Chapter 3 AN UNHEEDED WARNING-FRANK MANSFIELD FINDS HIMSELF IN A BAD FIX.

The storm had now greatly increased, and the whitened flakes were rapidly covering sidewalk and street, as well as the forms of such belated pedestrians as hurried past, while the glass in the lighted store fronts glistened with frost like so many diamonds in the light of the flickering street lamps scattered here and there.

Now, the Webster National Bank, as is well known to every one, is located on the corner of Rector street and Broadway, directly opposite the high wall, ever rising as the street descends, upon the top of which lies the ancient burial ground surrounding Trinity Church.

Bustling with life and activity during the business hours of the day, at night no more lonely spot can be found in all New York than this.

Standing a little back from the street rises the mighty spire of this, New York's most famous house of worship, surrounded on three sides by the crumbling head-stones of a century ago, and marking the last resting-place of many a famous citizen of the days gone by.

Rising above these stones, the many dingy tombs scattered among them, clusters of noble trees raise their spreading branches toward the sky above, overshadowing this time-honored burial place of the dead.

Brick and mortar everywhere, gigantic structures upon every hand, the old Trinity church-yard has remained untouched by the hand of Time-remained the one green spot in lower New York, even as it was in the days when the great city was young.

It was upon this sight that Frank Mansfield daily looked forth, for his desk in the bank commanded a full view of the church-yard from the Rector street side.

It was by the side of the wall that, with his companion, he now stands, contemplating an act, which, if not criminal, is a breach of the implicit trust placed in him by the officers of the Webster National Bank, at least.

And now the old church-yard is robed in white, the snow flakes bearing downward the branches of the spreading trees, covering the tombs and graves of the dead-we doubt very much if the souls of many who lie beneath are as white as the ground above their moldering bones.

Detective Cutts turned the corner of Rector street, and moved silently along the church-yard wall.

It was now twelve o'clock and after-in fact, the bell of Old Trinity had rung out the midnight hour before they passed the corner of Fulton street and Broadway.

The storm had increased as the night advanced, Broadway was deserted, and not a soul could be seen moving on Rector street from end to end.

For the evil-doer no better night could be found than this-even the policemen had sought shelter in friendly doorways from the pitiless storm.

"By George! but this is a nasty night!" said the detective, in a low whisper, coming to a halt beneath the shadow of the wall. "Now, where in thunder are those fellows, I'd like to know? They promised to be on the corner at midnight and wait until we came."

"Well, we can do without them," said Frank, uneasily, beginning already to repent of the step he had taken.

"For my part, I can't see what we want with them, anyhow. The thing don't amount to anything, after all."

The liquor of which he had partaken so freely was beginning to tell on him.

He mistrusted his companion, he mistrusted himself; he was anxious to do what he had undertaken and begun.

After all, it was but a little thing, and with the money he could do so much.

He had been trying to persuade himself, but with ill success, during the walk down-town, that it amounted to just nothing, after all.

"Why, I only want them with us for your own protection, my dear boy," replied Cutts. "I'm as square as a die myself, and I want you to see that everything I do is entirely open and above the board.

"By the way, you've got a key to the side door of the bank, I suppose?"

"Yes; the cashier and myself carry that."

"And you tell me there's no watchman in the bank?"

"No; otherwise I should not be here, of course. This corner is so prominent that they never thought it worth their while to keep one employed. It's lucky for you, Cutts, that they think as they do."

"I should say so," replied the detective, with a slightly marked emphasis. "And that being the case, we can slip in that side door and through the hall as easily as you please."

Now, there are two entrances to the Webster National Bank.

One from Broadway and one from Rector street.

It was to the latter that Detective Cutts referred.

"I say, Frank," said that individual, in a whisper, "we may be observed if we stand waiting here. I move we jump over the church-yard fence and wait on the inside until Jim and Ed show up."

Careless now of what he did, and too much muddled in his brain through the fumes of the liquor to give the matter very much thought, Frank followed Cutts as he lightly leaped upon the low wall and vaulted the fence, landing inside among the snow-covered stones.

At the same instant from among the trees in the shadow of the great church beyond a low whistle was heard, which was presently followed by the appearance of two dark forms moving cautiously toward the spot where they stood.

"Hello, is that you, Billy?"

The voice came from the advancing figures, now emerging from the trees.

"Yes," called Cutts, in a whisper. "Is that you, Ed-you and Jim?"

How came these two in the Trinity church-yard at this hour of the night?

The strangeness of the thing struck the boy at once, as he stood leaning against the rail.

"What the mischief are you fellows doing there?" he exclaimed, peering forward into the darkness. "Cutts, what does this thing mean?"

"It means villainy, it means wickedness!" cried a feeble voice from the sidewalk below. "It means ruin to you, my son, if you persist in what you are about to do."

There, kneeling upon the snow-covered pavement beneath the wall, Frank, turning suddenly and pressing his face against the iron palings, perceived a strange and weird form.

It was a woman, old, faded and gray, who, with upturned features and hands clasped above her head now met his astonished gaze.

It was the singular creature who had followed him from the gambling hall.

Not for one moment had the boy been lost from her view.

"Pause, my son!" she exclaimed, raising her clasped hands aloft with a supplicating air, as she knelt before him in the pure white snow. "Remember your dead father-I ask you not to remember me-pause before it is too late."

"Hello!" cried Cutts, placing his hand on Frank's shoulder as he spoke, "who the mischief have we here?"

As though stung by an adder, the boy shrank back from that aged form.

"Mother!" he cried, in husky tones, "for God's sake, what brings you here? Have they let you escape again?"

"Escape!" said the woman, in feeble tones. "Can doors hold a mother when danger besets her son? No, no, bolts and bars cannot keep me in. Locks amount to nothing for me. I roam the streets by night and by day, and I watch over you, my son."

"She is mad, Cutts!" cried the boy angrily; "mad for years, and has escaped from those by whom she was confined. Follow me, and let's be done with this thing at once. With her on my hands I need the money more than ever now."

He leaped the fence railing as he spoke with the lightness of a cat, landing by the woman's side.

Cutts instantly followed him, as did the two young men, who had during this strange scene come to a halt a little in the rear of the spot where Frank and the detective had stood.

"No, no, you shall not go! You shall not rob the bank!" shrieked the woman, seizing Frank by the skirts of his coat. "Don't listen to these wicked men, my son; they only seek your harm!"

"Confound the old hag!" muttered the detective, angrily. "What are we going to do? If we don't stop her mouth she will ruin all."

"Hold her where she is and stop her mouth; but gently, boys," said Frank, in a hoarse voice. "Cutts, you follow me and the thing is done. I've gone too far to back out now. I want your pay, and as I am wronging no one, have it I must and will."

He sprang across the street as he spoke, followed by the young detective, while the woman, feebly struggling in the arms of the two young fellows, still knelt moaning beneath the church yard wall.

"I'll have to take care of her, Cutts," said Frank, producing a key and fitting it into the lock of the door of the bank. "She's hopelessly crazy, poor thing, and God only knows by what strange chance she came to be here to-night."

He turned the key in the lock as he spoke and threw open the door leading into a dark hallway in the great building on the corner of Rector street and Broadway, in the rear of the offices occupied by the Webster National Bank.

"Follow me," he added, entering the passage as he spoke, "and shut the door behind you-it won't take a moment, and the thing is done."

He moved through the passage and opened an inner door, supposing the detective to be close behind.

Great heavens! What sight was this?

There, before his astonished gaze in the dim light of the gas, kept burning through the entire night in this, as in other banks, lay the great doors of the money vault blown out of all shape, disclosing the vault within.

A burglar's jimmy, a crowbar, and a powder-can lay mingled with a pile of books and papers-the contents of the rifled vault-upon the floor.

"Cutts, Cutts! For Heaven's sake look here!"

Frank Mansfield sprang out into the dark hall, calling the detective's name.

There was no reply.

The outer door stood open, the dark outlines of Trinity Church appeared beyond, but Detective Cutts was nowhere to be seen.

With one bound Frank Mansfield leaped toward that open door.

"Stop!" cried a stern voice. "Young man, what are you doing here?"

And the form of a large and powerful man was interposed before him, who seized the boy by the arm.

"This way, men!" he cried, as three policemen came running down Rector street from Broadway. "Here's one of the rascals now. We are here just in the nick of time!"

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