“How shall I avoid bloodshed?” was
the question which troubled me as I
strolled down Broadway.

I put my hand upon my vest pocket
and felt a small piece of manuscript,
which I had carried there for a month
and more—a very precious manuscript
which a mercantile friend of mine, Mr.
Jardine, of undoubted character, had
given me as an equivalent for the sum of
five hundred and fifty dollars. It was,
in a word, a check, signed by a prominent
firm in New-York, Firkin & Smalley,
and given to my mercantile friend
aforesaid, by a strange gentleman of plausible
manners, in exchange for certain
wines of highest price and rarest flavor.

After receiving this check, I had, in
due time, presented it to Messrs. Firkin
& Smalley at their counter, instead of
going to their bank at once, and, with a
good deal of indignation, they had pronounced
it a forgery. I begged them to
remain quiet in the matter, and made the
same request to Mr. Jardine. Thus a
month or more passed away. During
this month, aided by Mr. Jardine, and a
police officer, who looked as demure as
a country parson, but was in fact as

[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]

cunning as any fox in Esop, I had amused
my leisure hours in the attempt to discover
the plausible stranger who had presented
the check. Had I succeeded?

Some four days ago my investigation
came to a close. That was before I
knew anything of Eugenia or her brother.
And those investigations all terminated
at the door of a certain gentleman, fashionable
in his address, and (when the
humor seizes him) most plausible in his
manners. Well! The paper is safe!
Shall I use it?

That was a very nice question. That
little bit of paper properly used, and—
there would be no duel on the morrow.
Gentlemen who occupy apartments in
that elegant public hotel known as the
Tombs, are not precisely at liberty to
walk abroad, much less to fight duels.

But would it be honorable in me to
invoke the aid of the magical little fragment
of paper, which bore on one corner,
in elegant numerals, the representation
of five hundred and fifty dollars, and in
another, the mercantile scrawl of Firkin
& Smalley? Honorable?

On the other hand, would it be honorable
for me to stand up in single combat
against a professed duellist, gambler,
debauchee; and who, to his other cardinal
virtues, had lately added the unobtrusive
practice of—forgery? A very
nice question, look at it as you will.

Much troubled by this delicate question,
I strolled down Broadway, and unconsciously
approached the Park.

The night had grown cloudy, and
something between a fog and a drizzle
obscured the lamps in the Park. The
leafless trees arose, grotesque and vague
in the misty air. Broadway was almost
deserted. A single person stood at the
corner of a street which extends from
Broadway toward the North River—a
very demure-looking person, with sadcolored
clothes, an imperturbable countenance,
and a white cravat.

I approached this person; it was the
particular police officer, whom I will call
Mr. Pittson.

“Ah! is that you, Mr. Van Warner?
You are out rather late. Coming home
from the opera, I suppose?”

“And you—what do you out so late,
Mr. Pittson?” that gentleman extended
his hand, and pointed down the street
which led towards the North River.

All was dark there; the street lamps
had been extinguished; the only thing
which relieved the gloom was a light
which shone from an upper room of a
four-storied mansion.

“A fine light, that. I have been
watching it,” said Mr. Pittson, quietly.
“There's something very interesting in
that light, Mr. Van Warner.”

The room from which the light shone
was in the fourth story of a large edifice.
The ground floor, and second and third
stories, were used for mercantile purposes,
alive all day with the hum of business,
but at night silent as a tomb. The
rooms in the fourth story, silent all day,
were always at night, especially late at
night, lighted up as if for a festival. Late
at night, low music broke the silence of
these rooms—music so low that it could
only be heard by a practised ear—the
soft rustling of small pieces of pasteboard,
and the sharp quick rattling of ivory
balls.

These rooms, in a word, were the residence
and the secret temple of Captain
Burley Hayne.

“He is there now, I guess,” whispered
Pittson.

“Aint it about time to give him a
call?”

“You remember your promise, Pittson—
this matter is entirely in my hands.
You will not take a single step without
my consent?”

“Of course,” emphatically responded
Pittson, arranging his white cravat.

“Well, I wish to have a few words in
private with Captain Hayne. I will ascend
to his room. You will follow me,
and station yourself in the dark outside
of his door. And, when I call your
name, you will enter the room, and proceed
as I may direct. You comprehend?”

“I do,” was his prompt reply, uttered
by Pittson with a peculiar twinkle of
his sharp eyes.

And I went down the street; and
stealthily, some twenty paces after me,
came Pittson, his India rubber shoes
giving not the slightest echo of a footstep.
As I ascended in the dark toward
the captain's rooms, I had by no
means decided upon the course which I
was to pursue.

Arrest him, in order to avoid the
duel? I did not like the thought.
Force him to sign a paper in which he

[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]

will confess that he was justly assaulted,
and decline to meet me in single combat?
The latter looked more plausible, but I
knew not which course to take.

“I will see him first, and leave the
result to chance,” I muttered, as I stood
in the dark at the captain's door. Chance!
is a word which always leaves a very
wide margin.

I knocked at the door; there was no
reply. All was breathlessly still. Again
I knocked, and still there was no sound
from within. After some hesitation I
tried the door—it was not locked—I
opened it, and crossed the threshold.
The captain's room was lighted by a
candle, which stood in the centre of a
large table covered with green cloth.
It would require a great many words to
give anything like a correct idea of the
place.

It was elegantly carpeted, pleasantly
warmed, and one side of it was occupied
by a huge sideboard, covered with glasses,
decanters, and cold viands. The
space above the mantel was decorated
with fencing-foils, boxing-gloves, and the
satin slipper of an opera dancer. As for
the walls, they displayed four or five
pictures, in heavy gilt frames—pictures
suggestive of the social state of ancient
Greece and Rome in their worst days.
The table itself spoke volumes; there
was a file of sporting papers; a pack of
cards, bran new; a case of duelling pistols,
and a glass of brandy and water.

And at the table, in a cushioned arm-chair,
sat Captain Burley Hayne, his
head dropped on his ruffled shirt, his
hand laid listlessly on the table itself,
evidently fast asleep. His dark hair was
tangled and disordered, and threw a
shadow over his face. He had been
overcome by exhaustion, in the midst of
his virtuous labors, and was in a profound
sleep.

I coughed; made a noise with my
feet; but the captain did not stir.

Determined to converse with him, I
called his name loud and louder,—“Captain
Hayne! Captain Hayne!” but still
he did not show the slightest sign of
awaking from his slumber.

“I thought you called,” said a voice,
and the demure Pittson stood at my
shoulder.

I turned to him angrily—“Wait without,
as I directed!” But Pittson, in
stead of leaving the room, advanced to
the table, took the light, and raised it to
the captain's face. It was something of
a contrast: the thin frame and sharp
visage of the policeman, and the broad,
burly form and bushy head of the captain.
After a keen survey of a moment,
Pittson put down the candle, and turned
to me, with an oath—a rare thing for
him—indeed, I had never before heard a
profane word from his lips.

“By —! that man will be hard to
wake! Dead as a grindstone!”

“Dead! You are jesting!” I cried,
and passed round the table.

I shook the captain roughly by the
shoulder; he did not move. I pushed
aside his bushy hair and raised his
head; the light, for the first time, shone
fully in his face.

A horrible face! Mouth agape; complexion
yellow and livid; eyes fixed in
a glassy stare; a horrible face, with
death printed in every lineament.

“Suicide!” I cried, shrinking back
horror-stricken, as I saw the stain of
blood on his vest, over the left breast.

“A pistol shot, anyhow!” exclaimed
Pittson, bending over the table, and
shading his eyes, as he examined the
marks left by the pistol bullet in its
passage.

“Not by suicide—no! no! But by
my hand!” said a strange voice, clear
and ringing in its every accent.