face.
"A tragedy?" he questioned, quickly.
"Yes. Victoria Vane is dead."
"How?"
"It seems to be either murder or suicide."
"This is bad. When did it happen?"
"Some time to-day."
"No witnesses to the deed?"
"None who have yet appeared."
Just then Ransom Vane appeared on the porch. The moment his gaze rested on the face of the new-comer he uttered a glad cry and extended his hand.
"Of all men in the world you are the one I most desire to see," exclaimed Vane. Then he turned to Bordine. "Mr. Bordine, this is my old friend from Newport, Silas Keene. You may have heard me mention his name."
"Yes. I have read of him as well. I am happy to clasp the hand of the most noted detective of Gotham."
This was no flattery.
Silas Keene was not a secondary man. He was first in everything pertaining to matters criminal. He had traced down more crime perhaps than any man of his age in Gotham, and he was verging on forty.
It was opportune indeed, the great detective coming at this time.
Ransom Vane had known the man for years, and the twain had been bosom friends.
"I cannot remain with you, Ransom," said Bordine, "but I will come again soon. If you require any help from me, you know, you have only to call on me."
"Certainly."
A minute later the man in hunter's costume had disappeared.
Sile Keene went in to look at the dead girl, then he examined the ground closely, the porch, the letters, and finally investigated the extent and shape of the death-wound.
It proved to be narrow but deep, evidently made with a dirk or blade with two edges.
Then, after the house was searched and it was discovered that a bureau had been rifled of several hundred dollars left there by Ransom, the young cottager placed the torn, blood-stained letter he had found in Bordines' possession, in the hand of the detective.
"Where did you get this?" questioned Keene, after he had read the short epistle.
"It was found near my poor sister, on the porch."
"You found it?"
"No, Bordine."
"By the way, who made the discovery of the tragedy first?"
"Mr. Bordine. He was standing over Victoria, with this letter in his hand, when I arrived."
"He is your friend?"
"Well, yes, I have supposed him to be."
"What is his full name?"
"August Bordine."
The detective glanced at the letter, then gave vent to a low whistle. This was natural with him at times, especially when he had made a gratifying discovery.
"Now you must be frank with me," proceeded Keene. "Tell me truly, what relation this man, Bordine, bore to your sister."
"They were friends."
"Nothing more?"
Detective Keene eyed his companion sharply.
"Well, I suppose it possible that they might have enjoyed a nearer relation had Victoria lived," said Ransom Vane in an unsteady voice.
"You think they were lovers?"
"Yes."
"How did he seem to take this tragedy?"
"I cannot tell, I don't think he was unduly agitated, however."
"Hum."
Then the detective fell to thinking deeply. He folded the note carefully, and placed it in an inner pocket.
"I will retain that," he said. "Of course the coroner must be notified. This is indeed a sad case. I had no thought of such a thing when I left the depot to visit you. This will astound the neighborhood. I came from New York intending to visit Chicago, where it is thought a forger has found a hiding place. I was not employed to run him down, but thought I would place the case in the hands of the Pinkertons."
"You will not desert me in the hour of my trouble, Silas?"
"No, I will not."
"You will remain to hunt down the murderer of poor Vic?"
Emotion choked the young man's utterance then, and he turned his haggard face away to hide his feelings.
"I hoped for a brief rest, and an enjoyable visit, old friend," returned Keene.
"It seems that it is not to be. I seem destined to be forever on the trail of some criminal. Poor little Victoria. When I saw her last she was a pretty, playful child. I