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A Detective’s Experience


A Tragedy


There is a low ruined cottage on St. Anthony street, where the moss grows over the roofing and the rickety doors hang by broken hinges. Dust and age have hid the floor from sight, and the decaying walls are damp and mouldy. Only one room is habitable, and that shelters an old woman, gray and decrepid. Sitting on a low stool she mutters a lullaby—an old time song. Age had deprived her of reason, but the sorrow a tragedy wrought is yet fresh at her heart.

Twenty years ago she was beautiful. The olive cheeks were radiant, and the glorious eyes flashed the triumph of a belle. Tall and slender, exquisitely formed, with rich andalusian type of beauty, it is no wonder that she reigned regally over many hearts. At that time no society in the world was more brilliant than ours. Wealth and hospitality went hand in hand, and the most refined and elegant in the land did homage to the beauty of New Orleans. To be star regnant of such society involved more than physical loveliness, and Blanco Castello had all the graces that intellect bestows.

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