The Midnight Passenger

The Midnight Passenger

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Title: The Midnight Passenger
Author: Richard Henry Savage
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE
MIDNIGHT PASSENGER ***

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Proofreading Team.

THE MIDNIGHT PASSENGER
A NOVEL
By RICHARD HENRY SAVAGE

THE MIDNIGHT PASSENGER
BOOK I
UNDER THE ARCH
I. The Danube Picture
II. Tidings of Great Joy
III. In Magdal's Pharmacy
IV. Under the Shadows of the Brooklyn Bridge
V. Breakers Ahead! Checkmate! Mr. Arthur Ferris Works in the Dark
BOOK II
AN INSIDE RING
VI. Dreaming by the Sea
VII. "This May Be My Last Bank Deposit"
VIII. The Strange Tug's Voyage
IX. The Lightning Stroke of Fate
X. A Cruel Legacy
BOOK III
THE MESSAGE FROM AMOY
XI. The Girl Bride's Rebellion
XII. The Lonely Pursuer
XIII. On the Yacht "Rambler"
XIV. Irma Gluyas
XV. Miss Worthington Shares Her Secret

BOOK I.
UNDER THE ARCH.

CHAPTER I.
THE DANUBE PICTURE.

There was no air of uncertainty upon the handsome countenance of Mr.
Randall Clayton as he stepped out of the elevator of a sedate Fourteenth
Street business building and approvingly sniffed the April morning
breeze.
On this particular Saturday of ninety-seven, the shopping multitude was
already pouring from the Scylla of Simpson, Crawford & Simpson's on
Sixth Avenue--and its Charybdis of the Big Store--past the jungles of
Altman's, Ehrich's and O'Neill's--to dash feebly upon the buttressed
corner of Macy's, and then die away in refluent, diverted waves, lost in
the fastnesses of McCreery's and Wanamaker's, far down Broadway.
The pulses of the young man were vaguely thrilled with the coming of
spring, and so he complacently took in the never-ceasing tide of eager
women, on the street's shady side, with one comprehensive and kindly
glance.
For six long years he had cautiously studied that same sea of always
anxious faces! He well knew all the types from the disdainful woman
of fashion, the crafty daughter of sin, the vacuous country visitor, down
to the argus-eyed mere de famille, sternly resolute in her set purpose of
making three dollars take the place of five, by some heaven-sent
bargain.
Countless times he had threaded this restless multitude, with an alert
devotion to the interests of the Western Trading Company. He was, to
the ordinary lounger, but the type of the average well-groomed New
York business man.
And yet, his watchful eyes swept keenly to right and left, as he breasted
the singularly inharmonious waves of the weaker sex.
His left hand firmly gripped a Russian leather portmanteau of
substantial construction, while his right lay loosely in the pocket of his

modish spring overcoat.
To one having the gift of Asmodeus, that well-gloved right hand would
have been revealed as resting upon the handle of a heavy revolver, and
the contents of the tourist-looking portmanteau been known as some
thirty-eight thousand dollars in well-thumbed currency and greasy
checks of polyglot signatures.
It was the "short day" of the week's business, and the usual route for
making his bank deposit lay before him. Down University Place to
Eighth Street he was bent, thus avoiding the Broadway crush, and over
to the shaded counting rooms of the Astor Place Bank.
Clayton's mind was concentrated, as usual, upon his important business.
Few of the neighbors in the great office building knew of the vast
interests represented by the modest sign "Western Trading Company."
Certain gray-bearded bookkeepers, a couple of brisk correspondents, a
stony-faced woman stenographer, with a couple of ferret-eyed office
boys were the office force, besides the travelling manager and Mr.
Randall Clayton, the cashier and personal representative of the absent
"head," who rarely left his Detroit home to interfere