The Idaho Springs siftings-news., 1906-12-08
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CHAPTER XII.-Continued

Al.
CHAPTER XII.-Continued
The hours passed. and the streets
we're deserted: the lights burned low.
and from the old town hall the great
bell doomed out the stroke Of mid
night The wings of the old Bald
Eagle" at the portals OF the tavern
were damp with dew. a horse paved
the ground restlessly. and whinnted
for his drunken master. an answering
neigh from another tired and faithful
beast came from the distance. From
the thick woods came the hoot Of an
owl. but the revelers OF the tavern
still clinked their glasses, still threw
the dice and shufIled the cards. Mid
night was but dawn to them. The
bald Eagle" was an allnight hostelry
and It's lights never grew dim. 1t was
the beacon for gamblers and murder
ers who piled the river. as well as for
the landsharks who were ever ready
to meet their natural enemies-the
boatmen.
Deneau sat in his room above the
.reeking bar; but the sounds below
had no particular interest for him.
He had spent his nights in = thousand
tavens. He had lived. breathed and
moved among criminals from his
earliest childhood. A murder, to him,
was simply q scene in a play, without
which the scene was incomplete. A
bar like the BALD Eagle" would be
robbed Of one of its particular
charms; 1t needed climax, or the
drama would lose its interest. He
believed that crime was a lodestone
for certain natures. and that the sight
OF blood was as wine to the palates
of certain men. He had studied the
scarlet nature Of man, and he believed
that criminal was fascinated by crime
as is surgeon by surgery. that once a
man has become a criminal the origi-
nal elements OF the lower animal
again possess him and he loses the hu-
man elements of his domesticity, as
it were, and, returning to his native
state, becomes a savage.
He had before him letters from
Paris, with recent postmarks, large
packages from ST. Petersburg, as well
as clippings. old and new, from daily
papers. At his right small note
book in which he kept diary, at his
left a pitcher of ale, from which he
drank frequent draughts.
"Ah,- he muttered. 'at last l see
the light. at last l have traced the
panther to his lair. step by step, and
now when / am ready for the last
stroke, strange, an unforeseen, an
unheard Of problem presents itself.
Jean Valdermere. alias Langdon, alias
the devil, is not a hermit, and only
hermits live alone-and in caverns.'
He unused in silence. then he
drank from the pitcher. after which
he made a note in his diary.
"Ah," he muttered, "old Uga has
been a most valuable acquaintance--'
he gazed at the ring on his finger and
smiled grimly upon the strange sym
Dol cut in black stone, Spirits don't
wear rings-rings will only cling to
matter"
Deneaa had heard the Indians
story, had by chance visited his cabin
"a lucky chance.
The saperstitious old savage had
told him in terror of his encounter
with the Spirit of Dead Mans Cave
how the spirit had divided the great
stone walls-how he had smote him
TO the earth, and the thousands of
sounds which had echoed his speech,
which had led him to believe the
voices we're those of the other world.
Word by word had this human fox
drawn from the old Indian the story of
his encounter with the Spirit of Dead
Mans Cave. He had visited the Indian
many times and from the hut he had
watched for the spirit-a spirit which
he had materialized easily enough into
Jean Valdermere-to emerge from the