The Filigree Ball

For a detective whose talents, had not been recognized at

headquarters, I possessed an ambition which, fortunately for my

standing with the lieutenant of the precinct, had not yet been

expressed in words.  Though I had small reason for expecting great

things of myself, I had always cherished the hope that if a big

case came my way I should be found able to do something with it

something more, that is, than I had seen accomplished by the

police of the District of Columbia since I had had the honor of

being one of their number.  Therefore, when I found myself plunged,

almost without my own volition, into the Jeffrey Moore affair, I

believed that the opportunity had come whereby I might distinguish

myself.

It had complications, this Jeffrey-Moore affair; greater ones than

the public ever knew, keen as the interest in it ran both in and

out of Washington.  This is why I propose to tell the story of this

great tragedy from my own standpoint, even if in so doing I risk

the charge of attempting to exploit my own connection with this

celebrated case.  In its course I encountered as many disappointments

as triumphs, and brought out of the affair a heart as sore as it was

satisfied; for I am a lover of women and -

But I am keeping you from the story itself.

I was at the station-house the night Uncle David came in.  He was

always called Uncle David, even by the urchins who followed him in

the street; so I am showing him no disrespect, gentleman though he

is, by giving him a title which as completely characterized him in

those days, as did his moody ways, his quaint attire and the

persistence with which he kept at his side his great mastiff, Rudge.

I had long since heard of the old gentleman as one of the most

interesting residents of the precinct.  I had even seen him more

than once on the avenue, but I had never before been brought face

to face with him, and consequently had much too superficial a

knowledge of his countenance to determine offhand whether the

uneasy light in his small gray eyes was natural to them, or simply

the result of present excitement.  But when he began to talk I

detected an unmistakable tremor in his tones, and decided that he

was in a state of suppressed agitation; though he appeared to have

nothing more alarming to impart than the fact that he had seen a

light burning in some house presumably empty.

It was all so trivial that I gave him but scant attention till he

let a name fall which caused me to prick up my ears and even to

put in a word.  "The Moore house," he had said.

"The Moore house?" I repeated in amazement.  "Are you speaking of

the Moore house?"

A thousand recollections came with the name.

"What other?" he grumbled, directing toward me a look as keen as it

was impatient.  "Do you think that I would bother myself long about

a house I had no interest in, or drag Rudge from his warm rug to

save some ungrateful neighbor from a possible burglary?  No, it is

my house which some rogue has chosen to enter.  That is," he suavely

corrected, as he saw surprise in every eye, "the house which the law

will give me, if anything ever happens to that chit of a girl whom

my brother left behind him."

Growling some words at the dog, who showed a decided inclination to

lie down where he was, the old man made for the door and in another

moment would have been in the street, if I had not stepped after him.

"You are a Moore and live in or near that old house?" I asked.

The surprise with which he met this question daunted me a little.

"How long have you been in Washington, I should like to ask?" was

his acrid retort.