A Stolen Name, or, The Man Who Defied Nick Carter

Excerpt: 'Bare-Faced Jimmy, so-called gentleman crook, expert cracksman, and a master criminal in any department of the underworld to which he cared to devote his attention, leaned backward in his chair until it tilted against the wall behind him, blew a cloud of Perfecto smoke ceilingward, and remarked: “It will be the easiest thing in the world, Juno. If the objective point were a fortune—even a moderate one; if the thing contemplated included the theft of a single dollar, in cash or in estate, it would be different; but it doesn’t. No, it does not. Really, Juno, if one pauses to think seriously about it, from that point of view, it is almost laughable.” “That is why I have been smiling at the idea ever since you mentioned it,” returned the woman, applying a lighted match to a cigarette with all the grace and abandon of one who had been long accustomed to the practice. “As a matter of fact,” Jimmy continued, as if he had not heard her remark, “if I do decide to undertake it, the only things that I steal will be a lot of debts; and who ever heard of stealing debts? Eh?” “There certainly is novelty in the thought,” was the quick reply. “If some gracious person had done you the honor to steal yours, long ago——” “Oh, yes, my dear; that is quite true; only we won’t go into the ‘long ago’ matters, just now, if you please.” The woman shrugged her shoulders and picked up from her lap a book that she had been reading. For a time she devoted her attention to the pages, and then her companion broke the silence again. “I think I’ll do it,” he said decidedly. “I see great possibilities in the adventure. Juno, will you be good enough to lay that book aside for a few moments, and to give me your undivided attention?” “Gladly,” she replied, “if you will condescend to speak out plainly, instead of confining yourself to generalities.” “All right, my dear; here goes. In the State of Virginia, bordering on the Potomac River, and washed by the waters of two other streams—which by courtesy are also called rivers—lies an estate which consists of something more than eight hundred acres. The title to that estate is in the name of James Ledger Dinwiddie, who——” “Who, at the present moment lies dead in the adjoining room in this house,” she interrupted him; but he only chuckled as he responded: “On the contrary, he is seated here before you, now; he is talking with you; he is referring to that dear old plantation in dearer old Virginia which, ever since the days of Bushrod Washington, has been called by the name of Kingsgift—the Lord only knows why, unless some dead and forgotten king gave it as a present to the original Dinwiddie. Henceforth, my dear, I am Ledger Dinwiddie, owner of an estate in Virginia that is mortgaged for more than it was ever worth; for much more than it would ever bring at a forced sale. I am also the undisputed owner of a choice collection of debts, of an old colonial house that is now falling into ruins, of numerous other buildings that are in various stages of dilapidation, and of numerous other things of the same sort, all of which are not only entirely worthless, but are really much worse than worthless; and there you are.'