There was a room in Mr. Hicks' mansion,
which was never visited by any one, save himself.
Located in an odd out-of-the-way corner

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of the huge pile of brick and mortar which constituted
his town residence, this room was dedicated
by Mr. Hicks to the thought and meditation
of his most secret hours. Neither his
wife, nor Cromwell, had ever passed its threshold.
Mr. Hicks carried the key about him —
in his pocket or next his heart — for what we
know. Was Mr. Hicks troubled in business?
Straight he went up stairs and locked himself
in his room — his room, by way of distinction,
you understand. Had Mrs. Hicks been rather
violent in her displays of bad temper? To
his room hied Mr. Hicks without a moment's
delay. Was Mr. Grimly in a “fluster” about
some complicated matter of stocks, mortagages,
notes of hand, or copper mines? No sooner
had he opened his bosom to Mr. Hicks than
Mr. Hicks went directly home, and locked himself
up in his room. After three or four hours
Mr. Grimly would receive his answer.

It was to this room that Mr. Hicks now
hurried, with the letter of Cromwell in his
hand. He entered the mansion without speaking
to the servant — it was the heat of summer,
and his usual list of servants had diminished to
three, a cook, a waiter and a coachman — and
passing through the splendidly furnished but
silent chambers of his home, Mr. Hicks went
up stairs, and did not once pause, until he stood
before the narrow door of his room. It opened
upon a stairway, and was sunken in the depths
of a solid wall. Drawing forth the key, Mr.
Hicks went in, and locked the door after him.

He was in darkness. But familiar in every
nook and corner of the place, he soon discovered
a box of Lucifer matches, and by their
aid lighted a half-burned spermaceti candle.

The light revealed a narrow room, with unpapered
walls and uncarpeted floor. A small
table and a chair was all that the place contained
in the way of furniture. There was a
single window, without sash or glass, but with
a closed shutter, which was wood on the outside
and iron within. Through small holes,
pierced in the shutter, came the only breath of
air which modified the stifling heat of the den.
It was “fire proof;” the walls nearly four feet
thick; and the door as well as the shutter
lined with iron.

Mr. Hicks seated himself in the chair, placed
the light and his hat upon the table, and spreading
forth the letter of Cromwell, gazed at it
earnestly and long, the perspiration streaming
in bearded drops from his forehead and cheek.

“Velasquez!” he said — “how in the name
of all that's infernal did he come by that name?

The light shone over Mr. Hicks' face and
form — both respectable in point of flesh —
and showed his faultless broadcloth and cravat
and vest as white as snow. There was nothing
peculiar in Mr. Hicks' face; it was just such a
visage as you see a thousand times a day, on
Third street near Chesnut. The eyes were
grey, the forehead bold, the cheeks slightly inclined
to fullness, and the lips neither small nor
large — lips which in their compression and in
their unclosing said as plainly as lips can say
without speaking —“Three per cent a month
is very good interest. I like it.”

Understand, Mr. Hicks was no peculiar character;
it was the object of his life to make
money, and to keep up a fine appearance with
the world; he was just as good a man as hundreds
whom you meet every day, on Third
street, or in the Exchange, or in any other
Temple of Scrip and Stock; and was, withal
no better than any ninety-nine out of a hundred
convicts in the Penitentiary. Out and
out, through and through, Mr. Hicks was a
business man — a perfect business man. Could
we say more?

After pondering for a long time over the letter
in which the name of Captain Velasquez was
introduced, Mr. Hicks drew forth another
key, and unlocked the door of a small iron
safe, which stood beneath the table. It was an
ugly rusted thing, looking something like one
of those chests in which the Genii in the Arabian
Nights are imprisoned; and had to all
seeming seen many years of service. This
chest was the Ark of the Covenant in the eyes
of Mr. Hicks — it contained the Covenant
which he had made with the Devil — it contained
his God.

He unlocked the safe, and drew forth the
only thing it contained; a heavy volume, which
resembled a merchant's Ledger, only it was
bound in faded red morocco, and fastened with
rusted iron clasps.

Mr. Hicks grasped the book eagerly, and
undid the clasps, and stretched it forth upon
the table, and gave himself to the enjoyment of
its contents, like a gourmand to his feast.

In that book were entered all the “business

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operations” of Mr. Hicks for the last ten, yes,
fifteen years. Not only those operations which
were told to the world, under the head of the
“stock market,” but certain operations which
Mr. Hicks and the Devil carried on for their
special benefit, having a perfectly good understanding
with each other.

For instance, here was related in Mr. Hicks'
own hand-writing, how he had procured the
charters of three banks, situated in different
parts of the country — owned and controlled
by him — and not worth three cents on the
dollar, although managed by our friend, they
had in circulation at least $300,000 in bank
notes.

Again: here was related how Mr. Hicks had
bought a field in Jersey for $600, and called it
a Copper Mine, and sold it, in $1000 shares,
to house-maids, hod-carriers, day-laborers, and
such vulgar folk) at $25 per share. Mr. Hicks
was, in fact, in his own person, the “Grand
New Jersey and Gineywoyan Copper Mining
Company.”

Here, once more, were Mr. Hicks' little
speculations in the way of Insurance Companies—
Fire, Health, and Life Insurance Companies—
in all of which Mr. Hicks himself
was the manager behind the scenes.

And here, in palpable red and black ink,
were the transactions of Mr. Hicks and Captain
Velasquez. These transactions had
built up the fortune of Mr. Hicks. They
were profitable, exceedingly profitable. They
had been continued for a series of years, and
had scarcely been interrupted by the seizure of
a vessel now and then, and they had poured
doubloons into Mr. Hicks' lap, in a sort of
hail— a golden hail.

“And this scoundrel knows the name of
Captain Velasquez!” said Mr. Hicks, after a
long examination of the Book. “How has he
gained his knowledge?”

Mr. Hicks saw danger looming from the
horizon.

Leaning back in his chair, his eyes half
closed, and the ends of his fingers placed together
across his breast, Mr. Jacob D. Z. Hicks
endeavored to arrange a plan for his future
course.

After a long pause — the sweat streaming in
not drops from his brow — he thus delivered
himself —

“These three Banks must break. Copper
stock, Life, Health, and Fire Insurance must
follow their example. As for Mr. Jacob D.
Z. Hicks, why heart-broken by the dissipation
of his son, and the profligacy of his wife, he
must suddenly disappear. A hat will be found
on the wharf, and the world will lament the
fall of the broken-hearted merchant, while Mr.
Jacob D. Z. Hicks is safe in Havana.

He smiled one of his pleasant smiles —
locked his own chest (having first put his God
away) and then extinguished the candle.

“I can do nothing for that boy in the Penitentiary,”
he said, when the darkness enveloped
him, “He must serve out his time.”

Mr. Hicks left the room and locked it, and
went on his way rejoicing.

But a month after this incident the three
banks failed, Insurance Companies and Copper
Mines went by the board, and the hat of Mr.
Hicks (with an affecting letter in the lining)
was found on the wharf. Who suffered by
the failure of the Banks matters not; they
were “poor devils” doubtless, that vulgar sort
of folk who work for a living. It is their
business to suffer.

Four years passed away. From 1845 to
1849 is a long step, but our Narrative leaves
its various characters for four years, and it resumes
their history in September, 1849, when
the Killers appear upon the scene.

While four years pass, the Convict, Elijah
Watson, makes shoes and educates himself in
the Eastern Penitentiary.

And Cromwell, old Mr. Hicks and Don
Jorge — where are they? Where are they?