A Fly-leaf from a Detective’s Note Book

Button-holing one of our reporters on his customary rounds, yesterday morning, a well-known detective, whose name it will not be necessary to mention, narrated a chapter from his personal history which borders closely on the romantic. His story, as told in his own language, was in substance as follows:

“Do you remember the mystery I was engaged in solving when we last met?” he asked, and, without waiting for an answer, continued: “Well, I will tell you the sequel. Mrs. A., you recollect, lost the ring, and Nellie             was suspected of stealing it. The morning after the ball, while sleeping in her own chamber, the ring was removed from her finger without arousing its owner. No one but Nellie had access to the apartment, and she must have taken it. So thought Mrs. A., so thought her husband, and so thought I, when I was sent for and given the points in the case, before being employed to work it up. The ring was set with diamonds, a cluster of exceeding brilliancy and richness. Its value could not have been less than $600.

Nellie was employed as Mrs. A.’s waiting maid, at wages which in four years would scarcely aggregated the value of the diamonds. Every stone in the set was worth a year of Nellie’s life and labor, albeit neither nor all of them could have dropped a single drop of water on a parched tongue, or stroked a fevered brow when it was racked with pain. At the instance of Mrs. A., Nellie was arrested, upon the accusation of stealing the ring. She protested her innocence in tears, but all circumstances looked so strongly towards her guilt, her tears were unavailing.

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