CHAPTER VI.

CHEATED VISIONS AND VANISHED HOPES.

Saturday night was the time chosen to get into the bank, and the

plunderers were to remain there until Sunday. The members of Irving's

ring were to keep watch to prevent any officious interference from

passers-by or from ward policemen. Carriages were to be in waiting at

some convenient place on Sunday morning, and when the men inside

received a signal from their police accomplices on the outside, they

were to leave the bank, abandoning their tools, and carrying away

nothing but the money and the securities they had stolen. So far, the

way was plain; the keys had long before been prepared, tested and found

to work properly; full instructions were given as to the way to use

them, but the way inside was not yet open.

A night watchman was employed on the premises, and he, of course, was to

be got rid of. Little ceremony was to be used in treating him. He was to

be seized, overcome by any means, bound, gagged and rendered helpless

until Monday, and the fact that he always passed Sunday in the bank,

prevented any remark at home upon his continued absence. The details of

the plot were thus satisfactorily settled, and at a late hour the

conspirators separated.

In the early morning of that day the three burglars were standing in the

cellar to which they had lowered their booty, waiting for the signal to

come out. At last it was given, when the precious trio slipped out,

carrying their precious bags. A covered carriage was posted in an

adjoining street, into which the whole party entered, flurried and

excited, and rapidly drove to Irving's residence. There the contents of

the bags were carefully examined. The actual cash was easily disposed

of, but what was to be done with the bonds?

The arrangement finally agreed upon, to be detailed presently, shows

that if there be circumstances in which a little learning is a dangerous

thing, one of them is not just after the perpetration of a gigantic

burglary.

The Monday following its execution confusion and amazement reigned in

the bank. The clerks on their arrival were astounded to find the safe

doors wide open, torn and smashed by the tools which lay scattered over

the floor, and the night watchman, gagged and bound, was discovered,

nearly dead, in a neighboring room. One of the clerks jumped into a cab

and rushed to Police Headquarters in Mulberry street to report the

robbery. Irving was sitting in his office, busy with the night reports,

when the messenger was introduced to tell of the bank's calamity.

The excellent chief listened with breathless attention, and was

naturally horror-struck at the perpetration of such a crime. Calling a

couple of his trusted sleuths, he hastily communicated the surprising

news, and the three hurried with the clerk back to Greenwich street.

Arrived there they minutely examined the premises, and gave it as their

opinion, judging from the style of the work and from the tools which lay

around, that the burglary had been committed by a well-known burglar

named Harry Penrose, and that the night watchman, whom they immediately

placed under arrest, must have been his accomplice.

The president had sent word to the bank that he was unwell, and would

not be able to attend to business that day, but the terrible news was

immediately telegraphed to him, and, in spite of his illness, he hurried

to town. It is impossible to describe his astonishment and distress at

the sight which met his eyes. In the presence of the clerks he held

anxious consultations with the detectives, who assured him that they had

already taken the first steps to unravel the mystery, and that every

possible effort would be made to discover the criminals. In the privacy

of his own office he explained to the reporters that he had left in the

bank four hundred thousand dollars in cash and bonds, every farthing of

which had disappeared.

As soon as the news was published the excitement among the depositors

and the stockholders of the bank was, of course, immense. A run set in,

which the directors by the help of friends and of their own private

resources were able to meet, but the Wall street appreciation of the

calamity was shown in the drop in value of the bank's stock from 130 to

40.

I repeat, a little learning is a dangerous thing. Much knowledge is not

to be looked for among men who engage in such crimes, but one would

fancy that the everyday experience of Irving and his people would have

given them some idea of financial business. The fact is, they were, if

possible, more ignorant than their felonious partners. The financial

ideas of the latter scarcely went further than "making cheap pennyworths

of their plunder, giving to courtesans and living like lords till all be

gone," so that negotiating the sale of bonds was a mystery far too high

for them--something which they could never hope to attain to. But the

company included one man who was a rare exception to the ordinary ride

of such society. This was Max Shinburne, a German, a man of considerable

education, who, in some inexplicable way, had fallen so far from honor

and respectability that when he saw a thief he "consented unto him."

How is it that such men are often found in the ranks of professional

criminals? They would probably have difficulty to explain it themselves.

A want of savoir faire, the fact that they have never been taught to

make a practical use of their acquirements, the pressure of temptation

at a critical moment, the absence, possibly, from harm, leading to the

hope of immunity--all, perhaps, enter into the explanation of the secret

promptings which have led to the first false step, to the first planting

of the feet in the path which leads to destruction. Once the step is

taken, to retrace it seems impossible. The line which society draws, and

which it proclaims no man shall overstep without punishment, may be

approached very closely, but once on the wrong side, once the fateful

step is taken, the act is irretrievable; to attempt to retrace it is to

attempt to undo the past; it is all but impossible.

Thus probably it is that the fall of an educated man is more hopeless

than that of one who knows no better. A carpenter or a blacksmith who

has got himself in a tangle has only to move to another town, and if he

shakes off perverted thoughts and perverted influences, he is not much

worse off than before. He has kept his trade, and his trade will keep

him.

Nobody is going to inquire about a workman who can do his work. The

employer requires nothing more than that the work be done, and if it be

done he neither thinks nor cares anything more about either it or the

worker.

With the educated man the case is different. The sentiments of the class

he belongs to are less yielding, the fineness of his own feelings has

been too deeply wounded, and when he has stabbed his reputation, he is

apt, foolishly, of course, to fling the rest of his respectability after

it.

With qualities and advantages which might have fitted him for a useful

and honorable position in life, Shinburne was at less than 30 years of

age the companion of outcasts. But whatever his moral failings, his

knowledge remained, and it was for him, at least, to be valuable.

To get rid of the bonds in America was impossible, except by sacrificing

them to a stolen goods receiver, who would have given but a small

percentage of their value.

A steamer was to sail for Europe that day, and it was agreed that

Shinburne should go by her, with one of the other robbers as company,

sell the bonds before the news of the robbery could get across the

ocean, then return and fairly divide the proceeds.

This was the arrangement, but Shinburne had already begun to have other

dreams and other ambitions. He saw a chance to restore himself, or, at

least, to snatch at a position which would give him weight to crush down

sinister reports or envious whisperings, and he determined forthwith to

seize it. What the bank president had done to save himself from infamy,

Shinburne would do to recover himself from infamy. It can be, therefore,

easily understood that he accepted without hesitation the other's

proposal.

The steamer did not sail until noon. There was, therefore, plenty of

time to make preparations, and, besides, he had a little private

business to attend to. Leaving the securities in Irving's charge, with a

promise to meet the party at 11, he took his share of the cash and

departed.

Some time before this, with a skill and forethought rarely to be found

in the class he then belonged to, he had bought some building lots near

the park. Fortunate, indeed, the speculation eventually proved to be. In

the mean time, placing his lots in the hands of a responsible agent, and

taking drafts on Europe for his money, he rapidly made the little

preparation he needed, and at 11 joined his party, there to receive

nearly $200,000 in bonds, and to set out with Mike Hurley for the

steamer.

After hurried parting injunctions from the Headquarters men, the two

travelers, accompanied by Conroy, to see them off, were rapidly driven

to the steamer. Punctually to the hour the hawsers were cast off, and

with barely time to say good-bye the cronies parted. A moment after the

screw began to turn, and the Cunarder's bow pointed toward England.

Arrived in Liverpool, the pair proceeded at once to London. Hurley, who

was as ignorant of foreign travel as of everything else, was easily

tricked by some tale of no evening trains for the Continent. Shinburne

plied him well with liquor, taking care to mix the bottles, and when he

had got him helplessly drunk he took the bonds and with his little

luggage slipped quietly off to the Continent, never to see his dupe or

his New York friends again.

He went to Germany, called himself "Count" Shinburne, bought an estate

and began to exercise large hospitality toward his neighbors.

No man on all the length of the Rhine was so popular as he. No man's

house and table, horses and gardens were so praised as his. In the eyes

of the beggar nobles of the Fatherland the man who could give such

dinners and in such succession, must belong to the choice members of the

human race. Day by day Max's position grew more solid. No breath was

ever whispered against him, and with a little prudence he might have

kept up his state and died in the odor of sanctity. But the taste of

grandeur was too sweet, the incense of his little world's flattery too

precious to run the smallest risk of losing it. His display exceeded his

means, but for nothing in the world would he have curtailed it.

Matters were in this way until he awoke one day to find his account

overdrawn on his bankers. Then it was that he began to remember his

operation in Greenwich street, and he seems to have thought that if he

succeeded in New York, surely nothing could stand in his way in some

sleepy town in Europe.

[Illustration: "WITH HORROR THE SISTERS SAW THE COUNTESS AIRING THE

HISTORIC BRACELET."--Page 68.]

He went to Brussels prospecting, and soon pitched upon an establishment

which he thought likely to reward his industry. But the result showed

that to walk into a bank when the way was left open, with the

authorities anxious to see him there, and to force his way in when the

entrance was jealously barred with the guardians determined he should

stay out, were two very different things. He made the attempt, was

arrested and sentenced to sixteen years' imprisonment. His German

friends heard of his mishap, and his glory faded like the early dew.

Naturally, every one thought that the count's career had closed, that

the star of his fate had declined, that the bars of his prison house

were about him forever. They were greatly mistaken. After some twelve or

thirteen years he succeeded in getting a pardon and managed to make his

way to America. His first visit was to the agents in whose hands he had

left the management of his park lots. He went into their office, not

knowing whether or not he was a pauper. He came out knowing himself to

be nearly a millionaire.

During the almost twenty years of his absence his lots had increased

enormously in value. Once more he was a rich man, once more he might

emerge from his eclipse and become a power of a certain kind in the

class of society he could get access to, but his experience had taught

him something. His advancing years had left him but little desire for

display. He came back to a world which knew him not: and few of those

who notice a benevolent-looking old gentleman, who often passes an

afternoon in upper Broadway, suspect that under an assumed name he hides

the identity of Max Shinburne, the bank burglar.

When Hurley awoke from his drunken fit in London and recognized that his

partner had both robbed and deserted him, he felt that his mission was

over, and that nothing remained but to return at once to America. Loud

and long and wrathful were the complaints over Shinburne's treachery.

Whatever he did to others, all felt that his dealings with them ought to

have been "on the square," but there was no help for it. He had

disappeared, and faint, indeed, was the chance that they would ever see

him again. The success of the crime, so far as they were concerned, had,

after all, been a failure. Vanished hopes and cheated visions were

their share, instead of the wealth they had anticipated, and in their

devouring rage they tried to console themselves with the thought of what

they would do to him if they ever met Shinburne.

The only man who had any real success from the scheme was the president.

Exposure had become impossible. He had taken good care not to leave too

much in the safes for his accomplices, and he was henceforth a wealthy

man. The bank, desperately shaken by the robbery, fell so greatly in the

esteem of the public that not long after it failed. The president gave

up banking, and began to speculate in real estate. He increased in

riches and prospered in the world. He called his lands after his own

name. He thought his house would continue forever, and men praised him,

because he did well to himself. He settled his children comfortably in

life, and when he died, not so very long ago, all felt that the world

was better because he had lived in it, and that, although their loss

when he was taken was heavy, it was, nevertheless, his great gain.