It was not a pleasant contemplation, that of facing the dreary,
desolate house where her experiences of that evening had been so
frightful, and it was with a shiver of horror that Leonie turned from
the door which she had closed upon herself.
She stood for a moment irresolutely, her womanly cowardice fighting
with her strong desire to gain possession of the papers that she
believed the house to contain, feeling that if she left it until the
morrow that the opportunity might be forever lost; yet it was a hard
fight.
She was but a girl, weak of courage when she had time in which to think
of fear, and the occurrences of the evening were not calculated to
eradicate nervousness, yet with a determination that was singularly
strong, she put fear from her and walked up the stairs.
All about her was in utter darkness, save for a ray of light that
seemed to creep disconsolately through the window by which she had made
her escape.
She looked at it with a shudder, remembering the terrible tragedy that
had followed her exit through it, but not daring to give herself time
for reflection, she began a search for matches.
She knew where the candle had stood at the time the pistol put it out,
and groping her way through the gloom she succeeded in finding it.
There were a few matches upon the waiter of the holder. The pale gleam
cast a fitful glow over the room that was uncanny. By it the objects
appeared ghostly, and she drew back with a low cry of fright as her
foot struck the straw of which Dick's bed had been composed.
She smiled at her own timidity when she saw what it really was, but her
courage was of that watery character that threatened to desert her at
each moment.
She did not dare to even trust herself to the inactivity of waiting for
the break of day, but set about looking for the papers of which Liz had
spoken, and which she knew must exist somewhere. But where was she to
begin to look? She glanced about her helplessly.
"I feel quite sure they are not in the secretary down-stairs!" she
muttered. "There was not a drawer in it locked, and surely Ben would
not leave things like that about carelessly. However, there was that
letter that I read, and which I still have. No, they were not there, or
I should have discovered at least some trace of them. Let me see!"
Carefully she gazed about her, then realizing that she could hope for
nothing without making a beginning, she began a thorough investigation
of the premises, hampered by the scarcity of the light.
Behind boxes, in closets, between the pictures and back of an old
chromo that adorned the wall, under everything that promised a place of
concealment, she looked, but all to no purpose.
She was about to give it up in despair, when, as a last resort, she
tore the clothing from the bed upon which Dick had died.
Between the mattress and the cords that were drawn across the bed in
lieu of either springs or slats, she saw an old tin box!
With a cry of joy, she seized it.
The box was locked, but after a delay that was most exasperating in her
excited state, Leonie succeeded in breaking the lock with a hammer.
As the lid opened, she grasped the papers within, and seating herself
at a table, began looking over them eagerly.
There were extracts from old, yellow newspapers, photographs that
seemed to be the relics of ages, and letters by the score.
From the contents of the box, one would have thought the man possessed
of a mania for preserving such things, a thought in which Leonie would
have concurred before she had completed her self-imposed task.
There were letters from confederates, letters from friends, letters
from his mother, a few from Liz, and underneath, as though those were
the things that he wanted to preserve most, she found another box of
paper.
She opened it eagerly.
Passing over the smaller papers, she opened a letter, addressed in the
stylish penmanship which she knew belonged to Miss Chandler.
Breathlessly she read:
"SIR,--I have just read your letter delivered by special messenger.
The surprise to me has been so painful that I scarcely know what I
ought to say; but if you will meet me to-night at the address that
I shall append, I will have thought the matter over. I understand
but too clearly your reason for coming forward to claim the child
whom you deserted in her infancy, because you know that now I am the
adopted daughter of a wealthy man who knows nothing of the disgrace
that the penitentiary attached to my parents, and you think that
I shall be only too willing to purchase your silence at any cost.
Perhaps you are right. We shall see. At all events, meet me as I have
indicated, and if you have any regard for your own child whatever, be
careful that this letter does not fall into the hands of any one.
"Yours regretfully,
"E. C."
With a thrill of satisfaction Leonie laid the letter aside, apart from
the others that had been rejected, and took up another.
A single paragraph from it read:
"You have made me a thief. Were you not a fiend your conscience would
burn you to death for so foul a thing, but instead you are going to
force me into the cell of a convict, the same, perhaps, that held
both you and my mother. I am half inclined to believe that Leonard
Chandler already suspects me. Should he find his suspicions to be
true, there is nothing upon this earth that could save me. Your
revenue would cease. I know that it would be useless to plead with
your sympathy for me, but for your own sake let your demands at least
be within reason."
Then again:
"Your suggestion about Lynde Pyne is a stroke of genius. With several
millions at his command he will be worthy of the hand of your
illustrious daughter. Keep hold of the will and trust the rest to me."
Scarcely able to control her excitement, Leonie read the letters
through.
"Surely that will be enough!" she exclaimed, her expression almost
fierce. "I will take copies of these, I will show them to her, assuring
her that the originals are in my possession, then surely she will not
still refuse to abandon her plan of marrying Lynde Pyne. I can then
place the will where the rightful heir can be restored and--go away."
The last words were scarcely more than a sob, but she resolutely closed
her throat upon it, and turned to her work.
She began to look over them promiscuously.
First came several that amounted to nothing as far as she was
concerned, then followed some smaller ones. The yellow one that she had
in her hand was read twice.
It was the marriage certificate between Elizabeth Johnson and Benjamin
Mauprat, dated thirty-two years before.
There was another one of the marriage of Eleanor Cuyler and Benjamin
Mauprat dated between seven and eight years later, but across the face
of it was written in Ben's own ungainly scrawl the words in red ink:
"An experiment in bigamy. For the edification of my daughter Evelyn.
To be presented after my death, or immediately before."
There was a copy of the certificate of the birth of Evelyn Mauprat, and
also another copy that was perhaps of more interest than all to Leonie.
It was the one of her own birth--"Leonie Pyne, daughter of Roger and
Eleanor Pyne!"
How her heart beat as she read the words, knowing that she was a
legitimate child!
After a long look she put it aside, and turned her attention entirely
to looking for the will.
She found it at last at the bottom of the box, wrapped in a piece of
tissue paper, and opening it began to read:
"Know ye all men by these presents, that----"
Then unable, through feminine curiosity, to wait further, she looked at
the signature. It was clear enough, and duly witnessed: "Roger Pyne."
She could scarcely control her excitement as she read it.
Roger Pyne!
And Roger Pyne was her father!
She sat for some time with the will in her hand, unable to see the
letters because of her trembling; then by a tremendous effort she
controlled herself, and read it through to the end.
It stated clearly and concisely that all other wills made by him were
revoked, and that he had discovered the reports brought to him by his
nephew, Luis Kingsley, about Lynde Pyne to be utterly and entirely
false, and that in consideration of the evil character which it showed
the said Luis Kingsley to possess, he desired that it should be known
that he made Lynde Pyne heir to all his estates, real and personal,
cutting Luis Kingsley off with the proverbial dollar.
Then after it had been read and re-read, the will dropped into the
girl's lap, and her eyes gazed dreamily from the window.
It was her father who had made that will, her father who had died
believing that the woman he had made his wife was a bigamist.
Her father who had died in ignorance even of her birth.
She knew enough of law to know that all she would be required to
do would be to produce that marriage certificate that was in her
possession, together with the record of her birth, to break that will,
having all those millions come to her; but the thought brought her no
pleasure.
Even if she had desired to take from Lynde Pyne what his uncle had
given him, she would be forced to make public her mother's disgrace
in order to do that, and not all the money in the universe could have
tempted her to even consider it.
Her duty was clear enough.
She must face Evelyn Chandler with the proofs in her possession; she
must know beyond a doubt that the engagement between her and Lynde Pyne
was broken, she must restore the will to the one most interested and
then----
Her work would be accomplished, and for the sake of her mother's memory
she must go away where the secret could be preserved.
It was not a pleasant prospect; and now that she felt her mission was
about at an end, the desolation and loneliness of her position struck
her with greater force than it ever had since that morning when she
knew that her single friend had left her forever.
There, in her hands, were all the proofs that she needed; and as the
thought came that there was no longer a necessity for bravery, a long,
deep sob seemed to come straight from her heart. She bowed her head and
sobbed.
But in the midst of her yielding to grief, a sudden sound attracted
her, there in that silent house, where it seemed that even the noise of
a mouse would sound deafening.
She straightened herself suddenly, and clasping her hands above her
heart, listened.
There could be no mistake about it!
It was a footstep, clear and distinct, coming stealthily up the
uncarpeted stairs.
For a moment her heart seemed to stand still; then, springing up, she
dashed to the door.
Quivering with fright, she undertook to fasten it and bar it against
entrance; but before she could succeed, a veiled figure, spectral under
the light of the pale candle, stood before her, preventing the action.