A pale gray light, like a stray moonbeam glimmering upon the headstone
of a grave, crept into the room and softly touched the face of the girl
that lay upon the floor in a death-like swoon.
There is an inexplicable something in magnetism that annihilates
distance and speaks louder than a human voice.
It has baffled scientists for generations, and will for generations
more, yet its presence has been more or less felt by every one, like
the influence of a haunting but half-forgotten dream.
Some such feeling disturbed the slumbers of Leonard Chandler. He tried
vainly to sleep, and at last, in sheer desperation, he arose, slipped
on his trousers, slippers, and dressing-gown, and sat down to that
consoler of man--a smoke.
It had not, however, its usual influence. His nervousness increased
with each moment, until at last he sprung to his feet, the expression
of his countenance indicating great anxiety.
"It is the same feeling that I had while I was being robbed the last
time," he muttered. "I wonder if it can mean anything? I am going down
to the library and sleep there on the couch to-night. No one will know
of my presence there, and it may be that I shall detect the thief
myself. Pshaw! It seems too absurd an idea to think of--and yet it can
do no harm. How Anna and Evelyn would laugh if they knew of this!"
He hesitated, puffing out great volumes of smoke in his perplexity,
then turned resolutely toward the door.
"They will have to laugh," he exclaimed aloud, compressing his lips
firmly. "Something tells me to go, and I must go!"
He waited no longer, but opening the door softly, he went noiselessly
down the stairs, and silently opening the door of the library, passed
in.
He advanced nearer to the desk, and, with a thrill of horror, saw the
revolver lying upon a chair. He leaned over to pick it up, and as he
did so his eyes fell upon the colorless face of the girl lying there.
He shrunk backward with a suppressed cry, then quickly kneeled beside
her and placed his hand above her heart. It was slowly trembling.
Rising hastily, he rung the bell violently.
The sound clanged through the silent house like the iteration of the
cry of murder on the stilly night. It did not cease until servants and
family had hurriedly entered the room, their faces blanched with fear.
"What is it?" cried Mrs. Chandler, her countenance white as Leonie's
own.
"Heaven knows!" answered Chandler hastily, his brow contracted
curiously. "Look there! There is some mystery about this house. I think
we are about to get at the bottom of it."
He pointed, as he spoke to the prostrate body upon the floor, then
lifted it himself to a couch.
"Some of you do what you can to restore her," he ordered shortly.
While the servants were obeying he took his keys from his pocket, and
with a hand that had grown steady under excitement, he opened the
drawer that had contained his money.
He quickly found the roll, brought home the night before to meet an
obligation the following morning at nine o'clock, and counted it.
Exactly one thousand dollars gone!
He picked up the pistol and looked at it carefully. Every chamber was
full.
With compressed lips and a countenance of dangerous resolution he laid
it down, and turned toward Leonie again. The first person to confront
him was his daughter.
"More money missing?" she asked, with a show of anxious interest, yet
capitally assumed innocence.
"A thousand!" he answered, almost shortly. "There is one consolation in
it. I shall soon know the thief! I would give a thousand, or even ten,
to know that!"
He left her and, stepping to the side of the couch, he stood with
folded arms awaiting Leonie's restoration to consciousness. He neither
spoke nor moved, but stood like a statue through the moments that
seemed like hours until the eyes opened, and with an air of great
bewilderment Leonie sat up.
With the fingers of one hand pressed upon her temple, Leonie slowly
arose from her reclining position, her eyes traveling from one place to
another vaguely. They rested at last upon the blonde beauty that had
ruled New York society with an iron hand, and with a long breath, that
was a half articulated sound, she tottered to her feet.
Evelyn Chandler's heart gave a great bound, then seemed to stand
dangerously still.
Leonard Chandler was perplexed beyond expression.
"Leonie," he said calmly, "you were in this room when it was robbed,
were you not?"
She nodded without speaking.
"Who did it?"
She hesitated, her eyes still upon his face.
"Why do you not answer?" he asked, almost roughly.
"I cannot!" she replied, so hoarsely that no one would have recognized
her voice.
Mr. Chandler was rigid as marble.
"Do you realize," he said, impressively, "that your refusal leaves a
shadow upon some member of my family?"
"That cannot be," Leonie answered with painful effort. "What need would
any member of your family have to steal?"
"It was some one out of the house, then?"
"It was some one--out of the house!"
The pause was so long before the most important word, that when it was
spoken Evelyn Chandler almost betrayed herself by a sigh of relief. She
knew that her secret was safe, yet there was nothing of gratitude in
her feeling toward Leonie. On the contrary, she detested her all the
more that she owed it to her.
Behind her relief the sound of the voice of the man who had adopted her
came to Evelyn.
"Do you know that your refusal to convict a thief under the
circumstances makes you an accessory to his crime, and punishable with
him?" he was saying, his eyes steely with anger.
The violet eyes never faltered.
"I beg that you will not do that sir, for--my--father's sake. He is old
and--has but--me. Surely you will not----"
"You shall go to jail if you persist in your refusal to answer me!"
cried Chandler, without the softening of a muscle in his face. "I will
give you until morning to decide."
"It will be useless, I cannot alter my determination. But--is there
nothing that you can say? Surely you will pray him only to let me go
free?"
She had turned to Evelyn Chandler and extended her arms. The lovely
face was quivering with anguish, the eyes glistened with a fire that
no tears could quench, the sweet mouth trembled piteously, but Miss
Chandler returned the glance with one that was half sneering, wholly
defiant.
"I never interfere in any of my father's matters," she said, coldly:
"he is quite right. If you know the thief, you should be forced to tell
who it is."
Too dumb from anguish to realize the extreme audacity of the girl who
could stand before her and so coolly make a speech like that, yet
seeing that she had nothing to hope for in that quarter, Leonie turned
away with a weary groan.
"I have nothing more to say," she exclaimed, dully. "I pray that you
will spare me for my father's sake. Oh, dad, dad! you tried to save me
from this but I would not let you. God help you and me!"
Regardless of their presence, or perhaps forgetful of it, the unhappy
girl sunk upon the floor, and covering her white face with her hands
rocked her body to and fro miserably.
Twice Leonard Chandler spoke to her, but she did not hear; then
motioning the others from the room, he, too, passed out, and turning
the key in the lock upon the outside, he left her there a prisoner.