The Project Gutenberg eBook, Remarkable Rogues, by Charles Kingston

REMARKABLE ROGUES

MARIE TARNOWSKA ON TRIAL

REMARKABLE ROGUES
THE CAREERS OF SOME NOTABLE
CRIMINALS OF EUROPE AND
AMERICA

BY CHARLES KINGSTON
WITH EIGHT ILLUSTRATIONS

LONDON: JOHN LANE THE BODLEY HEAD LTD.
NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY,

MCMXXI.

SECOND EDITION

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN AT THE DEVONSHIRE PRESS, TORQUAY.

[CONTENTS]

[LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS]

[PREFACE]

That interest in crime and the criminal is universal no one will deny. In a cruder age it was the custom to organize parties to witness the public execution of notable scoundrels—Monckton Milnes (Lord Houghton) took Thackeray and, I believe, Dickens, to see Courvoisier's—but nowadays we are more decorous, although on occasion several thousand persons can assemble outside a prison and stare at a blank wall during a private hanging inside. Most of us, however, are content to behold crime through the eyes of our favourite journal and it is impossible to complain that the press does not cater fully for us in this respect. That crime retains its fascination for high and low is proved almost every time there is a sensational trial at the Central Criminal Court, for the attendance invariably includes distinguished politicians, authors, artists and representatives of that nebulous class termed "Society." It is, however, no longer possible for a special box to be erected at the Old Bailey to enable members of the Royal Family to watch a man on trial for his life, and it is now bad form for a "popular judge" to surround himself with princes and peers and audibly keep them au fait with the evidence. These things have passed away and we have "headlines" and contents-bills in their place. We are, in fact, more respectable if less robust, but sin and sinners will intrigue us to the end of Time.

James Greenacre, was the subject of more than one pamphlet biography, but I have preferred to go to the copious reports of his trial for my material, and I consulted similar sources whenever possible before writing the chapters dealing with Marie Tarnowska, Mrs. Leroy Chadwick, Jeanne Daniloff, three of my German criminals and several others. Greenacre's trial and execution were conducted on typical early nineteenth century lines, and that loathsome scoundrel was nearly elevated to the pinnacle of a hero by indiscriminate publicity. The competition to be present in Court when he was in the dock was so keen that a pound a head was charged for admission to the gallery on each day and even at that price the queue was always greater than the accommodation. After his conviction he was visited in prison by scores of "noblemen and gentlemen," and while in a contemporary account of the execution—which I quote—the reporter omits the names of those eminent persons who attended it, it is significant that the number of private carriages, according to another journalist, should have exceeded fifty.

I obtained from an American detective who knew Adam Worth many of the details of that rogue's doings, and it is to an American newspaper of the late sixties that I am indebted for particulars of Belle Star's career. Marie Tarnowska told her own story to Madame A. Vivanti Chartres, who sympathetically transferred the countess's apologia to paper and published it. As a human document it is very interesting but it is not convincing, and the very full report of her trial at Venice published in the press of this country is the only reliable guide to an understanding of the case. M. Canler, the famous French detective, first related in narrative form the incidents which lead to the three arrests of the murderers of Madame Houet, and I consulted the French and English papers for the history of Pierre Voirbo's crime. "Madame Rachel" was tried three times and there were several special reports at the disposal of the author, but she does not seem to have attracted much notice since her death and an account of her life will be new to most of my readers.

REMARKABLE ROGUES

[CHAPTER I]
A RUSSIAN DELILAH

One day in a Russian country-house a girl of sixteen was presented to three men—a prince, a baron, and a count, and as she greeted them with youthful enthusiasm and camaraderie she was quite unconscious of the fact that each of the three had asked her father for her hand.

In the land of the steppes, girls develop quickly, and although Marie was very young in years she was a fully-matured beauty, tall, with fine features, a beautiful complexion, a divine voice, and enough charm for half a dozen ordinary women.

No wonder the men were in love with her—she captured all hearts with her beautiful face and her musical voice—and when she had to be told of the proposals her father informed her that she could choose between the prince and the baron, for he disapproved of the count.

"I should love to be a princess," Marie cried romantically.

Old Count O'Rourke, a typical Russian nobleman, who was descended from an Irish soldier, was gratified.

"I am happy to hear you say so," he exclaimed, and kissed her.

A year later Marie eloped with the count, the one man of the three she had been warned against.

It was the beginning of a series of tragedies for the extraordinary girl, who became an even more extraordinary woman. Her father promptly closed his doors against her once she was the Countess Tarnowska. Marie declared that she did not care, adding that her husband was the most perfect lover in the world and she was the happiest wife that ever lived. But within six months she had changed her mind.

"God help me!" she murmured to a consoling friend. "I did not know there could be so much sorrow in the world." For in that short time she had discovered that Vassili Tarnowska was a libertine and that she was only one of many women he had professed to love.

From that moment Marie became a different creature. Always high-spirited and highly-strung, she only required a feeling of injustice to influence her to take to the path that leads to perdition.

Her husband neglected her, and she could not bear to be alone. Other men flocked round her and talked lyrically of her exquisite beauty. The neglected wife eagerly welcomed these compliments. Of course she and her husband, as members of the Russian aristocracy, had to maintain outwardly an appearance of perfect amity, but they were rapidly drifting apart, and tragedy was hovering over them all the time.

What would have happened had Marie found a strong and loving husband one can only conjecture. That she was born with a "kink" in her brain is evident. She has since confessed to that, and more than one specialist has recorded that she inherited disease as well as life from her parents and that she was not always responsible for her actions. But it has to be admitted that when she began to carve out a career for herself independently of her husband and children she permitted no scruple, no sense of honour, and no decency to interfere with her in her mad pursuit of pleasure.

The first of her victims was her husband's brother. Peter Tarnowska was a quiet, intellectual youth with a great reverence for womenfolk. He admired his sister-in-law, and was under the impression that Vassili was devoted to her. His amazement was, therefore, all the greater when, happening to call unexpectedly, he saw Marie with tear-stained eyes sitting in desolate loneliness. As a result of that interview Peter Tarnowska knew that he had found his ideal, but, of course, he was too late. She was another man's, and that man was his brother.

Vassili Tarnowska, who prided himself on his taste, was in the habit of haunting night restaurants with beauties of questionable antecedents, and he was presiding at a banquet in a restaurant in Kieff when he was startled to see his wife enter with a man. She was beautifully dressed, and she looked so happy that he thought her the loveliest woman there. The realization made him jealous, and Tarnowska, who did not want his wife until others showed their appreciation of her beauty and wit, now came back to her, and at once was the most jealous of husbands.

Had Marie been wise she would have seized the opportunity to atone for the past and make her future happiness certain. She had two pretty children, and Tarnowska was evidently determined to do his duty by them all, but the countess had already gone too far to wish to withdraw. She had lovers; here a doctor, there an officer of the Imperial Guard; and there was always a flattering number of candidates for the honour of escorting her to the theatre or restaurant. She was convinced that respectability was synonymous with dullness, and, accordingly, when the count expressed his penitence and desired a reconciliation he was too late. Marie had no room for him now in her overcrowded heart.

They lived together, of course, and entertained on the lavish scale which brought so many Russian families to poverty in the pre-revolution period. Marie was the most popular of hostesses, for she possessed that happy faculty of making each of her guests feel that the entertainment was got up solely in his or her honour.

Months of riotous pleasure passed. Vassili Tarnowska's jealousy became a mania. He suspected every man he saw in his home, and his wife's flippant and contemptuous answers to his questions exasperated him. The beauty found it impossible to forgive or forget the fact that the husband she had once considered the most chivalrous man in all the world had been the only male to neglect her for other women.

They were at breakfast one morning when Tarnowska was handed a telegram. Suddenly he leaned across the table and screamed a question to her.

"What have you been doing to my brother Peter?" he cried.

Marie could not speak.

"Read that," said the count, as he thrust the telegram into her shaking hand.

"Peter hanged himself last night." She read the message aloud in a voice that grated on him. "He was a foolish boy," she remarked indifferently. "I had forgotten his existence."

The tragic fate of Peter Tarnowska was still being talked about when Alexis Bozevsky became the lover of the countess. He was the type of man who looks and acts like the hero of a melodrama. He was tall, with a superb figure, a moustache that seems to have been irresistible, a bonhomie men and women were hypnotized by, and he was, undoubtedly, a past master in the art of pleasing romantically-minded ladies.

He penned a couple of letters to Marie, which won her for him, body and soul. She ran the most terrible risks on his behalf once she was in love with him, and the woman who was a queen amongst men now gladly became the slave of this handsome officer of the Imperial Guard.

The story of their love is brief and tragic and very melodramatic. It is difficult to believe that it all happened so recently as 1907. The jealous husband, the handsome lover, the cigarette-smoking Russian countess with the beautiful face and dark eyes—all belong to the stage; yet the Tarnowskas and Alexis Bozevsky were real personages, and two of them are living to-day.

For some time Marie's latest conquest was unnoticed by her husband, who hoped that his brother's suicide would reform her. When he stumbled upon the truth he simultaneously resolved to kill Bozevsky in a duel. The first encounter between the jealous husband and the handsome lover took place in the house of the former. Tarnowska was armed, but he would not shoot a defenceless foe, and he flung on the table a revolver for his enemy.

"We will settle it here," he said, with the laugh of a madman.

Bozevsky was terrified by that laugh, and fled from the apartment to tell Marie what had happened. They agreed on a course of action, knowing that there was no room in the world for both the count and the officer, and they felt that they were helpless to avert the approaching tragedy.

A few days later Count Tarnowska, very pale and very self-possessed, entered the police station at Kieff.

"I have shot Alexis Bozevsky," he said calmly. "I found him dining with my wife at the Grand Hotel. I am your prisoner."

The astounded and agitated inspector did not detain him. Tarnowska was of too high a rank, and, besides, he suspected that the count was not quite right in his head. But Tarnowska had spoken the truth. Bozevsky was not dead, but he was dying, and Marie had left her home and had deserted her children in order to nurse him.

Bozevsky lingered for a few days, and Marie scarcely ever left his side. She knew that never again would she go back to her husband. The attack on Bozevsky outside the Grand Hotel precluded that. She spent hours praying for the recovery of the young officer whom she passionately loved, and often he would lie with a wan smile on his strained face whilst she pictured their happy future together. At these interviews Dr. Stahl, who was attending the wounded man, was always present. He was pale and weak-looking, obviously the victim of drugs, and Marie ignored him because she knew that he was in love with her too!

For Stahl had introduced Marie to the mysteries of drug-taking, to which she was now addicted. This accounts for a lot. At her trial she was described as a "human vampire," yet at times she had been the most devoted of mothers and the most generous of friends. But she lacked a brake to steady her when she began to descend, and she went from one wickedness to another until the final catastrophe.

When the young officer died Marie Tarnowska's heart died too. She could never love again, and she never did, but she could pretend to. In her desolation she rushed off into the country; she travelled and tried to forget. Her husband and her children were lost to her; she had been told that she would never be allowed to see them again. The sentence hardly affected her, for she could not think of anything or anybody now that the world was very lonely and her life empty.

Hitherto Marie Tarnowska had never known what it was to lack money. She had spent freely without any thought of the morrow. She had no idea of the value of money. In the past it had always been there for her to take. But now that her husband no longer acknowledged her existence her sources of supply were cut off, and it was the soulless proprietor of a second-rate hotel who drew her attention to the fact that even beautiful countesses must pay their way or suffer the humiliations attendant on poverty.

It was a bitter awakening. Marie Tarnowska became terrified. She could not earn her living; she must beg or borrow, or kill herself; and she had no desire to die.

She was walking to a telegraph office to send a message to her father explaining her position and imploring him to respond, when she heard her name pronounced by some one behind her. Turning, she recognized Donat Prilukoff, one of the wealthiest lawyers in Moscow. He had been a visitor at her house in the days of her glory, and Marie had been aware that he was in love with her.

Prilukoff was rich! Marie recollected that too! She had disliked him in the past, but she was poor now and beggars cannot be choosers.

"My dear friend," she murmured, and tears came into her fascinating eyes.

Prilukoff guessed how her affairs stood, and came to the rescue, but she could not forget her antipathy to the lawyer. A new passion had arisen in her, however, a passion for money, and henceforth she meant never to feel the want of it again, even if she had to pretend to love Prilukoff.

They became inseparable, the Moscow lawyer and the beautiful adventuress who had broken so many hearts and her own life.

"What has become of Dr. Stahl?" Marie asked shortly after their reunion.

Prilukoff laughed carelessly.

"He shot himself through the heart the other day," he said, in a callous tone. "They sent for me, and he died with your name on his lips, Marie."

She was "Marie" now to the man she had christened "The Scorpion" when she was rich and at the height of her popularity.

Prilukoff, middle-aged and unromantic-looking, was fiercely in love with the countess. At all their previous meetings he had been thrust into the background by the clever, handsome young men who had worshipped at Marie Tarnowska's shrine, but now he had her to himself. Every day she accepted money from him. Her creditors having discovered her address, presented their bills with unveiled threats.

Prilukoff saved the situation each time. He paid out thousands of pounds, and Marie Tarnowska hated him the more she was indebted to him. Had he ill-treated her she might have showered kisses on his feet, but he was recklessly generous, and she despised and hated him. She was that sort of woman.

It was necessary, of course, that they should move about, for it would have damaged Prilukoff's reputation as a sound family lawyer whom elderly ladies could trust with their investments if it was known that he was supplying a notorious woman with funds.

Marie gladly went to Italy, leaving the lawyer to attend to his business, but he was with her again within seventy-two hours.

"I cannot bear to let you out of my sight," he said. "The business must take care of itself."

"But what about money?" asked Marie nervously. It was all she thought of now. "I owe a thousand pounds to my dressmaker, and——"

Prilukoff produced a roll of notes.

"Don't be afraid," he said, "there is always plenty to be had."

She was completely in Prilukoff's power when she renewed her acquaintanceship with an old friend, Count Paul Kamarowsky, a colonel in the Russian Army, and a wealthy man. The count had just lost his wife, and he was endeavouring to escape from loneliness by wandering about Europe with his little daughter. Marie, therefore, came into his life again at a very critical time, and she had no difficulty in making him fall in love with her. He was ready to be tricked, and with Prilukoff's help she proceeded to swindle him.

Marie had had no intention of obtaining money from Kamarowsky until the Moscow lawyer had startled and terrified her by confessing that he was practically penniless. He had not only spent his means on her, but he had stolen over forty thousand pounds from his clients in order to satisfy her extravagant whims. When Marie, regarding him with horror, suggested that he should return to Moscow, he gripped her by the wrist.

"I've ruined myself for you," he cried hoarsely. "Once I was the most respected lawyer in Moscow, now I am a common thief, and if I return I shall be arrested. Marie, you must be mine. I love you. I have sacrificed everything for you. You must never desert me. If you do——"

She saw the threat in his eyes, but did not hear his words.

Events now followed one another in rapid succession. Prilukoff had to be careful to keep out of the way of the police, whilst Countess Tarnowska, who would have given anything to be rid of him, had to see him every day and discuss ways and means of obtaining supplies of hard cash.

Prilukoff, who discerned that Kamarowsky was in love with Marie, conceived a scheme by which they eventually extracted a large sum from him. Scarcely had the swindle been accomplished than Marie heard that her husband had divorced her. She was free to marry again, and she had already pledged her word to the swindling lawyer to take his name, but Count Paul Kamarowsky, rich, of noble family, and likely to make a devoted husband, was going to propose to her!

The count did so that very night, and Marie accepted him, extracting a promise that he would keep their engagement a secret. She was terrified lest Prilukoff should tell Paul that she was his, and so she played with the two men, keeping them apart and persuading each that he was the chosen bridegroom, though well aware that she was in the power of Prilukoff and that she dare not disobey him.

Marie was not in love. As I have said, her capacity for love had ceased to exist with the death of Alexis Bozevsky, but she wanted Kamarowsky's fortune, and she would obtain it only by conspiring with Donat Prilukoff, the dishonest lawyer, her master.

As though the situation was not sufficiently complicated, a third lover now came on the scene. This was Nicholas Naumoff, a youngster of twenty, the only son of the governor of Orel. Nicholas and Kamarowsky were devoted friends, and when the count introduced him to Marie he succumbed on the spot to the charmer.

With three lovers, one of whom held her in the hollow of his hand, Marie Tarnowska had a breathlessly exciting time. In the old days she would have enjoyed the situation, but now she hungered and thirsted for gold, and it was of money only that she thought whenever she asked herself what she should do.

The lawyer from Moscow haunted her. How she wished that he would die and leave her to marry the rich Count Kamarowsky, the man who could take her back into society and open the doors now closed to her! Marriage with Prilukoff would mean the perpetuation of her disgrace, and she would inevitably sink lower; yet she dare not move without his permission, and whenever he came to her she had to do his bidding.

It was a cruel trick of Fate's to put her in such a position. Countess Tarnowska, who had once driven men crazy by her capriciousness, the beauty who could pick and choose her lovers—and did so—was now at the beck and call of an ugly lawyer with an ugly record! She shed bitter tears, and was only comforted when Prilukoff whispered that there was a way of getting Kamarowsky's fortune and never knowing again the terrors of poverty.

Meanwhile, Paul Kamarowsky suggested that they should prepare for their wedding. Marie, who only dreamt of the time when she would be his, had to plead for a postponement, knowing that if she fixed the date Prilukoff would do something desperate. But despite her dislike for the lawyer she complained to him that Kamarowsky had not yet referred to financial matters.

Prilukoff, confident that Marie could not escape his clutches, propounded a plan whereby Kamarowsky was to be induced to make his will in her favour and also insure his life for £25,000 on her behalf. The trick was simplicity itself.

Prilukoff allowed Marie to dine with Kamarowsky in an hotel at Venice, where they were all staying, and in the middle of the dinner a waiter handed the woman a letter. Marie started and went crimson when she read it, and her companion, insisting on seeing what had disturbed his fiancée, read the note, which purported to have been written by a well-known Russian prince offering to settle his fortune on her and insure his life for £25,000 if only she would return to Russia and marry him. Prilukoff had, of course, written the letter, and Marie Tarnowska acted her part so realistically that the next day Kamarowsky's will and insurance on his life were facts, and she was heiress to both!

But once Kamarowsky had appointed the Russian beauty the sole inheritor of his property in the event of his death the conspirators wasted no time arranging for his murder. They both wanted his money badly. Marie, realizing that she could never marry him without Prilukoff's permission—a permission which would never be granted—entered into the conspiracy with a callousness and an abandon that were inhuman. She was only twenty-seven, but she could plot in cold blood to take the life of one who had been and was extremely generous to her.

Of course Marie herself would not do the deed, and Prilukoff, whose nerve had long since gone, was quite incapable of actually killing anyone. He could arrange the details and hand the knife or revolver to the selected assassin, but beyond that he could not go.

However, they were thorough and remorseless plotters. Kamarowsky was in their way. His death would make Marie a rich woman and Prilukoff a rich man, because then he could make her marry him. The count, therefore, must be removed. But who was to kill him? That was a question that was answered within a few hours by the arrival of Nicholas Naumoff.

The young man found Marie in her hotel at Venice, and there and then it flashed across her mind that he was the very person to kill Kamarowsky and at one stroke turn her poverty into riches, for Prilukoff having no more clients to rob, Kamarowsky must be murdered.

She was too clever, of course, to take him into her confidence, although Naumoff was so infatuated that he would have obeyed any command she was pleased to give him. But Marie Tarnowska had a wholesome fear of the law, and, whilst she was willing to consign her young friend to a living grave, she had not the slightest desire to experience the discomforts of a prison herself.

It turned out that Naumoff had called to ask her to marry him. His proposal inwardly amused Marie, for he was so young and she was so old—in experience. But she listened gravely to him, and when he had finished she kissed him on the forehead and whispered in a voice broken with sobs that she had prayed for this day and now that it had come she could not, dare not, aspire to happiness because a certain man stood between them and would prevent their marriage.

The ardent youth naturally demanded to know who it was who was driving her to madness. She answered under pressure that he was Count Paul Kamarowsky, Naumoff's dearest friend.

He was so surprised that he tried to persuade Marie that she was mistaken. Somehow Naumoff had not regarded Kamarowsky as an aspirant to her hand. He was so old compared with him, and love was, in his opinion, the prerogative of youth.

"Watch him," said Marie, who had been secretly engaged to the count for some months, "and you will be convinced that he persecutes me. I have to be polite to him, but, Nicholas, dear, I should be happy if I never saw him again."

Naumoff watched as bidden, and of course he saw Kamarowsky wait attentively on the woman to whom he was engaged. Quite innocent of the fact that he was giving cause for offence to his young friend, Kamarowsky seldom went out unaccompanied by Marie; and, when he was not looking and Nicholas was near her, she would make a little grimace of disgust to indicate that the count's presence was distasteful to her.

Naumoff, who had again proposed to Marie and been accepted, was nearly driven out of his mind by jealousy. He had pledged his word of honour not to reveal his engagement to Kamarowsky, who was also similarly placed by a promise to the beauty. Only Prilukoff, who remained in the background, knew the true state of affairs, and he was too worried by fear of the police to be able to enjoy the comedy.

But that comedy quickly developed into one of the most amazing tragedies of modern times, for Naumoff, hot-headed and irresponsible when under the influence of the Russian Delilah, decided to kill the man Marie described as her persecutor, the lover by whose death she stood to gain a fortune.

It was in the month of September, 1907, that the decision was come to. As soon as she heard it Marie found it convenient to take a trip to Vienna and wait there for the tragedy which would give her Kamarowsky's large fortune and enable her to collect £25,000 from the insurance companies. Prilukoff also vanished, having arranged to return to Marie when she had entered into her inheritance.

So that she might not be suspected of participation in the crime the woman wrote a letter to the Chief of Police at Venice, warning him that there was a feud between Nicholas Naumoff and Paul Kamarowsky and that in all probability they would have recourse to fire-arms. Acting on this letter the police watched Kamarowsky's apartments, and by a strange coincidence arrested a man who came from them at the moment Naumoff fired the shots which aroused the house. The prisoner, however, was released when it was seen he was not the person they wanted.

When Naumoff, mad with jealousy, called on Paul one morning, the count warmly welcomed him, though owing to the early hour he had to receive him in bed. But the moment he saw Naumoff's expression he guessed something was wrong. Before he could speak, however, the young man drew his revolver and fired two shots at close range into Kamarowsky's body. The injured man managed to rise to his feet and ask why his dearest friend had turned against him. Naumoff babbled out something about Marie Tarnowska, and the count understood.

"You have been fooled," he muttered, for he was rapidly losing blood. "Ah, there is some one on the stairs. Quick, I will help you to escape by the window. Some day you will understand. Nicholas, I—I loved you as a son. I never thought it would come to this. Quick—this way."

MARIE TARNOWSKA ENTERING THE COURTHOUSE AT VENICE.

Kamarowsky actually assisted his murderer to escape, but Naumoff did not evade the police for long, and when he was locked in a cell he knew that not only had Countess Marie Tarnowska been arrested, but that Prilukoff, the swindler, was also in custody.

The count was taken at once to a hospital, and a famous surgeon stitched up his wounds.

"He will live," he said. "No vital part has been touched."

It seemed as though the Tarnowska tragedy was to end in a trial for attempted murder only, but Fate was relentless, for the chief surgeon who had pronounced Kamarowsky's life to be safe suddenly went mad in the hospital ward and ordered the stitches to be removed from the healing wound. A few hours afterwards Kamarowsky died in agony, and the last words of his delirium were a message of love for Marie, the woman who had planned his death and who had tricked his best friend into committing the crime.

The three accomplices spent over two years in prison before being arraigned, and the trial was a protracted affair in spite of the fullest confessions by the prisoners. Sensations were innumerable during the proceedings and there were many emotional scenes, and on May 20th, 1910, the Venice jury brought in a verdict of guilty, adding a rider to the effect that the countess and Naumoff were suffering from partial mental decay. Prilukoff was sentenced to ten years' solitary confinement; Marie Tarnowska to eight years' and four months' imprisonment, and Naumoff to three years and one month, the time already spent in gaol to be included.

As for Marie Tarnowska, the beauty who had ruined many lives, she went to her punishment as if in a trance. All her scheming, all her heartlessness and greed only brought her in the end to a convict's garb and years of unceasing and humiliating labour. And from the cell she passed to obscurity.

[CHAPTER II]
AN INFAMOUS FEMALE POISONER

Gesina Gottfried was, as a girl, plump and pretty, bright and pert, and the young men of the town in Germany in which she was born never let her know what loneliness meant. She had, of course, numerous suitors; and, while the social position of her parents was a poor one, she did not hesitate to declare that she would only marry a man likely to make money and give her the luxuries for which she craved. This was regarded as a good joke by her acquaintances, for in those days the status of women in Germany was even lower than it is to-day, and they were regarded, after they had lost their youth and their looks, as on a level with the beasts of the field—it was no uncommon sight to see women harnessed to the plough—and they were expected to toil all day long.

However, pretty Gesina was humoured, and, after taking stock of all her lovers, her choice alighted upon one named Miltenberg. He had a small business of his own, was reputed to possess a considerable sum in the savings bank, and bore the reputation of being ambitious, and, therefore, certain to make more money. Gesina's parents cordially approved of her decision, and at the age of seventeen the girl became a wife. Within three years she was the mother of two fine children, and the small world in which the Miltenbergs lived envied them.

But the truth was that the marriage had proved a miserable fiasco. The young bride had not taken long to discover that her husband was an improvident drunkard, who was heavily in debt and who lived on the verge of the gaol. Whenever she remonstrated he treated her cruelly, and it was only Gesina's pride that prevented her denouncing him. But she was compelled to conceal her grief because she would not give her jealous girl friends and former rivals an opportunity to jeer at her, for she had boasted often that she was going to be a lady and that when she was married she would have a servant of her own. They had derided her then, and she would not tell them now that she had made a mistake in marrying Miltenberg, the drunkard and wife-beater.

So the girl who had dreamed of being a lady and had actually become a drudge was terrified every time she heard her husband enter the house. Food was scarce, but the cries of her children did not arouse a mother's love. She turned upon them and exhausted her rage by ill-treating them; yet Gesina was able to keep up appearances and her parents did not guess the real state of affairs.

About four years after her marriage Gesina paid a visit to her mother. She found her engaged in a war against the mice that were infesting the kitchen, her principal weapon being white powder which she had bought from the local chemist.

As Gesina sat and watched the bodies of the poisoned mice it seemed to her a pity that brutal husbands could not be as easily got rid of, and her thoughts dwelling for a long time on this injustice she finally abstracted some of the white powder when her mother was upstairs.

Gesina reached home that night with the precious powder, half an hour before her husband returned from one of the vilest cafés in the town. She was trembling with excitement and her pale cheeks were now flushed, and she looked something like the girl Miltenberg had married four years earlier. But he was too far gone to notice anything, and beyond the customary threats his only remark was to growl his appreciation of the glass of beer with which Gesina unexpectedly presented him. The beer was not yet poisoned, for Gesina had decided to give him one more chance. It was, of course, a hopeless one, as it was not possible that he would reform unexpectedly and never strike her again.

The drunken boor was sitting at the table clutching the glass when a knock came to the door, and a moment later Gesina had admitted a mutual friend, Gottfried, a young man who had shown for some time that he admired her. Locked within the ill-used wife's breast was the secret of her strange love for this weak youth, and now the sight of him inflamed her, as she knew that she had the means to free herself from the brute whose name she bore. Gottfried's coming there that night meant sentence of death on Miltenberg, and without any compunction the woman dropped some of the arsenic into his glass.

The doctor who attended Miltenberg during his brief fatal illness was aware of the fellow's dissipated life, and he readily certified that death was due to natural causes.

Gesina was now in a position to marry Gottfried, and there was yet a chance that she might be rich and happy.

Without troubling about mourning she renewed her acquaintance with Gottfried, who had by now, however, grown tired of her. Perhaps he had read her character that night he had called and sat beside Miltenberg whilst the latter drank the poisoned beer. Perhaps he had a suspicion of the truth, and was afraid lest he should meet with the same fate. But the poisoner ignored his coldness towards her. She had determined to marry him, and marry her he must.

She forced a proposal from him, and then an unexpected obstacle arose in the opposition of her parents. Gesina was astounded; Gottfried secretly delighted. He was always docile and submissive when in her company, but once he was out of her sight he hated her. She was too self-willed and masterful for him, and he was a genuinely happy man when he was informed that her parents considered him too obscure and contemptible to be worthy the honour of their daughter's hand.

In vain Gesina argued, implored and threatened. The old people would not give way. They told her that it was her duty to look after her children and not bother about a second husband, and as they had the law on their side Gesina would only fling herself out of the house and return to her own squalid one to ponder over her grievances.

A woman of her sort could come to only one decision, and that was to send her father and mother to their graves with the aid of the white powder which had proved so effective in the case of her brutal husband. She accordingly pretended to forget Gottfried, and sought a reconciliation with her parents, who, to celebrate the reunion, gave a pork supper in her honour. Gesina, who was particularly fond of this favourite dish, did full justice to it, although before sitting down to the table she had put arsenic in the beer her parents were to drink! When they were taken to their room in agony she calmly continued to eat, and she was so callous that when they died she shed no tears.

With three victims to her account Gesina went to see Gottfried. He affected to be overjoyed at meeting her again, and, fortified by the knowledge that the opposition of her parents rendered a ceremony of marriage between them impossible, spontaneously invited her to have dinner with him. But Gesina took away his appetite at the very beginning of the meal by informing him that her parents had suddenly died, and that there was now no reason why he should not fulfil his promise and make her his wife.

Gottfried went pale with terror, and so great was his agitation that she noticed it at once, and taxed him with trying to deceive her. The unhappy coward protested that she was doing him an injustice.

"I am grieved to hear of their death," he stammered, perspiration breaking out on his forehead. "I had a great respect for them, and your tragic news has upset me."

Gesina laughed contemptuously.

"Considering that they always treated you like dirt, you needn't wear mourning for them," she retorted. "Don't be a fool, Hermann. All I want to know is when we can be married? I'm tired of living alone."

The last sentence put an idea into his head. It reminded him that she had two children. In faltering tones he suggested that it would be inadvisable to marry. He swore that he had nothing saved, and that it would be too heavy a burden for him to provide for a wife who would bring with her another man's two children.

If Gesina had not been satisfied that she had the means of removing everybody who stood in her way she would have been extremely angry with Gottfried, but now she only became pensive, and a little later proceeded to discuss his objection in detail.

"You don't object to me, I suppose?" she asked, holding her clasped hands under her chin.

He protested with many oaths that he loved her to distraction, but that the children were so many barriers to their marriage because he was really poor.

"Very well," she observed, before changing the subject, "I will wait until the children are not a burden to anybody."

A fortnight later she met him again.

"My children are dead," she said simply. "They had convulsions a week ago, and quickly passed away. I am now quite alone in the world."

The man regarded her with horror. It is most likely that he was the only person who suspected that these unexplained deaths were no mysteries to her. But he could not have thought for a moment that she was a fivefold murderess!

Gottfried was an ignorant and superstitious man, and he knew nothing about poisons. All the deaths caused by Gesina's "white powder" had been duly certified by respectable local practitioners, and he had not the courage to create a scandal by voicing his suspicions regarding the two children.

There was something fascinating about Gesina, and Gottfried's will power always vanished when he was with her. But nevertheless, he made a brave struggle to resist her, and, although he agreed to an engagement, he never had the slightest intention of becoming her husband.

Gesina pretended to be satisfied with his promise, and even when, as the occasion arose, he put forward the flimsiest of excuses to postpone the ceremony, she was ever contented and apparently happy. A few months went by, and there were no more sudden deaths among her relatives. Gottfried's fears left him and he began to think of her as he had in the days when she was a young bride.

Yet he stopped short at marriage, and beyond an engagement would not go. As the young woman very seldom referred to the former he was very pleased to take her to the cafés and to the theatres, and generally have a good time in her society. But he totally misunderstood the character of the creature who called herself his sweetheart. Gesina was content because she had already devised a method by which she knew that she would accomplish her object. She had not poisoned five human beings without learning a lot, and she was now an expert. She knew exactly how to kill and how to cause an illness without fatal results, and she decided to dose Gottfried until she had so weakened him in body and mind that he would be mentally as well as physically at her mercy.

The infatuated fool never suspected anything, and when his mysterious illness began he did not draw any inferences from the fact that Gesina often sat by his side while he was drinking. Of course the vile creature had used every opportunity to administer arsenic in small quantities, and she had many, because she insisted upon nursing him.

It was a most scientific and crafty murder, because as Gottfried grew weaker he got more affectionate, and she gave him the poison so cleverly, and worked upon his feelings so astutely, that he came to regard her as his devoted nurse! He would allow no one else to come near him or give him his medicine, and every day his passion for her increased, and he shed tears when she was not with him. Gesina, after coaxing him to take poisoned soup, would sit by his bed and cheer him by painting their future together in rosy colours. She would not hear of a fatal issue to his illness, and what with her gaiety and her optimism the patient thought her an angel.

But despite her "nursing" he grew worse every day, until it was obvious that he was going to die. By this time he was too weak to be able to think of anything except his love for Gesina, and at last he asked her as a favour to marry him on his death-bed.

Within an hour of his proposal, Gesina, dressed in black, called upon a clergyman, and told a heart-rending story of a dying lover who had implored her to ease his last hours by consenting to be his wife. The minister of religion was touched, and instantly agreed to marry them. He repaired at once to the death-chamber, and there the dying man and the murderess joined hands and were made man and wife. Within twenty-four hours, however, Gesina was a widow again, for Gottfried passed away as the result of an extra strong dose which she administered twenty minutes after she had become Frau Gottfried.

She did not lose anything by the marriage even if she did not gain much. Gottfried left a few hundred pounds, and to this sum she succeeded. Her principal motive for marrying him was vanity. So many persons had talked sneeringly of her long engagement to Gottfried that Gesina knew it would surprise and mortify the gossipers if she did really become his wife, and to gratify this whim she slowly poisoned him!

But her successes were so numerous, that she took to poisoning people as a hobby. The "white powder" was her infallible remedy for removing objectionable men and women. She did not fear the doctors, and she laughed at their ignorance. Most of them were quacks, and none of them were a match for the quick-witted woman, who seemed to flourish on murder. She might dwell in an atmosphere of death, yet there were always men to court her, and the good-looking widow had several proposals.

The third opportunity to marry, which she decided to accept, came from a prosperous merchant, who was fascinated by the young face and the glib tongue of the poisoner. He met Gesina for the first time at Gottfried's funeral, and he had accompanied her home with a few other friends to comfort her, and after that he frequently called, until it was obvious that Gesina liked him. That unlucky merchant was, however, indirectly responsible for one of Gesina's most brutal crimes ere he, too, fell a victim to her devilish arts.

One night the merchant was chatting with the widow, when a tall, stout soldier staggered into the room the worse for drink. Gesina and the merchant started to their feet, and the latter would have turned upon the drunkard had not the woman recognized her brother, whom she had not seen for years. During those years Wilhelm had not improved; he was, in fact, after the stamp of her first husband, Miltenberg, a drunkard and a bully, and he now insisted upon being made welcome, behaved rudely, insulted Gesina's lover, and was only pacified by offerings of unlimited beer. When he had drunk sufficient he announced his intention of remaining in the house, and there was every reason to suspect that he intended to cadge and bully her out of her small means before taking his departure.

But the "white powder" solved the problem. Gesina woke him up in the middle of the night with a glass of beer in her hand, which he delightedly drank, and thanked her with brotherly affection. At nine o'clock he was a corpse, and when Gesina knocked on his door and called out the time she received no answer. She had not expected one.

The merchant, who had been thoroughly disgusted with the soldier's behaviour, could scarcely express conventional regret when he heard the news, and he gained Gesina's gratitude by paying the funeral expenses. Out of gratitude Gesina fixed the date for their marriage, but a week before the ceremony was to be performed her lover fell ill.

His days on earth were now numbered. Gesina, averse to becoming his wife, had poisoned him, but in the same way as she had done Gottfried. She dosed him into a state of utter helplessness, and when he was prostrate she induced him to make a will in her favour. This was the day before he died. The doctor was never even suspicious, and her lover was buried. Then she retained a clever lawyer to collect his effects, turn them into hard cash, and remit the money to her. A few relatives protested, but Gesina and the lawyer settled them, and the murderess entered with intense satisfaction into possession of three thousand pounds, a large sum to her.

A year subsequent to this crime she was again engaged, and once more she slowly poisoned her fiancé and he made her his heir. When his will had been drawn up she administered the final dose, and, having allowed a few days to elapse, proceeded to inquire into the extent of her inheritance.

Greatly to her anger and astonishment, she discovered that she had been hoaxed. Her victim had left nothing except debts, and she had wasted valuable arsenic upon him. To add insult to injury, rumours spread that Gesina had inherited a large fortune, and several persons who had lent her money began to press for repayment.

Besides being a murderess, Gesina was very mean. She could borrow from the poorest of her acquaintances, but she would not repay them even when she had a considerable amount to her credit. She loved money, and nothing pleased her better than to add to her store of gold coins. She was in the habit of carrying five hundred pounds about with her in notes and gold, and she gradually acquired a collection of jewellery.

It is difficult to write of her as a human being. One can hardly imagine that she ever existed, and yet all the details of her career I have given are on the official records of the German Criminal Courts.

Gesina with the blue eyes and the merry laugh went through life scattering death on each side of her. She could crack a joke with a man who was dying at her hands. She could dress in black and shed tears over a coffin, and at the same time debate with herself as to her next victim. She poisoned innocent and inoffensive persons just to keep her hand in. When she had over a thousand pounds she murdered a woman because she had asked for the return of a loan of five pounds.

The last-named affair occurred after the murder of the lover who had tricked her in death. Gesina's friend lived in Hamburg, and, having fallen upon evil times, and hearing that her old acquaintance was now a rich widow, she wrote asking to be repaid the money she had lent her. Gesina sent an affectionate letter in return, inviting Katrine to visit her, when she would not only pay her the debt, but add a present for her past kindness. It is only necessary for me to add that Katrine never returned to Hamburg for my readers to realize what happened to her when she became Gesina's guest.

But on account of her numerous crimes Gesina was compelled to change her residence frequently, and when she bought a house in Bremen it was the sixth German town in which she had settled.

The house she took was capable of accommodating several families, and she considered it a safe investment for her "earnings." But somehow things went wrong. She was an expert poisoner, but she was not good at business, and eventually she had to raise a mortgage on her property at a ruinous rate of interest.

Gesina's ambition had always been to appear better off than her neighbours, and now, in order to gratify her vanity, she forgot her old passion for hoarding money. She lived luxuriously and dressed well, and, realizing that her mind was beginning to be reflected in her face, she took to paint and powder to conceal her true character. Youth had fled from her, although she was young in years. She was thin, scraggy, and unpleasing to the eye, but Gesina acquired the art of making up, and she was able to pose as a young-looking widow who had known sorrow without having been hardened by it.

For two years she played her part so well that she escaped detection. The "pretty widow" became a well-known character in Bremen, and it was often rumoured that she was about to be married again. But somehow an accident always happened at the critical moment. Either it was the wrong man, and then Gesina simply poisoned him, or else the right man became uneasy and backed out of the engagement, and the murderess felt that she dare not protest too much lest she should expose herself and her past to inquiry. Anyhow, she was still a widow when the mortgagees foreclosed and took possession of her apartment house.

Gesina was now really poor. All her savings had gone, and with them her credit. She was actually in danger of starvation, and her condition was so forlorn that when the new owner of the house—he had purchased it from the mortgagees—came to turn her out and install his own family, he was so touched by her distress—and she looked so pathetically pretty as she sobbed in the darkened room—that he gave her the position of his housekeeper.

Herr Rumf was one of the most respected tradesmen in Bremen. A master wheelwright, he employed several hands, and was considered a generous employer. His wife and children adored him, and he was just the sort of man to be affected by a forlorn widow's grief, for he was large-hearted and easily roused to deeds of generosity.

Gesina was not long in Rumf's employment before she planned out a regular campaign of murder. She resolved to murder her employer's wife, and thus regain her ownership of the house, in addition to becoming the mistress of his fortune, for once she was his wife she meant to dispose of him as she had Gottfried and the infatuated merchant. As for Rumf, he unconsciously became a willing party to the plot. His own wife, aged by the cares of a large family, was not exactly an exhilarating companion, and he was charmed of an evening on his return from his shop by Gesina's ready wit and her stories of fashionable persons she pretended to have known when she was better off.

When Frau Rumf gave birth to a child it was Gesina who attended her, and who at night waited on Rumf, and banished his melancholia. He, too, began to cherish dangerous thoughts, and when his wife's illness took a turn for the worse, following the unexpected death of her infant, he was not nearly as distressed as he would have been had he never made the acquaintance of the widow who had "come down in the world," as she often assured him.

The unfortunate wife died, and Gesina was given the charge of the five little children. Herr Rumf could not neglect his business. It was of far more importance to him than his family; and, while he observed all the conventions in mourning for his wife, he was too good a German to allow her decease to interfere with money-making. Gesina, therefore, reigned over his household; and, recalling what Gottfried had said about children being an obstacle to matrimony, she poisoned all five in the most fiendishly cruel manner.

The amazing thing is that Rumf never suspected that the seven tragedies in his household were not mere accidents of fortune. He was suspected of aiding and abetting the murderess, but as he very nearly became one of her victims he was not prosecuted, especially as he actually brought her career to an end.

His last child had just been interred when Herr Rumf himself had a breakdown. For some days he had found it impossible to retain food, and he was wasting away, when he ordered one of the pigs he kept to be killed and a portion of the meat cooked for him. As Gesina was then visiting some friends the meal was prepared by a servant, and to Rumf's extreme delight he found that it agreed with him. It was the first food he had eaten for a fortnight that he was able to digest.

Pleased at the discovery, he had a goodly piece of the pig placed in the larder for future use, being determined to live on pork until he found something else to agree with him. Nearly every day he took a look at the meat, just to see that it was all right, and it was only by accident that Gesina did not get to know of this. Rumf had forgotten to tell her of his wonderful discovery, and when she came across the spare rib of pork in the larder she guessed who it was for, without realizing all that it meant to Rumf, and decided that it would provide a safe medium for administering another dose of arsenic to him. She accordingly sprinkled it with the white powder, not knowing how affectionately her employer regarded that particular piece of meat, and ignorant of the fact that he scarcely thought of anything else from morning until night.

One day Rumf came home earlier than he was expected. Gesina was gossiping with a neighbour, and did not see him enter the house. The wheelwright went to the larder to have a peep at his beloved pork, and he noticed immediately that it had been shifted. He picked it up to replace it, and then he saw the white powder. At once he remembered having seen similar powder before. It was in a salad which Gesina had prepared for him just before the beginning of his illness.

Without scarcely pausing to think, he wrapped the meat up in a cloth, and carried it to the police, who had it examined.

When the doctor reported that the white powder was arsenic Gesina was arrested. She instantly confessed in the most brazen-faced manner, recounting her exploits from the day she had murdered her first husband down to the attempt on Rumf's life, and, knowing that she would be shown no mercy, she reviled her gaolers, and defied them to do their worst.

Her trial and condemnation in 1828 followed as a matter of course, but Gesina went to her death with a mincing gait, and a sneer for mankind in general. She expressed only one regret, and that was that the notoriety her evil deeds had earned for her had resulted in the public becoming aware that her teeth were false!

[CHAPTER III]
BELLE STAR, THE GIRL BUSHRANGER

When the American Civil War came to an end it set free from discipline thousands of rough, lawless men, many of whom subsequently adopted crime as a profession. Amongst them was the father of Belle Star. He was a tall, powerfully-built man, with rugged features and gorilla-like arms, a crack shot and a fearless horseman, and during the four years Star had fought on behalf of the Southern against the Northern States he had revelled in the conflict. Peace had no charms for him, and when the rival parties settled their differences he decided to make war on both. In other words, he took to the bush with half a dozen tried and trusted comrades, and for several years the gang, which steadily grew in numbers, terrorised the country-side.

Belle, his only child, was born near a battlefield and within sound of the booming of the guns. The mother did not long survive her birth, but, although nearly always on the march, Belle was well looked after. She was a pretty, fairy-like child, with blue eyes and an engaging manner, and she was the pet of the camp. The Southern soldiers called her their mascot, and before she was five she could handle a pistol, and by the time she was ten she was expert in the use of the lasso, carbine, bowie knife, and revolver.

When Star turned bushranger Belle was only twelve, but she was already well qualified to be a prominent member of his gang. Only her father excelled her as a shot, and in horsemanship she was without a rival. Wild and apparently untamable steeds that Star himself dare not mount became docile as soon as Belle took them in hand. Animals loved her; men feared and respected her.

She grew into a beauty, slim and fragile-looking, yet in reality very strong, intelligent, audacious and clever. When she was only fifteen she was once left in charge of the headquarters of the outlaws for a whole day whilst they rode to a certain town and held up the bank. During their absence a tramp attempted to rob the camp, but although he took Belle by surprise she soon had him on the defensive, and instead of killing her she killed him with her small white hands, slowly forcing the thief backwards with her hands around his throat; then down on his knees, and, finally, left him a corpse at her feet. On the return of the outlaws she told her father what had happened, and he there and then named Belle as his successor in the leadership of the gang, and every man present swore to obey her when her turn came to reign over them.

Reared amid bloodshed, taught every day to regard human life as anything but sacred, and educated to believe that it was no sin to rob, it is not astonishing that at the age of eighteen Belle, for all her beauty, was a thorough-paced criminal. She had already shot down at least half a dozen men; like her father she feared nothing, and flying along on a swift horse she was capable of hitting any human target within sight.

More than once her marksmanship had saved the gang from being surrounded and overpowered, and during the last two years of her father's life it was really her brain that guided the band of outlaws.

But the inevitable day came when Star, the terror of Texas, was slain in a running fight, and Belle succeeded to the vacant leadership.

Only those who knew what she really was could have taken her seriously in her new capacity. She was eighteen, with refined, delicate features, lovely blue eyes, a pair of rosy lips, and a slim figure. By now the gang consisted of twenty men, all veterans in vice and crime, big, brawny, evil and coarse. Not one of them would have hesitated to cut the throat of his own mother, yet Belle during her reign held them in the hollow of her hand.

They never dared to disobey her. There was never any talk of mutiny, as there had been in her father's lifetime, and animated by this perfect loyalty the gang went on from success to success, and Belle Star, the greatest of all female bushrangers, kept in subjection scores of villages and towns.

One of the first acts of the bloodthirsty spitfire was to "avenge," as she called it, the death of her father. Star had sent to their last account at least forty men and women, but Belle would have it that his death had been undeserved, and that because he had never robbed the very poor the Sheriff had no right to shoot him for trying to evade arrest. So she marked down the Sheriff for execution, and with six of her followers set out for the lonely farm belonging to the county official.

Despite the fact that she knew that the Sheriff was keeping a sharp watch for her, Belle did not hesitate to wreak vengeance on him. It was in the early hours of a June morning that she and her six followers rode out of the camp, and for five hours they travelled, only stopping when within half a mile of the Sheriff's residence. Then they dismounted, carefully tethered their horses in a wood, and did the remainder of the journey on foot, Belle leading the way, revolver in hand.

It was a lovely day, and as the Sheriff inspected his farm workers, a score of sturdy men devoted to his interests, he could hardly have suspected danger. He was fully protected and well armed in case of attack, and, feeling secure, he wandered aimlessly towards the most remote corners of his property. He was idly sauntering in the direction of a tool-shed, when two men sprang at him, and before he could utter a sound had him on his back, gagged and bound.

Half an hour later the Sheriff was led before Belle Star, who was standing under an old tree waiting for him. There was very little beauty in her face now. Her eyes shone like a tigress', and her small white hands were clenched.

Belle was smelling blood and gloating in the coming murder of the man who had executed justice upon her father.

The outlaw chieftainess called it a "trial," but the Sheriff was doomed from the first. As they were out of earshot she allowed the gag to be removed from his mouth, and then he was mockingly asked if he could suggest any reason why he should not be suspended from the tree under which they had assembled.

The Sheriff was a brave man, and he knew that his fate was sealed. He did not, therefore, make any plea for mercy, but in the curtest tones told Belle that he was merely one more victim of hers, but that in time his murder would be avenged. He was proceeding to taunt her with her disgraceful life, when she flushed angrily, and ordered him to be strung up.

Her commands were obeyed, and Belle's last act was to scribble on a piece of paper, "Executed by Belle Star," and pin it to his coat, before she rode away with her six ruffians.

The murder of the Sheriff aroused the country, and it seemed that Belle's career must be a short one. Rewards were offered for her death or capture amounting to more than ten thousand dollars.

All classes organized to hunt down the notorious female criminal. Respectable citizens enrolled themselves as patrols to guard their homes, and for miles around there was not a town or village without its special defence. But Belle had her own system of obtaining information, and she learnt early all about the preparations that were being made to capture her, laughing and derisively boasting that she would outwit all her foes.

It was her fearlessness and audacity allied to success that held the gang in subjection. Belle could do no wrong. When any of them attempted a job on their own account they invariably failed. Thus when Belle injured her arm, and had to travel two hundred miles disguised in order to see a doctor, four of her followers thought they would rob a jewellery establishment and keep the "swag" for themselves. They found courage in drink, and proceeded to attack the shop, but everything went wrong from the start. They were surprised by a patrol, and a fight ensued, in the course of which two of them were shot dead. The others escaped, and reached the camp in an exhausted condition, and when Belle returned she punished them by making them do all the dirty work of the camp for a month, and fined the discomfited scoundrels by refusing to allow them to participate in the results of the next expedition.

That a young girl could dominate a gang of bloodthirsty ruffians in this manner would be incredible if the story of Belle Star's life was not fully authenticated.

With her usual cunning Belle waited until the enthusiasm of the numerous Defence Committees was cooled by inaction before resuming hostilities. For several weeks nothing was seen of her gang, and rumours began to circulate that she had fled with her followers to a less highly organized district, having realized that the good people of Texas were too clever for her.

Disguised as a man, Belle would visit various towns, and in the market places and hotels listen to legends about herself. She would laugh the loudest when the leading citizens eloquently depicted her fate if they got her into their hands. She had a sense of humour, and she could stroll into a local Court and watch petty thieves being sentenced, and applaud moral sentiments uttered by the presiding judge, who could not know that the notorious female bushranger was sitting a few feet away from him!

But her greatest exploit, apart from her many crimes, was the winning of two races on the same day in full view of thousands of spectators. It happened that a town which had often suffered from her depredations decided to hold a special race meeting, and amongst several prizes two large sums of money were offered to the winners of two particular races, one being for male and the other for female jockeys.

Belle, realising that she was an expert rider, determined to enter for both events, and as the one for men took place an hour before that for the ladies, she assumed male attire, and as a handsome young man rode on to the racecourse. After giving a false name she was permitted to take her place at the post, and as her horse was the fleetest, and she was the most skilful jockey, victory followed as a matter of course.

She received the stakes from the local mayor, made a speech of thanks, and then retired. When she reappeared she was dressed as a country girl, and this time she was leading another horse.

She looked so simple and sweet that the stewards were only too delighted to accept her entry for the race for female jockeys, and loud was the applause when the young beauty came in an easy first. Once more Belle attended before the élite of the town to receive a considerable sum of money, and she was cheered to the echo by the huge crowd, amongst whom there were hundreds of men who had sworn to capture Belle Star alive or dead.

The funds proved very useful to the gang, but, better than that, the men were so surprised and delighted by her double exploit that they became more slavish in their devotion to her. Belle was supreme. She knew now that if she led them into the very jaws of hell they would not draw back or complain.

Owing to her father's depredations having created a reign of terror amongst the country banks, a rule had been made requiring all cashiers to keep a fully loaded revolver on their desks, whilst if any suspicious stranger entered the premises one of the other clerks was to cover him unostentatiously with a revolver, and shoot at the first sign of danger. This innovation having reduced considerably the number of bank "hold-ups," it created a belief that it had succeeded in frightening away Belle Star's gang, but Belle proved that that was a great mistake.

Adopting her usual disguise of a young farmer, Belle went alone to Galveston to pick up gossip, and she was fortunate enough to overhear at one of the principal hotels a conversation between two merchants which revealed the interesting fact that a week later the National Bank was due to receive a consignment in gold amounting to one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars.

That was the sort of thing that fired Belle's imagination, and although she knew that the National Bank was well guarded, and that the manager and cashier transacted business fully armed, she resolved to capture that consignment of gold.

She returned to her headquarters to give final instructions to her followers, and then she went back to Galveston, but this time she had assumed the character of a little old woman with a thin voice and a hesitating manner. She "fluttered" in the approved fashion of nervous old ladies, and more than one polite citizen of Galveston hastened to help her across the road when they saw her shrinking from lumbering cart horses.

It was exactly ten minutes before closing time when Belle timidly entered the National Bank and presented a cheque, which she asked the cashier to change for her. She looked so pathetic in her black clothes, and was so apologetic and yet friendly, that the cashier felt quite sorry when he had to tell her that he could not oblige her for the simple reason that the cheque was drawn on the bank's branch at Austin, the capital of Texas. Perhaps some of his politeness was inspired by a glance at the signature on the cheque, which was that of a well-known United States diplomat.

The poor old lady looked greatly distressed, and when at last she fully understood that she was not to have the money she showed signs of collapsing. The cashier and one of the clerks hastened to come to her assistance, and they assisted her into the manager's office, where she sank on to a chair, and huskily whispered that she would be all right in a few moments.

Manager, cashier and clerk were glancing at one another when they were startled to hear the command—"Hands up!" The next moment the "little old lady" was covering them with her revolver, whilst six of the outlaws under her command entered the building, closed the door of the bank, and made all the officials prisoners. Then they visited the vaults and the strong-room, and, having waited until darkness had fallen, took the gold out and packed it in the van brought for the purpose, eventually riding away leisurely.

It was not until the early hours of the following morning that the trussed-up and gagged bank staff were discovered and released. By then Belle Star was far away, and for the next two days the gang were busy changing their quarters in case they had been tracked to their camp. This single exploit made them all rich, but, of course, there was no limit to their greed, and no sooner was it accomplished than Belle began to plan others equally daring.

But she had a woman's vanity, and she brooded over insults and taunts which a man would have ignored, and she sometimes risked her own safety and that of her followers to avenge a petty slight.

She once happened to be in a populous town near Austin, when she heard the local judge declare that he knew Belle Star by sight and that he would shortly arrest her, and have her publicly whipped before handing her over to the Lynchers. The girl brigand and the judge were actually seated next to one another at the table d'hôte dinner at the hotel when he said this.

Belle smiled at his delusion, but when he proceeded to speak of her in opprobrious terms and gave her credit for more crimes than murder and robbery her anger nearly led her into revealing her identity. But she maintained control of herself, and after a little reflection decided to wait until the following morning before punishing the boastful judge.

Next morning after breakfast—she had registered as a man, and, of course wore male clothes—she mounted her horse in front of the hotel, and then sent a servant to tell the judge that a stranger wished to speak to him. At this time of day everybody was at work, and the hotel staff were busy indoors and in the stables. When the judge appeared he and Belle were practically alone, as she knew, and without hesitating she blandly informed him that she was Belle Star, and then raised her whip and lashed him in the face.

The judge was so astounded that he was unable to escape her until she had lacerated him considerably, and, half blind and smarting from pain, his shrieks for help were unanswered until Belle had reached a place of safety.

It is a well-known fact that when a woman deliberately embraces crime as a profession she is generally more brutal and merciless than the average male criminal. It was so with Belle Star. The fair-haired girl with the sunny smile and the lovely lips could in cold blood sentence to death a young man whose only offence was that he had tried to defend his property and his life.

Belle, too, was in the habit of accepting her own suspicions as full proof. Once a well-laid scheme came to naught because at the last moment the owner of the shop that had been marked down for attack awoke to a realization of his danger and secured reinforcements. The outlaws were driven off, and Belle, savagely discontented and disappointed, came to the conclusion that her plans had been betrayed by a young farm hand who had been in her pay as a spy.

She, therefore, sent two of her followers to arrest him, but the suspect gave them no trouble, for he came willingly. Then Belle coldly told him of his offence. He swore he was innocent, but she cut him short by drawing her revolver and putting a bullet in his brain, and the gang buried the suspected traitor with as much nonchalance as they would have interred a dog.

It is impossible, however, to relate all her exploits. She personally led onslaughts on banks, stores, private houses, and public buildings.

She had a solution for every problem and a way out of every difficulty. When one of her men was arrested and was in imminent danger of death, Belle, finding that the judge could not be kidnapped, proceeded to make a prisoner of his wife, and the judge subsequently found a note pinned to his pillow, informing him that unless the captured outlaw was allowed to go free the lady would be murdered. He was given only twenty-four hours to save her, but, as the town was in a ferment over the excesses of the gang, the judge, guessing that he dare not acquit the prisoner, had to connive at his escape in order to prevent the murder of his wife. He had a bad time of it when his fellow-citizens heard how they had been cheated of their prey, and he was compelled to resign, but as his wife was returned safe and unharmed he was not sorry that he had placated the outlaw.

Belle had plenty of friends who worked secretly for her. They did not take any part in the raids, but they were very useful in supplying information and warnings, and more than once the gang escaped, thanks to the timely advice of these spies. Thus when Belle was heading an expedition to rob a bank, she looked for and found a certain mark on the bark of a particular tree within a couple of miles of the town. That told her that the bank had obtained the protection of the authorities, and would be more than a match for the outlaws. She proceeded no farther, and she afterwards learned that the proprietor of the bank had planned to capture the gang. Their disappointment when she and her followers never turned up at all was a source of amusement to her, and compensated for the collapse of her plans.

For a long time, however, the Government would not take any action against the marauders, maintaining that the local authorities ought to be able to deal with them. But, when within the space of a month five banks and six shops were burgled and nine innocent lives were lost, the Government realized that this was no local problem but a national affair after all. Belle Star was terrorizing the country in no unmistakable manner. Her word was law, and the State was ignored.

Hundreds of small farmers paid her weekly tributes to save them from being robbed of their all, and things came to such a pass that some mean-spirited persons actually proposed that each town should pay ransom money to Belle if she would only promise to keep away!

When the troops took the field against her Belle's days were numbered, although she refused to admit this, and she issued proclamations inviting the soldiers to come on. Certainly the initial encounters ended favourably for Belle. She added to her recruits, provided them with plenty of ammunition, and, setting an example of fearlessness, led them against the soldiers, and drove them off.

She had by now her headquarters in the midst of a forest, and it was possible for travellers to pass within a few yards of the huts without knowing that they were there. Beyond the huts was a miniature fortress which commanded the approach to the forest, and, as it could be attacked from one side only, it was easy for half a dozen desperate men, all expert marksmen, to hold hundreds at bay.

Despite the fact that a regiment of soldiers was searching for her and her gang, Belle refused to lie low. Her raids continued, and when a spy of hers appealed for help she promptly responded, although it involved great risks. This spy, a woman employed as a cook in an hotel, had a husband who had been arrested for a trivial offence, but as he had a bad record it was certain that if the judge discovered it he would give the fellow a long sentence.

As the prisoner had come from New York, the police of the latter city were asked for particulars of his career, and they responded by sending a list of his previous convictions to the judge at Galveston.

But the damaging papers arrived on a Friday night, and before the judge could see them Belle personally entered the post office, held up the staff, examined the correspondence, and, having found the bulging packet from the New York Chief of Police, took it away and destroyed it. The result was that the spy's husband was treated as a first offender, and let off with a nominal fine.

The day after this exploit Belle was riding alone near her camp, when she was attacked by two soldiers, who suspected her identity. They followed, thinking that they could capture the famous brigand easily. But Belle's object was to separate them, and when the man on the swifter horse outdistanced his comrade Belle turned in her saddle and, despite the pace at which she was going, killed him with her first shot. His corpse had scarcely struck the ground when a second bullet ended the career of the other soldier.

These exploits gained for her a great deal of sympathy. The Texans were essentially a sporting race, and they argued that if a regiment of soldiers could not overcome a slip of a girl and a score of brigands then they deserved to be beaten. This was extraordinary, in view of the fact that Belle had robbed and pillaged all alike. The very poor she had spared for the reason that they were not worth robbing, but it was accounted a virtue unto her, and numerous acts of benevolence by her enhanced her reputation.

The fact was that Belle was as cunning as she was unscrupulous. She distributed money and provisions amongst the poor and worthless not because she had any pity for them, but because it was the cheapest way of obtaining the support at critical moments of a large portion of the population. Every gaolbird looked up to Belle as a subject does to a Sovereign, and they respected her all the more when they knew that she admitted to membership of her gang only the best experts in the criminal line.

At least four pitched battles were fought between the outlaws and the Government soldiers before the final encounter. Belle seemed to bear a charmed life. She always headed her colleagues and took the greatest risks, and when she emerged without a scratch from the fiercest encounters her ignorant and superstitious followers began to believe that she was not mortal. They had often seen her ride at a troop of armed soldiers and coolly pick off the officers, while all the time a perfect hail of bullets had sung around her fair head without touching her.

Whenever the battle was going against the outlaws it was Belle who revived their drooping courage, and she twice turned defeat into victory by her marvellous shooting. The outwitted and beaten commanders were compelled to send for reinforcements, and, so variable is human nature, when a hundred weary and dust-strained troopers entered Austin, the town they had come to save, they were jeered at by the ungrateful inhabitants, who had learnt that in a pitched battle with Belle Star's outlaws the soldiers had been worsted.

Belle's end was fittingly dramatic. She was celebrating a run of success against banks and shops with a feast when news came that two hundred and fifty soldiers under the command of a major were advancing to storm the fort. Instantly she sprang to her feet and ordered every man to his place.

She was sobered in a moment by the news, which was as unexpected as it was unpleasant; and there were several of her followers who had drunk too much to be of use. In vain did Belle shake and curse them and even implore them to wake up. They could only stagger forward a few paces and collapse. One man, in a fit of drunken hilarity and bravado, began to fire indiscriminately, thereby revealing the hiding-place of the outlaws, and Belle was so enraged that she brained him with her carbine. There was no time to remove the corpse, for the soldiers could be heard approaching now, and Belle, realizing that this time it was going to be a fight to a finish, put herself at the head of her garrison, and prepared to conquer or die.

The outlaws were well entrenched, and had a plentiful supply of ammunition, but they were up against equally desperate men now. At last, seeing that if they remained in the fort those who were not killed outright would be captured, Belle personally led a sortie against the enemy, hoping to escape in the confusion. The men followed her gladly, remembering their previous victories, but most of them were still fuddled by drink, and in the circumstances could not be expected to show to advantage.

Belle was the only one to fight at her best. She displayed amazing courage, time after time heading attacks on the troopers, who were so flustered as to show signs of panic. But the commander rallied them, and as by now the troopers regarded Belle Star as a demon and not as a human being they pressed forward to destroy her without being affected by her sex or age. When things were going against her she collected a few of her followers, and made one last desperate attempt to break through the ring of soldiers, but her luck failed her, and she fell riddled with bullets. It was the death she had always desired.

[CHAPTER IV]
THE WOMAN WITH THE FATAL EYES

Jeanne Daniloff was reared in an atmosphere of mystery, intrigue and squalor. Her father was one of the many victims of Russian tyranny, and he had been forced to wander about Europe, going from one cheap boarding-house to another, accompanied by a wife who resented his lack of worldly success, and by a daughter who, as she grew older, rebelled against the squalid isolation of the life they were leading.

But Jeanne was not the sort of girl to accept her fate quietly. She had inherited her father's fanaticism, though she never applied it to political purposes, and also her mother's temper, and, becoming tired of the frequent quarrels between her parents, she eloped to Paris with an old gentleman. Jeanne was not sixteen, well developed, hardly a beauty, but possessed of a pair of remarkable eyes. She was well described later as "The woman with the fatal eyes." Jeanne was not destined to live many years, and yet during her brief career she hypnotized to their ruin three men, all of whom were, presumably, persons of education and position.

The ambitious, fiery-natured Russian girl meant to have a good time. Jeanne Daniloff was a curious mixture of pride and self-abasement. She hated poverty and she loved love. In her opinion the world ought to have been populated only by handsome men able to provide her with every luxury, with a sprinkling of women to flatter her by their jealousy. Warm-hearted and warm-blooded, reared in poverty and trouble, Jeanne Daniloff was born to play a tragic rôle on the stage of life.

Her first escapade did not last longer than six months and by the time her elderly friend had deserted her Jeanne was an orphan. At that moment her fate was trembling in the balance, and she might have been left in her loneliness to sink to the lowest depths had not her grandmother, who had always loved the reckless and irresponsible girl, offered her a home. Jeanne accepted, and went to live at Nice, encouraged, no doubt, by the knowledge that Nice had many carnivals, and was a resort of the rich.

Her grandmother, who kept a boarding-house, was soon cured of her delusion that Jeanne would help her in the conduct of her establishment. Household work was not to the liking of the young girl, who thought only of dresses and dances and men, and while the old lady was left to look after her boarders Jeanne spent the days reading novels and the nights dancing. She became a well-known figure at the numerous dancing halls in Nice, and most men forgot her rather plain features once they came under the spell of her "fatal eyes." Jeanne had only to look at a man to bring him to her feet. Once she realized her power she revelled in it, and, despite her aptitude for doing nothing, she managed to educate herself to hold her own in the best society, into which she sometimes strayed.

There is always at least one critical turning point in the careers of women of the Daniloff type, and Jeanne's came unexpectedly at a ball at Nice. She was chatting with a couple of friends between dances when the master of ceremonies begged to be allowed to present a newcomer to her. A few moments later Jeanne Daniloff was face to face with a tall, pale young man with a weak mouth and a nervous manner. Jeanne looked at him with her fatal eyes, and he was her slave.

Weiss was a lieutenant in the French Army, of good family, and with a future. In that crowd of adventurers and witlings he was a somebody, and when the following day he called on Jeanne at her grandmother's boarding-house he thrilled her with a proposal of marriage. It was not unexpected. Jeanne must have known that she had fascinated him, but she was nevertheless pleased at the prospect of becoming Madame Weiss, and in her usual manner she flung herself impetuously into the arms of her lover.

Her happiness was short-lived, however. Weiss's mother, when she heard of her son's intention, made it her business to interview Jeanne. Madame Weiss was not to be fascinated by the "fatal eyes," and she summed up the character of the boarding-house siren in terms that left no doubt in her son's mind that she would never consent to the union. As according to the law of France the young officer could not marry without his mother's permission the brief engagement between him and Jeanne came to an end.

The Russian girl quickly recovered her spirits and once again abandoned herself to the gaieties of Nice. The prospect of losing her turned Weiss's love into a burning passion. He attended balls just to catch a glimpse of her; and it maddened him to see her smiling into the faces of men he imagined to be his rivals. Daily he pestered his mother to give her consent, but she held out against him, and at last Weiss had to resort to desperate measures.

With his promotion to the rank of captain he received orders to go to Oran in Algiers. The night before he was due to leave Nice he sought out Jeanne and implored her to elope with him. Of course he was in complete ignorance of the fact that the girl had already had that "affair" with that elderly gentleman which had terminated in Paris. Young Weiss used all the eloquence of which he was capable, unable to realize that he was addressing one to whom elopement appealed irresistibly because it was an adventure.

They left together for Oran, and shortly after their arrival set up housekeeping under the soft, alluring skies of Algiers. The humid climate suited Jeanne. The mysticism and romantic beauty of North Africa captivated her; she revelled in the colour, the movement and the variety of the native towns and villages. As the reputed wife of Captain Weiss she mixed in the best society, and Jeanne was soon a popular hostess, whilst her fascination for men was as remarkable as ever it had been.

Meanwhile, the much-in-love Weiss had not ceased to pester his mother, and she, feeling that it would be foolish to resist any longer, gave her consent, and Captain Weiss and Jeanne Daniloff were married.

The ceremony had a curious effect upon Jeanne. She became deeply religious. Every morning she read the Bible, and her prayers were never neglected. She took to visiting the poor and her charity was boundless. Her husband was delighted. He was her most devoted admirer, and as he possessed qualities which made him an ideal husband she ought to have been very happy.

For a time Jeanne mastered herself sufficiently to appreciate him and to show her devotion by living only for him. His abilities had by now been recognized by the French Government, which had permitted him to retire from the army and take a well-paid civil appointment in the Algerian service. There was, therefore, no lack of money, and when in course of time Jeanne was the mother of two fine children, a son and a daughter, she seemed to be the happiest wife and mother in Oran.

She had the means to give dinner-parties and garden-parties, and the very best people were amongst her intimate friends. It was, indeed, a decided change from the boarding-house at Nice and the cheap dancing halls.

Soon after the birth of her second child—in the early part of 1889—Captain Weiss bought a charming house and grounds at Ain-Fezza, near Oran. It was an ideal residence, and everyone envied Madame Weiss her home, her children and her husband. She had the reputation of being a most devout Christian and a good wife and mother.

The Paris elopement seemed to belong to another world. The reckless pleasure-seeking Jeanne Daniloff might never have existed, yet the time was fast approaching when her real self was to come to the surface again. Nothing could have prevented her being herself. She could not help her own nature. The daughter of the Russian revolutionaries, a veritable child of storm, could not maintain the character she had earned in Oran; and when all appeared well with her she plunged into a murderous intrigue which cost her everything—home, children, husband and life!

In the year 1889 an engineer of the name of Felix Roques came to Ain-Fezza to work on the Algerian Railways. He had not been long in the place when he was compelled to listen to glowing accounts of Madame Weiss, in which her piety and love for her family were dilated upon. Roques's curiosity was aroused. It seemed impossible that the world should contain so perfect a creature as they told him Madame Weiss was. At this time Jeanne was only twenty-one, and in the full possession of her powers, physical and mental.

Felix Roques had no difficulty in making her acquaintance. In common with the principal employés of the company that was constructing the railway, he was invited to a garden-party at Madame Weiss's, and there he was introduced to her by her husband. For some extraordinary reason the sight of Felix Roques aroused in Madame Weiss's breast all those doubtful passions which had lain dormant since her flight from Nice. In a moment she was Jeanne Daniloff again. She fell straightway in love with the handsome engineer. Home, husband, children and reputation became as nothing to her. She dropped the mask and was the wild child of nature again. All the blood of her fanatical, revolutionary ancestors coursed through her veins, warmed by the balmy African sun.

She was really in love at last. That was what she told herself. She had married Captain Weiss to escape from the dreary boarding-house and the commonplace persons her grandmother catered for. She had tolerated him because he gave her social position, and she had accepted boredom because she wished to be with her children. But now she was in love, and Felix Roques, whose features were regular without making him startlingly handsome, fell under the spell of the fateful eyes, and was never the same man again.

The lovers had many secret meetings, and even when they met at parties could not conceal their affection. Friends warned Weiss; but he only laughed at them. Was not his wife the most religious woman in Oran? Had he not the evidence of his own senses that she was devoted to him and to their little boy and girl? "You are talking nonsense, my friend," he would answer calmly, and go about his duties, and once, to show his confidence in his wife, asked Felix Roques to take her to an evening party because business would detain him at his office.

The time came, however, when Madame Weiss and Felix Roques decided that it was impossible for either of them to be content with simple dalliance. The hypnotized engineer declared that Jeanne must give herself completely to him.

The suggestion was met with a pleased laugh. Jeanne liked a strong, determined lover, and not a milksop of a husband who let her have her own way in everything. I will give her own description of this scene with her lover. It reveals the temperament of the woman in a remarkable way.

"I loved Monsieur Roques as the master of my thoughts, of my intelligence, of my body, of every fibre of my being, as a master whom I worshipped, and in whose presence I myself ceased to exist," she wrote. "When he asked me for the first time to appoint him an assignation we were walking with some other people. Instead of saying yes or no I took out a coin and said to him, 'I don't wish to take on myself the responsibility of a decision; you know that if once we begin to love it will be no light thing for me. I shall lead you far, perhaps farther than you think. If it comes down heads it shall be yes; if tails, no.' He looked very astonished; he blushed very deeply and said, 'So be it.' I spun the coin; it came down heads, and I was his."

The astounding nature of this female criminal is proved by the fact that to celebrate her downfall she had a ring engraved with the date, November 13, 1889!

Once she was committed to him her love became a mania. She wrote to him daily, and at night, when she had superintended the putting to bed of her children, she would sit down beside their cot and scribble pages of ecstatic praise of the young engineer.

Some of those letters have been preserved, and I will give one or two specimens.

"Dearest," she wrote a fortnight after she had betrayed her husband, "you do not know how I hold to life now. Does it not promise to me in the future days of radiant happiness, intimacy, affection growing daily stronger, with you, my beloved, you to whom I am proud to belong, you for whom I am capable of any sacrifice, any act of devotion? How I love you, Felix! Take all the kisses I can give you and many more. I embrace you with all the strength of my being.—Your wife, Jeanne."

Several months passed, and everybody in the district except Weiss knew of the intimacy between his wife and Roques. The infatuated man refused to believe a word against her, and his wife rewarded him by eventually coming to the conclusion that he was in her way, and that she must "remove" him in order to attain to the fullest happiness with Felix Roques.

The guilty couple often discussed the possibility of murdering Weiss without having to pay the penalty. Like everybody else they had been fascinated by the lurid English drama known as "The Maybrick Case." They had read full details of the "removing" of James Maybrick by arsenic, and the very complete French reports of the sensational Liverpool trial introduced Jeanne Weiss to many of the mysteries of arsenical poisoning. She knew that there were ways of obtaining poison without having to name that dread word, and when the fatal step was resolved on she voted for Fowler's solution as the medium.

A remarkable correspondence led up to the opening act of the drama. She sent Roques a letter, in which she said, "I am beset with sad and depressing thoughts. What I am about to do is very ugly."

Later she wrote, "I prefer Fowler's solution to begin with. It is agreed, Felix. You shall be obeyed. Have I ever hesitated before anything except the desertion of my children? Crimes against the law don't trouble me at all. It is only crimes against Nature that revolt me. I am a worshipper of Nature."

Another remarkable reference to the forthcoming attempt on her husband's life must be quoted, "I have been playing the Danse Macabre as a duet. My nerves must be affected, for it produced a gloomy effect upon me. I thought of death and of those who are about to die. Can it be that this feeling will return to me? But it is so sweet to think that I am working for our nest."

The last letter she penned before the actual poisoning began was an outburst of love and hysteria.

"Oh, Felix, love me, for the hideousness of my task glares at me. I want to close my heart and my soul and my eyes. I want to banish the recollection of what he has done for me, for I worship you. I feel such a currency of complete intimacy between you and me that words seem unnecessary. We read each other's thoughts as in an open book. To arrest this current would be to arrest my life. I may shudder at what I am doing after it is done, but go back I cannot. Comfort and sustain me; help me to get over the inevitable moments of depression, bind me under your yoke. Make me drunk with your caresses, for therein lies your own power. I will be yours, whatever happens. So long as you give me your orders I will carry them out. But it seems to me I am doing wrong. I love you terribly."

Weiss became ill in October, 1890, mysteriously ill, for the local doctor was greatly puzzled. The patient's young wife—she was only twenty-two—nursed him with apparent devotion. She would allow no one else to give him his food, and, of course, her reason for this was the fact that no one else could be relied upon to mix arsenic with it!

When friends of the family called Jeanne's distress touched their hearts. She was implored not to risk a breakdown herself by overdoing the day and night nursing of her ailing husband, and they advised her to employ professional help. With a wan smile Jeanne announced her determination to nurse him tenderly herself, and sacrifice her own life if necessary for him. There had been adverse rumours concerning Jeanne Weiss in Oran and the neighbourhood, but in the face of this unexampled devotion to her husband they seemed to be the inventions of unscrupulous enemies.

The doctor grew more puzzled. Just when his patient seemed to be improving he would have a relapse, and there was a curious ill-luck about the ministrations of Madame Weiss. He did not see that Jeanne was only acting the part of the distressed and anxious wife. It was her pale face and tearful manner that kept his eyes closed to the truth.

It happened, however, that Weiss had a secretary, Guerry, whose wife was a friend of Mademoiselle Castaing, the postmistress at Ain-Fezza, a lady whose bump of curiosity was abnormally developed, for she was in the habit of passing her time by opening the letters that came through her office, and reading the contents.

Mademoiselle, in fact, knew more about the intrigue between Madame Weiss and Felix Roques than anyone else, and it was only by exercising the rarest self-control that she refrained from publishing far and wide the news that Roques had gone to Spain to be out of the way when Weiss died, and that Madame Weiss was to join him later in Madrid with her children. She knew also that months before Jeanne had refused to elope with Roques, because that would have meant parting from her children, the custody of whom would be given to her deserted husband by the Court. It was because she wished to keep her children that she decided to murder her husband instead of simply leaving him.