"'I would suggest an asylum,' he muttered. It was the only unjust

thing I ever knew him to propose.

"'She is not insane,' I objected.

"'She is not sane,' he rejoined. 'No opium-eater is. But I will not

force your conscience; only--let me never again see her in our home in

Fifth Avenue. _You_ will always be welcome.'

"I could not retort that I would enter no house from which she was

thus peremptorily excluded. The house in Fifth Avenue was my home, the

home of my child; and about it clustered every dear association of my

heart save those connected with my unhappy love.

"'A man who marries for a whim must expect unpleasant results,' my

father resumed. 'You shall have what money you need for her

establishment elsewhere; but this hemisphere is too narrow to harbour

both her and myself. Go to Europe, Leighton; there is more room there

for your wife to dance in.'

"And I meant to follow this suggestion, but her health was not good

enough for me to risk a voyage at this juncture, and we drifted West

and put up at a place called Mountain Springs. It was during our stay

there, that, so far as the world is concerned, the story of my

married life ended. But for me it had only begun. The facts regarding

my wife and her connection with that great catastrophe which robbed

more than one household of wife and mother differed much in reality

from those reported to the world and accepted by my own family. She

did not perish in that wreck, though I thought she had, and mourned

her loss for many months. She had merely taken advantage of the

circumstances to effect another escape. How, I will endeavour to

relate, hard as it is to disclose the failings of one so dear to me.

"My wife, whose natural longings had been modified rather than

extinguished by her experiences at the sanitarium, soon awakened to

the old sense of restraint and a desire to enjoy again the

irresponsibilities of her early Bohemian life. But having gained

wisdom by her past experiences, she allowed no expression of her

feelings to escape her; and, relying on the effect produced upon me by

her apparent content, merely asked the privilege of enjoying the

sports indulged in by the other boarders. Fearing to cross her too

much, I gave her all possible liberty, but when she begged to go on a

certain excursion--the excursion which ended so disastrously for all

concerned--I felt forced to refuse her, for I had made an arrangement

that day which would prevent me from accompanying her. However, after

repeated solicitation, I yielded to her importunities and gave her my

consent, at which she showed much joy, and lavished many expressions

of fondness upon me. Had my suspicions not been lulled by the

undisturbed peacefulness of the last few months, these open

demonstrations of affection might have occasioned me some alarm, for

they were not without a suggestion of remorse. But I mistrusted

nothing; I was too happy, and when I parted from her it was with the

full intention of sacrificing for her pleasure the first real business

engagement I had ever entered upon. But I did not carry out this

impulse; I merely made arrangements for the train to stop for me at

the little station on the mountains where my affairs led me. But I did

not confide this plan to her till I was upon the point of leaving.

Then I told her she might look for me on the train immediately after

passing Buckley, and while I wondered at the way she received my

words, I thought the embarrassment she showed was due to surprise.

Alas! it sprang from much deeper sources. She had planned to leave me

again, this time forever; and, baffled as she thought in the attempt,

she succumbed for a little while to despair. Then her fertile brain

suggested an expedient. Two trains left Mountain Springs that morning,

one north and one south. She would take the southern train, and lest

she should be prematurely discovered in her flight and so be followed

before she had found a refuge, she prevailed upon a girl over whom she

had some influence, to exchange garments with her and take her place

among the excursionists. She little dreamed what lay before those

excursionists. As little did I realise that it was in behalf of a

stranger I entered upon that mad chase after the runaway cars I had

seen slip from the engine and go crashing down towards the train on

which I believed my wife to be. I knew those cars to be loaded with

dynamite, for it was in connection with this fact I had come to this

place, and the thought that they were destined to prove the

destruction of the life I so much prized maddened me to such an extent

that it was a mere matter of instinct for me to leap upon the engine I

saw bounding to her rescue. Had time been given me to think, I might

not have shown such temerity, for I knew nothing of a fireman's duties

or what would be expected of me by the engineer. But I did not pause

to think; I only stood ready to hazard my life for the woman I

loved,--the woman whom I believed to be on the train I even then could

see advancing up the valley. Of that ride, its swirl and whirlwind

rush, I remember little; every thought, every fear, was engrossed in

the one question, How were we to save that train? But two methods

suggested themselves to me in my ignorance and isolation from the

brave engineer. Either we must overtake the cars and by coupling to

them stay their downward rush to the main track below--a trick I did

not understand--or we must crush so fiercely into them as to explode

the dynamite with which they were loaded before they had a chance to

collide with the advancing train. That the latter catastrophe did not

happen was not owing to any precaution on my part, for I do not

remember that I had the least dread of personal destruction. As I have

just said, my one thought, my only thought in that dizzy descent, was

to save her. And I failed to do it; or so I had reason to think. As

you remember, all our efforts were in vain; the unspeakable occurred,

and wreck, death, and disaster met my eyes when, after a period of

blank darkness, I rose from the ground where I had been hurled by the

force of that dynamite explosion. Amid this wreck, in face of this

death, I plunged in my search for her, and, as I believed, found her.

A loving husband cannot be deceived in his wife's clothes, and the

fragments I handled told their tale, as I thought, only too well. But,

as you now know, it was not my wife who wore these clothes, though we

buried her as such, and I mourned my lost love as no one who has not

fixed his whole heart upon one object can possibly understand.

"My father, whose relief at this release can be readily imagined,

endeavoured to calm my grief, not by sympathy, for that he could not

feel, but by an unvarying kindness which assured me that, now that

this obstacle to a right understanding between us had been removed, I

might hope for the establishment of more cordial relations between us.

I was older now, and he more considerate of my many uncongenial ways

and habits; besides, Claire made a tender bond between us, and with

one of her baby smiles healed many a breach that might otherwise have

separated us.

"I began to be content, when, having some business in a strange

quarter of the city, I chanced to walk down East Fourteenth Street. It

was a holiday of some kind and there had been a procession. The stir

in the streets was just what usually follows the breaking up of long

lines of people. But this did not disturb me. Claire had been

unusually engaging that morning, and I was just rejoicing in the

memory of her innocent prattle, when the band in the far distance

broke out into a merry strain, and I saw on the sidewalk before me a

cluster of people separate into a sort of ring, in the middle of which

a woman stood poised with swaying arms, so like the image that was day

by day receding farther and farther into the deep recesses of my

memory, that a species of faintness came over me and I drew back, sick

and half-blinded, directly in the path of the people pressing in my

rear. This caused me to receive a push from behind which effectually

roused me and gave me strength to look again at one who could recall

my lost Mille-fleurs. I expected--how could I expect anything

else?--to be met by a strange face and an unknown smile. But it was

_her_ face, _her_ smile; and the figure, clad in such clothes as I had

never, even in my worst dreams, associated with the woman to whom I

had given my name, was _hers_. Had God made two such women? Two with

such eyes, such hair, such instincts, and such genius? Was this a

sister of Mille-fleurs; a twin of my lost darling, of whose existence

I had never heard? God grant not! I had buried Mille-fleurs, and with

her, memories which this creature would only bring back to the

destruction of my peace. I dared not give way for one instant to the

thought that this likeness was anything but a passing illusion which

the next moment would dispel. I dared not for my life. And yet I stood

staring; hearing and not hearing the shouts of wild applause rising

around me, and was looking, yes, looking directly into her eyes, when

they suddenly turned my way in startled recognition. It was

Mille-fleurs! Mille-fleurs! The woman I had buried was a stranger, and

she who was making pastime for the passing crowd was _my wife_!

"I made no scene. I accepted the fact as we accept any unforeseen

catastrophe that comes upon us unawares, tearing up our peaceful

present and making a chaos of the future. As she was still dancing,

though fitfully and with curious breaks, I stopped her by my steady

look and held her so, till the crowd had melted away sufficiently for

me to take her by the hand and lead her under the cover of the first

small shop we came to. Then I questioned her closely, and, when I

understood all, asked her if she would go with me and be clothed and

fed. She answered with a startled look. 'I cannot!' she cried, and

wearily drooped her head. 'I am not worthy.'

"God knows what passed through my mind then. I stood there in the

wretchedness of this low shop, beside a counter from which the smell

of stale tobacco rose in nauseous fumes, together with the sickening

smell of partially decayed fruits--a flower in my button-hole (put

there by little Claire), and before me this woman, loved as few of

earth's best and worthiest have been, telling me with trembling lips

what explained her rags, the degradation which had fallen on her

beauty, and the whole pitiable downfall of a womanhood which once

struck my heart as ideal and worthy of a man's unselfish worship.

"Drawing the flower from my button-hole, I crushed it in my hand. If

I could have donned the clothes of some of the men lolling about us in

greedy curiosity, I would have done so at that moment, if only the

contrast between our outer selves might have been less apparent. But

this was impossible, and I could only stand in silence in face of this

wreck of bygone delights, and in one moment and under the gaze of a

dozen pairs of eyes peering from behind the counter and gaping in at

the doorway, live down my bitter humiliation at this untoward

resurrection of a love I had learned to rejoice in as buried. For this

was no wretched waif of the streets I could pity and leave. This was

my wife, the mother of my child; the woman whom I had once vowed to

hold in honour to the end, and to succour, no matter what her need or

to what degradation she might come. Besides, there was an appeal in

her drooping attitude and quivering mouth which touched my heart in

spite of my judgment. I felt her misery as I had never felt my own; a

misery all the more pronounced because of the joy so openly preceding

it; and, feeling a fresh thrill in the old cord of union that had made

our hearts one, I quietly asked her if she had lost all love for me.

She gave me one quick look; and I saw her eye quicken as she softly

faltered, 'No. Only,' she made haste to add, 'I cannot live in big

houses under the eyes of people who think my ways odd and wrong. If

you take me back to him I cannot help going wrong again. But I would

like something pretty to wear and something good to eat.'

"I took her to an East Side hotel. I bought her clothes and gave her

food, over which she laughed like a child. Then I told her what I

meant to do for her. I would buy her a home in a pretty country place,

where she need not fear intruding eyes. There she should live with

some woman I could trust and who would be kind to her. A piano, music,

flowers, books--she should have all, and if, in the course of time,

she came to wish it, I would bring our child to see her. Did she think

she could be contented in a home like this? Wouldn't it be better than

the cold and squalor of the streets and these wild dances before

unsympathetic eyes?

"She answered with a burst of affection which was real enough at the

time; then asked if I was going to let my father know she was living.

This brought to light the spectre which had stood over against us ever

since I first recognised her as the woman I had sworn to love and

cherish. Could I tell my father? Could I bring down again upon myself

the old coldness, the old distrust, the old sense of a division that

was gall to me because of the reverence and love I naturally felt for

him?

"I could not; I recognised the cowardice of it, but I could not. I was

ready to give her succour; I was ready to devote time, money, and care

to her establishment and well-being; I could deny myself the pleasures

and pursuits natural to men of my age, and even the uninterrupted

enjoyment of the home I had come to prize, but I could not tell my

father that the wild-eyed creature he was forcing himself to forget,

still lived, and might any day bring down fresh humiliation upon him.

"She saw my doubt and smiled as in the early days of her untrammelled

youth.

"'Better so,' she cried; 'then if I fail to be good it will not so

much matter. And I may fail; it is in my blood, Leighton; in my

unfortunate Bohemian blood. Oh, why did you ever care for me?'

"Such gusts of feeling and regret over the havoc she had caused were

common to her. They made it impossible for me to hope in her ultimate

restoration to respectability and a quiet life. But, alas! they were

but gusts, and after a few months of peaceful harbourage in the

rose-covered cottage I found for her, she fled from me again and was

lost for _years_. But I never ceased searching for her. The unrest of

knowing she was restless under the roof I had provided for her was

nothing to the restlessness of not knowing where she was and in what

misery and under what deprivation she was pining away in the dark

holes where alone she could find refuge. I have sat hours under my

father's eye, talking of stocks and bonds and railway shares, while my

every thought and feeling were with her whom in my fancy I saw

wandering from river to river, in dark nights and in cold;--rain on

the pavements or slush in the streets,--drawing up to lighted doors

for warmth or hiding her brown head with its flying curls under sheds

a dog might be glad to fly from.

"It has happened to me often to be in the presence of women, at church

or concert or festival, and with their eyes on my face and the perfume

of their presence floating about me, to behold in my mind's

perspective a solitary figure poised on the edge of some dock, in

whose lifted arms and upstrained countenance I read despair, the

despair that leads to death; and, forgetting where I was and to whom

my words were due, have rushed out to do--what? Wander those down-town

streets and the bleak places I had seen in my fancy, in the hope of

coming once again upon the being who, unaccountably to myself, still

held the cord whose other end was bound indissolubly to my heart. What

wonder that I was looked upon as eccentric, moody, strange, or that my

father, who naturally explained these freaks according to his own

lights, showed displeasure at my unaccountable whims? Yet I went on

with my search, and finally the day arrived when my perseverance was

rewarded and I came upon her once again.

"She was in a low dance-hall, but she was not dancing. She was simply

gazing at another woman attempting those dizzy whirls which, under the

sway of her own genius, had once attracted the applause of a different

crowd from this. There was infinite longing in her eyes, mixed with

the sadness which will sometimes creep over those who are homeless

through their own choice. When she saw me, and this was perhaps sooner

than was best for either herself or me, I saw the old look of terror

rise in her eyes, but mingled with it was a certain recognition of my

faithfulness and self-forgetful care for her which melted the ice

about my heart and reawakened the old hope for her. But she did not

follow me when I beckoned her out; nor could I induce her to do so

without risking a scene which would necessarily attract all eyes to

us. But she promised, if I gave her money, to return the next day to

the little house in New Jersey.

"And she did; but her stay was short, and it became a common thing for

her to drift back there for a day or so, and then to flee away again,

to return when the fancy seized her or the devils of discomfort drove

her to seek a respite from the horrors which had now become for her

synonymous with freedom.

"She always found something to reward her for these visits; some

surprise in the shape of a new article or some fresh source of

amusement. Money to me was only valuable as it gave me power to rivet

another link to the chain with which I endeavoured to hold her to a

better life; and though I knew the false construction which might be

put upon these expenditures, not only by my father but others, I

spared no means, stopped at no extravagance which might add one more

allurement to the nest I had made for my weary and bedraggled one.

"The woman who had orders to keep this house in a continual state of

readiness for its fitful visitant was as discreet as she was

sympathetic. She may have surmised my secret, or she may have supposed

all these efforts the result of an ill-conceived philanthropy.

"I could never tell by her manner. But I knew she treated my poor one

well. Time after time has she opened the door to a disordered and

dishevelled creature, whom next morning I found sitting in a bower of

roses, fitted out in dainty cashmeres, and with her long locks combed

till they shone and shone again. Nay, I have come upon her on her

knees before the bruised and frozen feet upon which she was thrusting

slippers of downy softness, which made my darling laugh until their

very softness became a burden, and she threw them off to dance. I have

never lingered over these sights, but I have imagined them over and

over with tear-filled eyes, for, explain it as you will, every

backward slip made by my darling toward the precipice I ever saw

yawning for her strengthened the hold she had upon my heart, till the

pity with which I regarded her filled my whole bosom to bursting.

"But the wild hawk cannot be tamed. She would vanish from our care

just when we thought it was becoming dear to her, and my wild pursuit

would begin again, to be followed by chance findings and renewed

disappointments. She was not to be held, though in the hope of doing

so I have spent many stolen hours in the little house, reading to her,

talking to her, playing with her, sacrificing my good name and the

regard of my relatives just to win back one innocent look to her face

and keep her amused and contented without the help of the accursed

drug. She slipped away from us in spite of all our efforts, and during

this last year returned only once.

"Yet I think she has felt more drawn to me this year than in all the

time of our marriage. But she felt her unworthiness more. She had

listened to the hymns sung by the Salvation Army on some of the

down-town corners, and, being susceptible to impressions of this

nature, had followed the singers into their halls and heard some of

the good words that are uttered there. Sometimes, I am told, she

laughed at what she heard, but oftener was seen to cry, and once she

herself sang till, as they said, the very heavens seemed to open. When

I heard this, I could not keep away from these meetings, though I

never came upon her at any one of them either on the East or West

side. She seemed to anticipate my approach there as elsewhere, for

often have I been assured that she had just that minute gone out, and

must be somewhere near, though I never succeeded in finding her.

"This looked to me then like hate, but now I think it was simply

shame; for when she knew that death was upon her she sent for me; and,

seeing the old look of forbearance on my face, she threw up her wasted

arms, and, panting like a child who has reached its mother's arms at

last, turned her tired, tired face towards my breast with a feeble

'Forgive!' and died.

"You cannot know the heart of a man who has followed his lost lamb for

years through tangled thickets and by headlong precipices, and it may

seem strange for me to pour into ears so hardened and necessarily so

unsympathetic the sacred secrets of my soul. But my position is a

strange one and my story one that must be told in its entirety for you

to understand why that smile upon her face is so much to me that my

sole prayer at this time is to be allowed to remain in sight of it for

one hour. She has loved me always; not as I loved her, not to the

point of saving me one heartache or sparing me one erratic impulse of

her ungoverned nature, but still better than I feared; better than

her conduct would show. For when I came to lay her head down again

upon its pillow, I found tied about her neck and fast clutched in her

chilling palm, _this_.

"Our wedding ring," he murmured. "She might have pawned it for a

dollar during any of the many crises of her miserable life."

He paused, put the token back in his breast, and added but one more

word. "When she was alive and well, with vigour in her dancing foot,

and a deathless unrest in her gypsy heart, she chafed at my presence

and fled from my protection. But when the final shadow settled and she

felt all other props give way, then her poor arms rose in recognition

of the love which had never failed her." There was an indescribable

tone of triumph in his tones. "She had need of me in her dying hours;

she smiled----"

He paused, and his eyes, which had been fixed on her form, rose

instinctively, not to the dingy rafters overhead, but to the heaven he

saw above those rafters. For him her spirit had fled upward. Whatever

we might think of her, to him she was henceforth a being blessed and

gathered into a refuge from which she would nevermore seek or wish to

escape.

* * * * *

It was hard to break into this calm hopefulness with words of stern or

sinister meaning. But Mr. Gryce had no choice.

"What, then, is your special desire?" asked that officer.

Mr. Gillespie's eyes fell, and for a moment he stood thinking, then he

said;

"I have retribution to make to her memory. I wish to take her to my

own house and bury her from there as my wife. The humiliation from

which my pride recoiled in the old days has been meted out to me

ten-fold. I no longer wish to evade my responsibilities."

His expression as he said this was very different from the smile I had

surprised on his face the night he stooped over his dead father. Yet

the one brought up the other, and, in a measure, acted as a mutual

interpretation. By means of it and the determination he had just

expressed, I could comprehend the feeling of that moment, when with

police in the house and the whole family subjected to a suspicion

which involved it in the utmost disgrace, he contemplated the features

of the man whose pride found the hemisphere in which he lived too

small to hold both himself and the daughter whose worst fault was a

proclivity to dance and sing.

Mr. Gryce, who had no such memories to reconcile, was meanwhile

surveying the young man with a curious hesitation.

"I regret," said he, "the presence of an obstacle to your very natural

wish to bury your wife from your own house. Mr. Gillespie, it is my

duty to inform you that we are not here on a simple errand of

surveillance: my orders were to arrest you on the charge of murdering

your father."

XXIX

THE QUIET HOUR

I would rather have been spared the pain of that moment. Mr. Gryce had

virtually promised that I should not be present at Mr. Gillespie's

arrest, but I presume he forgot not only his promise but my very

existence in the unexpected interest of this extraordinary situation.

Mr. Gillespie, who at another time might have succumbed to the emotion

of seeing himself singled out from his brothers on the charge which

had hitherto involved them all, was already in a state of too much

agitation to make much demonstration over this fresh humiliation.

Nevertheless it became evident, from the droop of his arms and the

general air of discouragement which crept into his whole bearing, that

the iron had entered his soul and the climax of his many woes had been

reached.

"I hoped for other results when I entered upon my long and painful

story," he remarked. "Certainly you have found me able to account for

much that has seemed anomalous in my relations to my father and the

attitude I have been compelled to preserve towards society. I am

surprised that anyone should continue to regard me as having had

anything to do with my father's unhappy death. May I ask what special

evidence you imagine yourselves to have against me? I may be able to

refute it with a word."

This was more than Mr. Gryce could grant, and he said so, though with

less imperturbability of manner than usual. "I am under orders to

bring you into the presence of the District Attorney," he explained,

"who will use his own discretion in the matter of having you detained.

Will you accompany me quietly, leaving the care of your wife to Mr.

Outhwaite, who, I am sure, will follow your wishes in the choice of

such assistants as he may think necessary to employ?"

The look he received in return was eloquent in its appeal, but Mr.

Gryce knew no relenting where his duty was concerned, and, recognising

this, Mr. Gillespie took a fresh resolve and boldly said:

"You have discovered that I carried a bottle of prussic acid into my

father's house the day before he died. Shall I tell you where I

procured it? From the hand of her who lies here. I found it tied about

her neck, when, after months of fruitless search, I was led to

investigate Mother Merry's lodging-house. She was asleep when I

discovered it; asleep in a way I always found it impossible to break,

and the shock of finding her in quiet possession of what I

instinctively knew to be poison maddened me to such an extent that I

tore the phial away from her and put in its place a roll of

bank-notes. These were probably stolen from her, as no proof remains

of her having used them; but the bottle I carried away, having

impulsively thrust it into my trousers' pocket at the first intimation

I received of a raid being made upon the place by the police."

The explanation was so natural, and the manner in which it was made

so convincing, that the detective's look and mine crossed, and I

became assured that he as well as myself was beginning to give

credence to this man.

"I can give no information of the use which was made of this drug

after its introduction into my father's home, nor can I designate the

hand which took it from my bureau where I placed it on emptying my

pockets. My connection with it ended at the moment I speak of. I did

not even think of it again till I came in from the meeting where I had

vainly sought distraction, and found my father lying low and heard the

cry of poison raised in the house."

"This would have been a welcome explanation at the time," commented

Mr. Gryce. "Your delay has compromised you."

"So be it," was the short but proud reply which came from this

singular man. "When you reflect that by the time I was able to satisfy

myself that this bottle was missing from the place where I had left

it, any attempt to exonerate myself would have been a virtual

accusation of one of my two brothers, you will realise why I hesitated

to speak then, and only bring myself to speak now under the compelling

force of an interest greater than family pride or affection. In my

desire to share the last offices which can be paid to my wife, I

possibly show myself for the second time a coward."

Did he? Mr. Gryce did not seem to think so. The forehead of this aged

detective was clearing fast, and he actually looked younger by ten

years than when he entered this house. Yet his exactions remained the

same, and Mr. Gillespie prepared to accommodate himself to them.

Meanwhile the incessant hammering of the rain on the roof had become

less noticeable, and the drip, drip, on the sill without, less wearily

persistent. There seemed, too, a diminution in the turbulence of the

wind; the doors and windows did not rattle so loudly, and the worst

noises in the yards below had ceased. Anxious to see if the storm was

abating, I raised the window and looked out. Rushing clouds with great

torn edges met my eye, and, below, a chaos of towering walls

surrounding an abyss in which the imagination could picture nothing

save a collection of foul yards and reeking alleys. Recoiling from a

prospect which the condition of my mind and heart made more than

usually gloomy, I turned back from the possible tragedies hidden

behind those great walls to the actual one in which I had myself been

forced to take so ungracious a part. Mr. Gillespie was waiting to

speak to me.

"I am allowed to give you the names of such people as can best assist

you in the removal of my wife," he remarked. "Here they are, together

with the address in New Jersey where I wish her ultimately carried.

Mr. Gryce will give you what further information you need----"

He placed a paper in my hand with a word of quiet thanks, to which I

responded in the manner I felt would be most pleasing to Hope. Then he

cast a glance at the detective.

"I have promised Mr. Gillespie the privilege of passing a moment in

this room unseen and alone," observed that official, stepping towards

the door.

I bowed and withdrew, shutting Mr. Gillespie in and ourselves out.

Instantly all the noises in the house crowded clamorously to our ears.

Laughter, singing, brawling, the screaming of children and the

scolding of their distracted mothers, made a sort of pandemonium,

which little harmonised with the mood induced by the pathetic story we

had just heard. But it was not for us to be particular at such a

moment, and I was glad that I had given no sign of my inward

disturbance, when Mr. Gryce suddenly remarked:

"I am getting old." (His alert eye and attentive ear turned towards

the room we had just left did not seem to indicate it.) "I find that

such scenes make a deeper impression upon me than formerly. I no

longer dwell on the skill it takes to bring them about, but rather

muse upon the mistakes and woes of poor humanity which make them

possible."

I wished to ask him what he thought of Mr. Gillespie's prospects, but

he gave me no encouragement to do so, and we remained silent till the

door reopened and Mr. Gillespie came out.

"I am ready now," he quietly informed us. "Mr. Outhwaite, I can trust

you; and if Hope--" He stopped and looked the entreaty he dared not

utter.

"I will tell her the whole story just as it has fallen from your lips.

You wish me to?"

He signified his assent, but still looked wistful.

"When she has heard the true cause of the division which has taken

place between you and other members of your family, she will act as

her own kind heart will prompt her," I added.

He would have pressed my hand, but remembering his position as a

prisoner, refrained.

"Let us go," he now said, in natural recoil from the noises which just

then burst in renewed outcry from every quarter of the house.

Mr. Gryce gave a faint whistle. It was answered in the same guarded

manner from below. At which the old detective turned to me with a few

final directions, after which, with a promise to leave me well

guarded, he made a gesture which Mr. Gillespie could not fail to

understand. They began to descend. When Mr. Gillespie was half-way

down, he gave one backward look at the door swaying between him and

what he had loved best on earth; then he passed on, and I was left

standing on that dingy landing, alone.

There was some clamour and no little jeering in the rooms below as the

detectives passed through them with their well-dressed prisoner; but

these tokens of class animosity speedily weakened to a sullen growl,

amidst which I thought I heard the rattling of departing wheels.

With a heart as heavy as the silence which now filled the house, I

turned and went back into that room.

It was filled with moonlight. The candle from which the winding-sheet

had long ago melted and run upon the table, had flickered out, but its

fitful flame was not missed. The clouds which had seemed so

impenetrable a short time before, had thinned out and parted till they

flecked, rather than covered, the white disk of the moon, now

revealed for the first time in days.

That storm and that clearing have never left my memory. As the last

lingering shred of cloud drifted away, leaving the face of the moon

quite clear, I found courage to look once more towards the bed.

There was a change there. She lay, not as before, with her features

quite concealed, but with her face exposed save where the loose curls

had forced their way across her cheeks and forehead. The coverlet,

drawn close under her chin, hung smooth and decent to the floor, and

across it lay stretched one white arm, upon the hand of which shone

the wedding-ring which Leighton Gillespie had taken from her neck and

placed there.

XXX

AN UNEXPECTED ALLY

That night was a busy one for me; nevertheless I found time to send a

message to Hope, in which I begged her to read no papers till she saw

me, and, if possible, to keep herself in her own room. To these

hurried words I added the comforting assurance that the news I had to

bring her would repay her for this display of self-control, and that I

would not keep her waiting any longer than was necessary. But it was

fully ten o'clock before I was able to keep this promise, and I found

her looking pale and worn.

"I have obeyed you," she said, with an attempt at smiling as pitiful

as it was ineffectual. "What has happened? Why did you not want me to

see the papers or talk with Mrs. Penrhyn?"

"Because I wished to be the first to tell you the secret of Leighton

Gillespie's life. It was not what was suggested to you by the

discrepancies you observed between his character and life. He is sane

as any man, but--" it was hard to proceed, with those eyes of

unspeakable longing looking straight into mine--"but he has had great

sorrows to bear, great suspenses to endure, a deception to keep up,

not altogether justifiable, perhaps, but yet one that was not without

some excuse. His wife--Did you ever see his wife?"

"No," she faltered.

"--Did not perish in that disaster of five years ago, as everyone

supposed; and it was she----"

"Oh!" came in a burst of sudden comprehension from Hope, as she sank

down out of sight among the curtains by the window. But the next

moment she was standing again, crying in low tones in which I caught a

note of immeasurable relief, "I thank God! I thank God!" Then the sobs

came.

I noticed that, once she had taken in this fact of his personal

rectitude, all fear left her as to the truth of the more serious

charge against him. Even after I had explained to her how he came by

the phial of poison, and how it was through his agency it came to be

in his father's house, no doubt came to mar her restored confidence in

this her most cherished relative. She even admitted that, now this one

unexplainable point in his character had been made clear to her, she

felt ready to meet any accusations which might be raised against him.

"Let them publish their suspicions!" she cried. "He can bear them and

so can I; for now that he has been proven a true man, nothing else

much matters. I may blush at hearing his name,--it will be years, I

think, before I shall overcome that,--but it will be because I failed

to see in his kindness to me the sympathetic interest of one whose

heart has been made tender towards women by his wild longing after the

wandering spirit whom he called his wife."

Then she asked where I had placed Mille-fleurs (a name so natural to

Millicent Gillespie that no other was ever suggested by her friends);

and, having been told where, said she would like to sit beside her

until the time came to lay her in the garden of that little home from

which all shadow was now cleared away save that of chastened sorrow.

As this was what Leighton Gillespie secretly wished, I promised to

accompany her to New Jersey, and then, taking this pure-hearted girl

by the hand, I asked:

"Have I performed my task well?"

Her answer was--but that is my secret. Small reason as it gave me for

personal hope, I yet went from that house with my heart lightened of

its heaviest load.

I did not read the papers myself that morning. I had little heart for

a reporter's version of what had so thrilled me coming from Leighton's

own lips. Merely satisfying myself that the latter was still in

custody, I busied myself with what came up in my office, till the

stroke of five released me to a free exercise of my own thoughts.

How much nearer were we to the solution of this mystery than we had

been the morning following Mr. Gillespie's death? Not much; and while

Hope and possibly myself felt that the band of suspicion had narrowed

in its circle, and by the exclusion of Leighton, whom we could no

longer look upon as guilty, left the question of culpability to be

settled between the two remaining sons of the deceased stockbroker, to

the world in general and to the readers of sensational journals which

now flooded the city with accounts of the most sacred incidents of

Leighton Gillespie's past life he was still the man through whose

agency the poison had entered the Gillespie house. Nor could we fail

to see that the feeling called out by these tales of his domestic

infelicities and the wild search in which most of his life had been

passed had its reverse side for those people who read all stories of

disinterested affection with doubt, and place no more faith in true

religion than if the few bright spots made in the universal history of

mankind by acts of unselfish devotion had no basis in fact, and were

as imaginary as the dreams of poet or romancer.

That Leighton Gillespie had not been released after his conference

with the District Attorney was proof that his way was not as clear

before him as I had hoped. Yet I was positive that Mr. Gryce as well

as Sweetwater shared my belief in his innocence; and while this was a

comfort to me, I found my mind much exercised by the doubt as to what

the next turn of the kaleidoscope would call up in this ever-changing

case.

I had not seen Underhill in days, and I rather dreaded a chance

meeting. He did not like Leighton, and would be the first to throw

contempt upon any mercy being shown him on account of his faithful

attachment to his disreputable wife. I seemed to hear the drawling

query with which this favourite of the clubs would end any attempt I

might make in this direction: "And so you think it probable that a

man--a man, remember, with a child liable to flutter in and out of his

room at all hours--would leave a phial of deadly poison on his dresser

and never think of it again? Not much, old man. If he laid it down

there, which I doubt, he took it up again. Don't waste your sympathy

on a cad."

Yet I did; and to such an extent that I took a walk instead of going

home and hearing these imaginary sentences uttered in articulated

words. I walked up Madison Avenue, and, coming upon a store which had

a reputation for an extra fine brand of cigars, I went in to buy one.

Have you ever greatly desired an event which your common sense told

you was most unlikely to happen, and then suddenly seen it wrought out

before you in the most unforeseen manner and by the most ordinary of

means? From the first night of the tragedy with which these pages have

been full, I had wished for an interview with the old butler, without

witnesses, and as the result of a seeming chance. But I had never seen

my way clear to this; and now, in this place and in this unexpected

manner, I came upon him buying fruit at a grocer's counter.

I did not hesitate to approach him.

"How do you do, Hewson?" said I, with a kindly tap on his shoulder.

He turned slowly, gave me a look that was half an apology and half an

appeal, then dropped his eyes.

"How do you do, sir?" said he.

"Been buying oranges for the family?" I went on. "Startling news,

this! I mean the arrest of Mr. Gillespie's second son. I never thought

of him as the guilty one, did you?"

The old butler did not break all up as I expected. He only shook his

head, and, taking up the bundle which had just been handed him,

remarked:

"We little know what's in the mind of the babies we dandle in our

arms," and went feebly out.

I laid down a quarter, took a cigar from the case, forgot to light it,

and sauntered into the street with it still in my hand. I felt

thoroughly discouraged, and walked down the avenue in a sort of black

mist formed of my own doubts and Hewson's calm acceptance of the guilt

attributed to Leighton. But suddenly I stopped, put the cigar in my

pocket, and exclaimed in vehement contradiction of my own uneasy

thoughts: "Leighton Gillespie is as guiltless of his father's death as

of other charges which have been made against him. I am ready to stake

my own honour upon it," and went immediately to my apartments, without

stopping, as I usually did, at Underhill's door.

I found a young man waiting for me in the vestibule. He had evidently

been standing there for some time, for he no sooner heard my step than

he gave a bound forward with the eager cry:

"It is I, sir,--Sweetwater."

He was a welcome visitor at that moment, and I was willing he should

realise it.

"Come in; come in," I urged. "New developments, eh? Mr. Gillespie

released, perhaps, or----"

"No," was his disappointing response as the door closed behind us and

he sank into the chair I pushed forward. "Mr. Gillespie is still in

detention and there are no new developments. But another day must not

pass without them. I was witness to the sympathy you felt last night

for the man who claimed the wretched being we saw before us for his

wife; and, feeling a little soft-hearted towards him myself, I have

come to ask you to lay your head with mine over this case in the hope

that we two together may light upon some clue which will lead to his

immediate enlargement. For I cannot believe him guilty; I just cannot.

It was one of the others. But which one? I don't mean to eat or sleep

till I find out."

"And Mr. Gryce?"

"He won't bother. Last night was too much for him, and he has gone

home. The field is clear, sir, quite clear; and I mean to profit by

it. Leighton Gillespie shall be freed in time to attend his wife's

funeral or I will give up the detective business and go back to the

carpenter's bench and my dear old mother in Sutherlandtown."

XXXI

SWEETWATER HAS AN IDEA

I was greatly interested. Taking out a box of cigars, I laid it before

him on the table.

"Be free with them," said I. "If there is any help to be got out of

smoke let us make use of it."

He eyed the cigars ruefully.

"Too bad," he murmured; "unfortunately, it does not work that way with

me. Some people think better between whiffs, but smoking clouds my

faculties, and I would be no friend to Mr. Gillespie if I took your

cigars now. Free air and an undisturbed mind for Caleb Sweetwater when

he settles down to work. Smoke yourself, sir; that won't affect me;

but draw the box to your side of the table and give me a rebuking look

if my hand goes out to it before this subject is settled."

I did as he requested, but not to the point of taking a cigar. I could

think without its aid as well as he.

"Now, sir," he immediately began, "you were the first man to enter

upon the scene of crime. May I ask if you will be so good as to relate

afresh and circumstantially your whole experience with Mr. Gillespie?

You cannot be too minute in your details. Somehow or somewhere we have

missed the clue necessary to the clearing up of this case. You may be

able to supply it. Will it bore you too much to try?"

"Not in the least. I am as anxious as yourself to get at the bottom of

this business."

"Begin, then, sir. You won't mind my closing my eyes? I find it so

much easier to identify myself with the situation when I see nothing

about to distract me. And, sir, since I dread speaking when actively

absorbed in this kind of work, will you pardon me if I simply raise my

finger when I want a minute for reflection? I know I am a crank, and

not much used to gentlemen's ways, but I appreciate kindness more than

most folks, especially when it takes the form of respect paid to my

whims."

I assured him I was only too ready to do anything which would serve to

further the end we had in view; and all preliminaries being thus

amicably settled he dropped his head into his hands and I began my

tale in much the same language I have used in these pages. He listened

without a movement while I spoke of Claire and of my entrance into the

house, but his finger went up when I mentioned the appearance

presented by Mr. Gillespie as he stood propping himself against the

table in a condition of impending collapse.

"Was the house quiet?" he asked. "Did you hear no sneaking step in the

halls or adjacent dining-room?"

"Not a step. I remember receiving the impression that this old

gentleman and his grandchild were all alone in the house. One of the

greatest surprises of my life was the discovery that there were

servants in the basement and more than one member of the family on the

floors above."

"A discovery which leads to our first argument, sir. We have taken it

for granted (and certainly we were justified in doing so) that Mr.

Gillespie knew whose hand poured out the poison he felt burning into

his vitals. We have argued that it was this knowledge which led him to

spend the final moments of his life in an extraordinary effort to

settle the doubts of his favourite niece. But, sir, if he had had this

knowledge, would he not have mentioned outright and without any

circumlocution the name of the son he had finally settled upon as the

guilty one, rather than have made use of the same vague phrase which

had been his torment and hers, ever since the hour he told her of the

shadowy hand he had detected hovering over his glass of medicine? With

the remembrance in your mind of the few words he left behind him, are

you ready to declare that you find in them any proof of his knowing

then, any better than before, which of his three sons had mingled

poison with his drink? And, sir,--you are a lawyer,--does it follow

from any evidence we have since received that he even positively knew

it was one of these three men? Might not his fears and the haunting

memory of that former attempt have so worked upon his failing

faculties that he took for granted it was one of his sons who had made

this last effort at poisoning him?"

"It is possible," I admitted, "but----"

"You don't place much stress on the suggestion."

"No," said I, "I don't. Anxious as I am that each and all of these

young men should be relieved from the appalling charge of parricide, I

saw too great a display of anxiety on his part for the right delivery

of what he believed to hold the last communication he had to make to

his favourite niece, for me to think these final words of his

contained nothing more definite than a repetition of his former vague

surmise. He was facing immediate death, yet all his thought, all his

fast-ebbing strength, were devoted to the effort of making her know

that he had not been mistaken in his former conclusion: that it _was_

one of his sons who sought his life, and that this son had now

actually succeeded in poisoning him. That he did not proceed further

and name which one, was due probably to a sudden loss of strength.

That he meant to say more than he did is evident from the _he_ which

follows the four words we have been considering."

"True, true, but my argument holds; an argument which the difficulties

of the case surely justify me in advancing. You say he would never

have made such an effort to insure the safe delivery of words that

were a mere repetition of a former statement. Yet what more were they

in the unfinished condition in which we find them? Do you think he

could have been blind to the fact that he had not succeeded in

mentioning the name which alone could give value to his accusation,

and make its safe delivery a matter of real moment to Miss Meredith?

Surely, sir, you do not believe his wits were so far gone that he

regarded himself as having made his suspicions clear in those five

words: _one of my sons he_?"

"No, I do not. Yet who can tell. Bright as his eye was, his faculty of

memory as well as of observation may have left him. Witness how he

tore off the blank edge of the paper, instead of the words he wished

to send."

"I know."

Sweetwater's tone was gloomy; a cloud seemed to have settled upon his

newly risen hopes.

"Nevertheless," I now felt bound to admit, "I cannot quite bring

myself to believe that he was so bewildered. On the contrary, I feel

confident that he was in full possession of his faculties when he cast

that dramatic glance upward, which, by a happy inspiration, I was led

to interpret as meaning Hope. If we could penetrate this matter to its

very core, I believe we should find the truth we seek either in those

five words themselves or in the means he took of getting them to Miss

Meredith. Have you ever thought, Sweetwater, that we have not given

all the attention we should to the latter fact?"

"Yes, sir." His hands had fallen from his face, and he spoke with

volubility. "It has struck you, I see, as oddly as it has us, that it

was a very strange thing for him to send into the street for a

messenger when he had one right at his hand."

"Claire, do you mean?"

"Yes."

"But Claire is a child; the slip of paper to which he attached such

importance was unsealed and he dreaded its falling into wrong hands.

Miss Meredith already knew his secret, but for him to proclaim openly

that his death was due to the hatred or cupidity of one of his

children would not be the act of a father who already, at the cost of

so much misery to himself,--nay, as it proved, at the cost of his

life,--had kept back from every ear save that of the one confidant of

his misery, a knowledge of the fact that a previous attempt had been

made upon his life."

"Yet to send into the street for a messenger! Why not send for one of

the servants? Or why, if he knew which son he had cause to fear, did

he not bid the child bring down one of the others?"

"Leighton was out, George was half drunk, and Alfred was two flights

up. Besides, he might have thought that an alarm of this kind would

prevent the delivery of the letter on which he laid such stress. Who

knows what goes on in the mind of a man conscious of having but one

minute in which to perform the most important act of his life?"

"True, true, sir; and yet there is something unnatural in his conduct,

something I fail to understand. But I don't despair. I won't despair;

we have only begun the recapitulation of details from which I hope so

much; supposing we go on." And he sunk his head again in his hands.

I at once took up the thread of my relation at the point where I had

dropped it.

"When I approached Mr. Gillespie I noted three things besides his

tortured face and sinking figure. First, that the shade was pulled up

over his desk; second, that a typewriter stood close to his hand; and

third, that a pot of paste, knocked over by some previous movement on

his part, lay near the typewriter, with its contents oozing over a

sheet of unused paper. You ask me to mention all details and I have

done so."

Dreamily he moved his finger, but whether in thanks or in an

injunction for me to continue, I could not determine. I therefore

remained still.

"I saw the paste," he murmured. And taking this as an intimation to

proceed, I went on till I came to the moment when I pulled down the

shade.

"You glanced out as you did that?" said he, lifting his finger as a

signal for me to pause.

"Yes."

"And saw Mr. Rosenthal in his room in the neighbouring extension?"

"Yes."

"Standing how? With his back or his face to the window?"

"His back. He was sauntering about his room."

"So that settles one fact. He had not been looking into Mr.

Gillespie's room at a critical moment. Had he seen that gentleman in a

suffering condition or noted the curious incidents following your

entrance, he would have been held to the spot by his curiosity, and

you would have encountered his eager face staring down upon a scene of

such uncommon interest."

"Very true. All he saw was the seemingly insignificant incident of Mr.

Gillespie emptying the contents of a wine-glass out of his window."

As Sweetwater had no remark to make to this, I proceeded with my

narrative, relating, with a careful attention to details, my journey

upstairs, the words I had overheard at the door of Alfred's room, my

first sight of Hope, and--I was proceeding to describe the results of

my intrusion into the Gillespie attic, when I perceived that

Sweetwater was no longer listening. His head, which he had raised from

between his hands, was turned my way, but his eyes were looking into

space and his whole body was quivering in intense excitement, such as

I have seldom seen. As I paused, he came back to earth and jumped to

his feet.

"Come," he cried. "Come with me to the Gillespie house. I have an

idea. It may not stand the test, it may prove a fatuous one, but----"

The very hair on his forehead was bristling; the eagerness he tried to

keep out of his voice showed itself in his eyes and in every jerking

movement which he made.

"Come," he cried again; "it is not late. We will find the young

gentlemen at home and perhaps----"

He added nothing to that significant "perhaps," but his repressed

excitement had awakened mine, and my hat was on and I was following

him down stairs before I realised that I had failed to turn out my

gas.

As I wheeled about with the intention of rectifying this oversight, I

encountered Underhill's languid figure loitering in his doorway. He

accosted me with an easy:

"Halloo, Outhwaite!" Then, as he leaned close enough to whisper in my

ear, he added, in an indescribable drawl, these unexpected words:

"I recognise your friend there. If you are piling up the evidence

against poor Leighton Gillespie, you are doing wrong. No fellow with a

heart like his ever put poison into his father's wine."

Which shows the folly of thinking you know a man's mind before he

speaks it.

XXXII

WITH THE SHADE DOWN

Not many words passed between Sweetwater and myself on our way up the

Avenue. He had his "idea" to brood upon, while I was engaged in

turning over in my mind various vague conjectures rising out of the

argument we had just indulged in. But before reaching the point of our

destination, I ventured upon one question.

"Have you, during any of your investigations, public or private,

learned which of the three sons of Mr. Gillespie is the greatest

favourite with the old family servant, Hewson?"

"No; that is, yes. Why do you ask?"

"Because if it is not Leighton----"

"And it certainly is not."

"Then I advise you to direct your energies towards the one he is known

to like best."

Sweetwater stopped short and surveyed me in very evident surprise

before venturing upon the following remark:

"I should like to know just why you say that?"

I replied by relating my interview with the butler in the drug-store,

and his easy acceptance of Leighton's guilt as implied in the arrest

which had just taken place.

Sweetwater listened and moved on; but so quickly now I could hardly

keep pace with him.

"If my idea has no will-o'-the-wisp uncertainty in it, and I have

lighted upon a way out of this mystery, I will be made for life," he

declared, as we reached the Gillespie house and he paused for a moment

at the foot of the steps. "But there! I'm counting chickens--something

which Mr. Gryce never approves of at any stage of the game." And

rushing up the stoop, he rang the bell, while I waited below with my

heart in my mouth, as they say.

Who would respond to the summons; and if we effected an

entrance--which I felt to be a matter of some doubt--whom would we be

likely to come upon in a visit of this nature? George? Alfred? I did

not like to ask, and Sweetwater did not volunteer to inform me.

The opening of the door cut short my reflections as well as gave

answer to my last-mentioned doubt. Old Hewson, and Hewson only, opened

the door of this house; and whether this renewed encounter with his

patient figure had something disappointing in it, or whether the

solemn grandeur of the interior thus quietly disclosed to view

produced an impression of family life that was more than painful under

the circumstances, I experienced a recoil from the errand which had

brought me there, and would have retreated if I had not recalled

Hope's interest in this matter, and the joy it would give her to see

Leighton Gillespie proved innocent of the crime for which he was at

present held in custody.

Meantime, Sweetwater, with an air of perfect nonchalance admirably

assumed, had stepped past Hewson into the house. Evidently he was

accustomed to go in and out of the place at will, and though the old

servant did not fail to show his indignation at this palpable

infringement upon the family dignity, he did not abate a jot of his

usual politeness or even watch the unwelcome intruder too closely in

his passage down the hall.

But his complaisance did not extend to me. He gave me a look which

demanded a response.

"Some formality of the law!" I whispered, hoping that the unaccustomed

words would befog the old man sufficiently to cover my own

embarrassment, and answer any doubts he might have as to the purpose

of our errand there. And perhaps they did, for, with some muttered

words, among which I heard this pathetic phrase, "There are so many of

them!" he crept away and disappeared through the door leading into the

dining-room. As he did so, I noted a man sitting on a settee pushed

well into the corner near the study door. I did not know this man; I

only noted that he sat there very quietly, and that the only movement

he made at our approach was a slight raising and falling of his

fingers on his crossed arms.

We were making for the study behind the stairs, and into this room

Sweetwater, after unlocking it with a key he had taken from his

pocket, now walked:

"Do you object to visiting this place again?" he asked, striking a

match and reaching up to light the gas.

Of course I answered no, yet it was not quite a pleasant experience

to stand there and watch the light flickering on his face, in a spot

where I had last seen the one horrid spectacle of my life.

But when the cheerful flame had sprung up, and walls made familiar not

by long seeing but close seeing had come into view, I was conscious

simply of a strong desire to know why I had been brought to this room

in such haste and secrecy, and what the "idea" was which had produced

so marked an effect upon my singular companion.

He showed no immediate intention of enlightening me. He was engaged in

casting a keen glance about him, a glance which seemingly took in

every detail of the well-remembered room; then, as if satisfied that

nothing had been disturbed since his last visit, he advanced to the

window and pulled down the shade.

"We will not have the curious Mr. Rosenthal giving away _our_

secrets," he dryly commented. "And this is our secret, is it not? You

won't feel called upon to repeat outside what goes on between us in

this room?"

"Certainly not."

The assurance seemed unnecessary, but I did not regret giving it when

I saw how it relieved him of all doubt, and caused his eye to lighten

and his manner to grow easy as he went on to say:

"So far as mortal calculation can go, this room has not been entered

by anyone but the police or persons acting under the instructions of

the police, since the hour when Mr. Gillespie was carried out of it.

Consequently we have a right to expect all articles remaining here to

be in the same condition as on that night. This, for instance."

He had taken out the typewriter from a closet built in one of the

corners, and set it as he spoke down in its old place on the edge of

the desk.

"Ah!" I burst forth. "Your idea is in connection with this

typewriter!"

He frowned, or almost frowned, for he was an amiable fellow; then,

giving me a pleading look, observed:

"I am young yet, Mr. Outhwaite, and it is very easy for me to deceive

myself with imaginary results. You will therefore allow me a minute to

myself, and if I find out that I have struck a false trail, or if my

idea proves to be one I cannot sustain by facts, I'll sing out and we

will consult as to our next move."

"Shall I step outside?" I asked.

But this he would not listen to.

"All I want," said he, "is for you to look the other way while I stoop

over this typewriter."

I naturally felt disposed to humour him, and meanwhile he remained so

still that I was confident he did not touch the instrument. But the

cry which impetuously burst from him after a moment of intense

stillness startled me so I can never forget it. It was something

between a sob and a shout, and it was so suggestive of triumph that I

could not forbear turning about and rushing up to the instrument over

which he still stooped.

He greeted me with a look of delight and a rush of confused gestures.

"See, sir; oh, see! How I wish Mr. Gryce were here! Look at the top

of that key, sir--the one with the words, 'Shift key' on it. Yes, that

one; that! What is the matter with it? Tell me."

"The face of it is obscured. I can scarcely read the words. There is

something on it. Something like----"

"Paste!" he cried. "The paste that ran out of the bottle and spread

over the desk. You can still see unmistakable signs of it here and

here" (pointing rapidly as he spoke), "for Mr. Gryce would not allow a

woman in the room, and nothing has been cleaned since that night. The

paste is but a dry crust now, but you must remember that it was moist

when Mr. Gillespie stooped over the table, so that when his fingers

got into it in his struggle to reach the typewriter, he readily

transferred it to the keys. This will be apparent to you if you will

scrutinise the exact keys he made use of in writing those last five

words. Observe the one marked _e_; now this _n_, and now the _o_.

There is but a trace of paste on some of them; but it is thick on the

_e_, and thicker still on--what key, sir?"

"The one you first drew my attention to; the one marked 'Shift key.'"

"Just so. Now, do you know the use of the 'Shift key?'"

"I do not."

"You press it down when you wish the letter you are writing to be a

capital. For instance, I wish to write the capital I. I hold down this

'Shift key' with one finger and strike the key marked _i_ with

another."

"Yes, but----"

"Oh, I know what you are going to say: 'No capital appears in the five

words we are now considering.' True, sir, but does not this paste on

the 'Shift key' show that he made an effort to write one; that a

capital was in his mind even if it did not get on paper? In beginning

any communication, one naturally starts with a capital, and you see,

sir, that the space between this last hurriedly added phrase and the

words of his unfinished letter is long enough to hold one. But the

haste and agitation of this dying man were such that he did not put

enough force into his stroke to bring an impression of this opening

capital. If, therefore, we would read this communication

intelligently, it is imperative upon us to supply this missing

capital. Now, what letter do you think he meant to write there and did

not?"

I blankly shook my head. My thoughts were in a great whirl.

"There is but one," he cried, "which would make any sense; the letter

N, sir, the famous letter N. Supply that letter, sir; then tell me how

those words would read. You know them well, or, stay, I have them

here."

And Sweetwater spread before me a copy of the letter as it appeared

after Mr. Gillespie had added the five words which had moulded the

whole course of the investigation up to this point.

But this was an unnecessary precaution on his part. I knew the words

by heart, and already had prefixed to them the capital N which he had

just convinced me belonged there, as witness:

"one of my sons he"

"None of my sons he"

"Oh!" I cried, "what a difference!"

Young Sweetwater's face absolutely shone.

"Isn't there?" he cried. "I got that idea while you were talking about

Miss Meredith. But that is not all. We are not through with our

experiments yet. A letter prefixed is not enough. We need to affix a

few. Can you supply them?"

I stared at him in amazement.

"'_None of my sons he_' fails to make good sense, Mr. Outhwaite. But

look!"

Replacing the paper in the typewriter, he pressed a few keys, lifted

the carriage, and drew me down to see. Imagine my amazement and the

shock given to all my previous convictions when I saw written before

me these words:

"None of my sons hewson."

XXXIII

IN WHICH WE CAN PARDON MR. GRYCE HIS UNFORTUNATE ILLNESS

"You didn't expect that? I thought I would surprise you, sir. Oh, I

know what you want to say!" Sweetwater eagerly continued. "You miss

the period and capital H which would show 'he' to be the beginning of

a proper name. But, sir, Mr. Gillespie would not have been the failing

man he was, if by this time he could think of capitals, much less

periods. He was not even able to complete the word, though he

evidently failed to realise this. 'None of my sons. Hewson' is what

was in his mind; you may take my word for that. And now," he

triumphantly concluded, after a short but satisfied contemplation of

my face, "you can see why this dying man should expend his last

energies in insuring the safe delivery of these words to the one

person who knew his former dreadful suspicions. Shrinking as any

father might from letting his sons know to what a fearful extent he

had misjudged them, and dreading, as he doubtless had good reason to,

some interference on the part of Hewson if he attempted to call any

one in the house to his aid, he sent his little grandchild into the

street----"

"But----"

"I know we are dealing with mere possibilities as yet, sir. But these

possibilities are much more credible than the surmises in which we

have hitherto indulged. I feel as if free air had entered my lungs for

the first time since the inquest; and if I can refrain from yielding

too much to the intoxication of it----"

"But," I again repeated, determined to have my say out before he had

gone too far, "what motive can you ascribe to this poor old servant

for a death which robbed him of a master he had served devotedly for

years?"

"Motive be ----!" cried Sweetwater, in some heat. But, with his usual

good nature, he instantly begged my pardon, and his next words were

uttered with more restraint. "Facts first, motives afterwards. What

motive have we been able to find for the committal of this deed by any

one of his sons? Yet each and all of them have been suspected and

almost arraigned. Still," he concluded, "if you want a motive, search

for it here," and he drew from his pocket a second folded paper, which

he opened out before my eyes.

It was a copy of Mr. Gillespie's will.

"Ah!" I cried, in dim perception of what he meant.

"A thousand dollars," explained Sweetwater. "Not much in your eyes,

but quite a fortune in his."

"And for so paltry a legacy you think that this man----"

Sweetwater's finger went to his lips. "Excuse me," said he, "but had

we not better put back this typewriter on the shelf from which we took

it? If I do not mistake, it will figure largely in the trial which I

plainly see approaching."

I nodded, recognising the wisdom of the admonition thus given, and

together we placed the typewriter back in the closet. Then he turned

towards me with a new light in his small grey eye.

"And now, sir," he cried, "let me request you to stand back a trifle.

I am going to finish this business."

Opening the door with a sudden jerk, he plunged into the hall. A

shadow was just disappearing from the opposite doorway. With a shout

to me to light up, he leaped across the hall into the dining-room. The

next minute I heard a cry, then a low gurgle; then the match I had

hastily struck flared up, and I beheld the detective holding down the

butler and looking eagerly towards me for the expected light.

The man in the hall was by this time at my side, and between us we

soon had three jets lit, illuminating two white faces: Sweetwater's

pale with triumph, Hewson's blue-white from fear.

"Murderer! Poisoner of your benefactor and friend, I have you at

last!" cried the struggling detective, watching how each terrible word

he hurled blanched to a greater and greater degree the face he held

pressed back for our inspection.

"You could see without faltering your master's sons, the boys you have

dandled on your knee, fall one after the other under the shadow of

public suspicion. Now we will see if you can show as much heroism on

your own account. You are the man who drugged Mr. Gillespie's wine;

and if the officer here will take you in charge for an hour or so, I

will go down and procure a warrant for your arrest."

The attack was so sudden, and Sweetwater's manner one of such complete

conviction, that the old man succumbed to it without a struggle.

"Mercy!" he moaned. "I was old--tired of work--a little home--a little

freedom in my old age--a--a----"

I fled from the room. It seemed as if the walls must cave in upon us.

For this, for this!

The sight of a half-dozen frightened faces in the hall restored my

self-possession. The servants had come up from below and stood

crowding and jostling each other just as they had done three weeks

before. At the sight of Hewson's cowering figure they began to moan

and cry.

"Be quiet there!" exhorted Sweetwater, advancing upon them with the

courage born of his triumphant success. "The old man whom you have

doubtless thought the best-hearted and most reliable of you all has

just confessed to the crime which has desolated this house and all but

ruined the three young gentlemen, your masters. Cry away if you want

to, but cry quietly and without giving the least alarm, for the good

news has not gone upstairs yet, and this gentleman, who was the first

to announce Mr. Gillespie's death to his sons, naturally would like

the satisfaction of telling them that his murderer has been found. I

have no doubt that Mr. George and his brother are to be found above."

"They be, sir, they be," spoke up a voice.

Sweetwater, whose divination of my wishes struck me as remarkable,

stepped aside at this, and, waiting for me to pass him, followed me to

the floor above with a step so light he seemed to be buoyed up by

wings.

As on a former memorable occasion, I stopped at George's door first.

The knock I gave was followed by a rather surly invitation to enter.

Excusing his un-graciousness in consideration of the fact that his

visitors of late had not been entirely those of his own choice and

consequently far from welcome, I pushed open the door without any

other exhibition of feeling than an apologetic smile.

A scene of disorder confronted me; the disorder of an idle man who

feels that with the withdrawal of all women from the house he had lost

all incentive to neatness, perhaps to decency. In its midst, and

lolling on a table over which lay spread some cards he was pushing

about with idle fingers, sat George, much the worse for liquor, and by

just that much short of being the handsome man he was intended to be

by nature.

At sight of me he rose, and, propping himself forward on the table,

looked the inquiry he was probably unable to formulate in words. I

answered as if he had spoken:

"You must pardon my intrusion, Mr. Gillespie. I have come to bring you

very good news."

"What news?"

"News of your brother's speedy release. News of your father's

murderer, who, though an inmate of his house, does not bear the name

of Gillespie. It is your butler, Hewson----"

With a shout he threw out his hands, and then sank panting and with

drooped head into the chair mercifully at hand to receive him.

"I have always sworn that Leighton was innocent," he cried out with

unexpected vehemence. "In public and private, declared that--he

could--no more--have done--that thing----"

Sweetwater slipped from the room and I quietly followed, shutting the

door softly behind me.

We went directly above; and this time found the room we wished to

visit, open. As the face of its natural occupant could be plainly seen

from where we stood, we gratified our curiosity by a momentary

contemplation of it. Like his brother, Alfred Gillespie was sitting at

a table, but he was neither flushed with wine nor engaged in idle

revery. On the contrary, he was very busy writing letters. But he was

not satisfied with his work. He looked restless and disturbed, and, in

the minute or two we stood there watching him, tore up the wretched

scrawls he had just indited, with a groan indicative not only of

impatience, but deep, almost heartrending anguish. On his pale brow

and in his attenuated frame few signs remained of the once luxurious

Alfred, and when, after a second attempt at expressing himself, he

made a dash at the unfinished letter and, crumpling it to nothing in

his hand, threw it into the fire, I turned to Sweetwater and

whispered:

"Cut this misery short."

The young detective nodded, and with a clearing of his throat, meant,

I am sure, as a warning, he advanced and entered the room, into which

I rapidly followed him. Without pausing for any greeting from the

astonished Alfred, he at once presented me in the following manner:

"Mr. Gillespie, will you allow me the honour of presenting Mr.

Outhwaite, who has come to offer you his hearty congratulations?"

"Congratulations!" I don't know whether I was more moved by the

sarcasm or the despair expressed in this repetition of the word, which

must have fallen with strange effect on Alfred Gillespie's ear. "For

what, may I ask?"

"For the speedy lifting of the cloud which has darkened this house;

for the free and honourable return of your brother from his present

place of detention, and the incarceration in his stead of the old man,

Hewson, who has just confessed to the crime of having poisoned your

father."

"Hewson! Old Hewson!" Alfred rose with a wild laugh that was not

unlike a curse. "You are playing with me! You are----"

"No," I interposed, with a decision he could not but recognise. "Far

from it, Mr. Gillespie. What the detective says is true. Hewson

acknowledges the whole thing. He wanted a little home, knew that a

legacy awaited him at your father's death, and wished to hasten his

enjoyment of it. Your father recognised him as his poisoner when too

late. He tried to communicate the fact to Miss Meredith in the five

words: 'None of my sons. Hewson,' but his strength failed him, and he

only succeeded in impressing on the paper the unfinished words: '_one

of my sons he_.' The detective will explain."

"Ah!" was his troubled response, as he sank back into the seat from

which he had risen. Then as he met our eyes fixed sympathetically upon

him, he dropped his head upon his arms, crying brokenly: "Don't look

at me! Don't look at me! All this misery and shame! And it was Hewson!

Oh, Hope! Hope!"

We left him. It was all we could do. As we stepped down together into

the lower hall, Sweetwater remarked to me, with one of his rare

smiles:

"If you know of anyone to whom this unexpected clearing of the

Gillespie name will be especially gratifying, you are at liberty now

to make the good news known. I'm off for police headquarters, there to

begin those proceedings which will release Leighton Gillespie in time

to meet the body of his wife at Communipaw."

XXXIV

"IT WAS THE SHOCK!"

Later, Hewson made a fuller confession. In it, he explained how he

first came to meditate the crime which he afterwards carried out with

such diabolic persistence.

He had never indulged himself in dishonest longings, never allowed

himself to dream of any other life than that of daily work in the

household of which he had for so many years been a member, until the

day he was called into his master's study on some errand or other

which led him to the desk. A memorandum was lying there, and as he had

his glasses on, he could not help seeing his own name among a list of

others, with the figures $1000 against it. Now, it was no secret in

the house that his master was at this very time engaged in drawing up

his will. Indeed, the lawyer had been there that very morning.

Consequently, Hewson immediately drew the inference that these figures

represented the amount he was to receive upon his master's death, and

though at the moment he experienced nothing but gratitude for the

good-will thus shown, the knowledge of what he might expect under

certain circumstances slowly roused in him strange ambitions and new

desires, which afterwards resolved themselves into longings which

gave him no rest day or night.

The relief from daily routine,--a little home in a country place where

he could raise vegetables and flowers,--a quiet smoke in the twilight

on a porch all his own,--all this would be paradise to the tired old

man, and as he dwelt upon its charms he became impatient at his

master's robust health, and began to note the difference in their

years--which, alas! were entirely in his master's favour; and to

think--yes, to think--that though it would cause him regret--naturally

so--to see that master's health give way, it would not be so hard as

this endless counting of years nothing but disease could annul; that,

in short, a lifetime of service devoted to Mr. Gillespie and his sons

had become as nothing in the light of his new desires, and when the

usually healthy broker was finally seized with some complaint which

laid him on his back, these desires grew into hopes which it was

useless for him to smother, for he was now determined to have his

little fortune whether or no, and have it before he was himself too

old to miss its full enjoyment.

Meanwhile, he was much in the confidence of the family. He heard his

master's symptoms discussed, and learned while waiting on table that

Mr. Gillespie was being given small doses of a certain poison as

medicine; doses which it would be dangerous to increase. He could go

through all his duties with the utmost precision without ceasing to

take in such a conversation; and when in the course of time he heard

that Mr. Gillespie was improving and would soon be quite well, he

allowed himself to dwell upon the tempter's whispered suggestion that

three more little drops from a bottle constantly in use by his

master's bedside would remedy all this, and in a safe and seemingly

natural way end the one existence which stood between him and the

money he now regarded as his own.

The carrying out of this thought was easy. He knew that his master was

now well enough to be left alone at night, likewise to help himself to

his own medicine after it was once prepared for him. One had only to

steal into the room in the early hours of the night, and, with careful

manipulation of bottle and glass, increase that dose before the time

came for the sick man to want it. Hewson was accustomed to noiseless

actions; he could even handle glass without a sound, having been

trained in quiet ways by the very man who, in such an unexpected

manner, was now destined to fall a victim to these very precautions.

He therefore did not fear waking Mr. Gillespie; he only feared finding

him already awake.

But even this possibility lost its terrors when he considered that to

make himself quite safe he had but to utter the low-whispered

_Father!_ with which the young gentlemen were accustomed to approach

the sick-bed at night. If Mr. Gillespie heard and answered, he would

know the moment badly chosen and steal away. While, if no answer came,

he had but to proceed as the devil and his own dark instincts

prompted.

Night came, and he went through his part, as he supposed,

successfully; but in the morning he missed the alarm he had a right to

expect, and soon learned that Mr. Gillespie had accidentally

overthrown the glass of medicine which had been so carefully prepared

for him. Worse than this, he saw the bottle of poison emptied clean

out, and heard that Mr. Gillespie's medicine was to be changed to one

quite harmless.

What did this mean, and how could he now hope to carry out the scheme

he was more than ever resolved upon? For a while he felt quite

discouraged, and drooped a little over his work, which was becoming

hourly more irksome. He began to hate the man who had upset the glass

which, if drank, would have insured him an immediate enjoyment of his

little fortune; and even to cherish the same feeling towards Mr.

Gillespie's three sons, to whose wants he catered and who were all

young enough to wait for their fortunes, while he, now nearly

four-score, could not. That is, he hated the two eldest; but

Alfred--well, he didn't quite hate Alfred; indeed, he almost loved

him, loved him well enough to be glad that he, as well as himself,

would profit by the old man's death, if only some new way could be

found of bringing it safely about.

Meanwhile, he found as many errands to his master's rooms as possible,

especially when the doctor was there; and, being regarded as a piece

of household furniture rather than a living, breathing, and determined

man, these two rarely made an end to their talk or changed their topic

on account of his presence. And so it was he heard them often discuss

poisons, and was able to gather up one or two items in regard to these

dangerous drugs which otherwise he might have missed. Among other

things he learned that an acid smelling like bitter almonds killed

quickly and without much pain; but he failed to take in that this very

smell was calculated to give away its presence. Brooding over this

happy discovery, he cast about in his mind how he could prepare a

drink likely to please his master without awakening his distrust. For

weeks he thought it over, testing and trying various concoctions.

Finally he hit on one which he prepared under Mr. Gillespie's eye and

partially under his directions, and which was so strongly spiced that

his master did not detect, or at least made no objection, to the

flavouring of bitter almonds which he was careful to put into it.

Indeed, Mr. Gillespie grew to like it, and, for a reason now readily

to be understood, seemed to prefer anything brought him by his old

servant to the finest of wines poured out for him by his sons.

Having thus provided a means for disguising the poison when the

opportunity came for administering it, he cast about how he could

procure the necessary drug without risk to himself. Ignorant as he was

in most matters, he knew that he could not walk into a drug-store and

buy so deadly a poison without rousing suspicion. So, as I have said

before, he waited. But not long. Will begets way, or, truer yet, the

devil prepares the way for him who is willing to walk in it.

One morning he came upon a phial in Mr. Leighton's room whose very

appearance strangely affected him. It was small; it held a dark

liquid; and it had a wicked look strangely attractive to him. He took

the phial up; he smelt it. Bitter almonds! Greatly excited and

somewhat shaken, he set it down again. How had Mr. Leighton come by

this? What did he want of it, and why was it left standing in this

open way on his bureau? Was it for medicinal purposes like the other?

Probably; but it seemed stronger, very strong indeed; it seemed strong

enough to kill a man. Catching it up, he carried it away.

"If any inquiries are made, I'll say I knocked it over and broke it."

But Hewson didn't think any inquiries would be made. Mr. Gillespie's

sudden death would make all such little matters forgotten.

Having in this unexpected way secured the very poison he most desired,

Hewson poured into the sink all but the few drops he had heard

constituted a fatal dose. Then he put the phial away in a tea-cup and

waited his opportunity. It was not long in coming. That evening he

prepared the drink as usual for Mr. Gillespie, and, while waiting for

that gentleman to call for it, saw Mr. George come into the

dining-room and take away the bottle of sherry, and afterwards Mr.

Alfred, who hunted about for his pencil. Later, he heard Mr. Leighton

come downstairs, but he did not wait to see what that gentleman

wanted, for his own work in the butler's pantry was now done, and he

thought it better to show himself in the kitchen. But he was suddenly

called up by the dining-room bell. Mr. Leighton wished a glass of

sherry for his father. This was an unexpected order, and for the

moment set him quite aback. For if Mr. Gillespie drank sherry now, he

would not want his spiced drink later. However, he put a good face on

the matter and got out the wine, which he handed to Mr. Leighton, who

poured out a glassful and carried it in to his father. A moment later

he heard the front door close. Leighton had gone out to one of his

numerous meetings, and Mr. Gillespie was left alone.

Somehow the old servant had an irresistible desire to see how his

master looked at this moment. There had been loud words between that

master and Mr. Leighton before the latter had left, and he wanted to

see how his master had borne it--wanted to see--well, he hardly knew

what; but he went to the dining-room door and, finding the opposite

one open, peered in.

Mr. Gillespie was standing just where his son had doubtless left him,

gazing intently into the wine-glass which he held, untasted, in his

hand. His face was wan and troubled. Suddenly he moved and, glancing

behind him, like a man bound on some guilty errand, but not looking

far enough into the distance to see Hewson watching him from the

depths of the dimly lighted room on the other side of the hall, he

hurried to the window, and, raising, first the shade and then the

sash, flung out the contents of the glass into the back-yard. This

done, he uttered a sigh, which spoke of some great inward trouble,

and, reclosing the window, carried back the empty glass to the

dining-room, from which Hewson had, by this time, slipped in guilty

confusion.

Not understanding Mr. Gillespie's sudden distaste for the wine he had

ordered, but determined to profit by what struck him as a very happy

chance, Hewson put his own concoction on a tray, and, creeping to the

buffet, took the phial out of the tea-cup in which he had concealed

it, and emptied its contents into the glass he carried. Then not

liking to put the phial back, he thrust it into his vest-pocket, mouth

up (the cork having slipped from his hand and rolled away in the

darkness). He was willing to be heard now, and was stepping briskly

around the room, when Mr. Gillespie called out:

"Who's that? Is it Hewson?"

"It is, sir," was the demure reply. "I came up to make you that drink

you like so well; but Mr. Leighton said you preferred sherry."

"Yes, yes; but I like your drink, too. Brew it and bring it in to me.

I seem to be unusually thirsty to-night."

Without a quiver, without a conscious sense of doing anything greatly

out of the common, this tried old servant brought him the glass which

he knew would end all earthly relations between them. He even waited

until he saw it emptied, then he took it out again and immediately

washed it.

Why he felt this precaution necessary he hardly knew, unless it was to

pass away the moment of suspense. He never dreamed for a minute that

there was anything special for him to fear. Were not men dropping dead

every day in counting-houses or in the streets? And why not this man?

That the police would be called in or that so quiet a death would be

treated as a crime, had never occurred to him. He had never read

murder cases much; indeed, had never read anything much; he only knew

he wanted his master to die, and that the quickest way to bring this

about was to give him a dose of very strong poison. Yet after he had

done this, he felt some nervousness, not over what he had done, but

its seemingly slow results. He had expected Mr. Gillespie to fall at

once, perhaps before he was, himself, well out of the room, and Mr.

Gillespie did not fall. Hewson had had time to wash the glass, put it

away, go down into the kitchen again, and come back, without hearing

the heavy thud for which his ears were strained. Was his affair to

fail again? Had the dark and pungent liquor been harmless, and was it

decreed that he was to go back to the old life with no hopes of a

change or relief? He was so worked up by this thought that he crept

into the dining-room again and was making for the hall door to take

another peep into the study, when his foot encountered a small object

on the floor. Yielding to his usual methodical habits, he stooped and

picked up what proved to be Alfred's pencil. This he mechanically

dropped into his pocket, then he went on.

He found his master reeling over the study floor in the first

consciousness, perhaps, of his alarming condition. He seemed to be

trying to find the door, but as Hewson drew nearer (fascinated,

perhaps, by the sight of suffering of which he himself had been the

cause), Mr. Gillespie suddenly paused in this effort, and, meeting

Hewson's eyes, threw up his arms and made for his desk, upon which he

fell in a way which assured his anxious watcher that the last minutes

of his quondam master were at hand.[A]

[Footnote A: It was at this moment probably, and not till this moment,

that Mr. Gillespie recognized his real murderer. Of the tumult thus

awakened in heart and brain, who can judge!]

As he had no wish to watch his sufferings, he made another journey

downstairs and showed himself in the servants' hall just as little

Claire broke away from her nurse and rushed, laughing loudly, up to

her grandfather.

This convinced him that his own comings and goings had been so natural

that they had not even been noticed by his fellow-servants. He saw

that they had been playing a merry game with the child, and that not

one of them had had an eye for him or his unaccustomed nervousness.

This gave him courage, and soon, very soon now, they all had reason

for nervousness. The long-delayed alarm was heard at last; strangers

came into the house; the police followed, and this old reprobate, who

had remained serene amidst all the turmoil, realised that there was

more to fear in the matter than had ever struck his mind. With this

fear came not only a desire to hide his own guilt, but the requisite

cunning for doing so. He realised that he must get rid of the phial

before he was searched, and, being left a minute to himself in the

dining-room, he took it out of his side vest-pocket, and, shaking out

the pencil which had slipped into it, he thrust it under the clock as

being the one article not likely to be moved. It was a heavy lift for

his old arms, and his elbows shook as he guided it back into place.

The consequence was that he knocked over the glass which Mr. Gillespie

had set down on the mantel-shelf a few minutes before; but though the

clatter which it made attracted attention and the broken pieces of

this glass were carefully examined, nothing was discovered from them,

the glass having held nothing but sherry. Not so with poor Alfred's

pencil, the end of which had rested in the last drop of poison

remaining in the phial. The odour of prussic acid thus communicated to

it came near bringing his favourite young master into jeopardy. But

something, Hewson hardly knew what, intervened to save him, and all

was going on well, or as well as could be expected after the

suspicions expressed by Mr. Gillespie against his sons, when this

young demon in the shape of a detective flung himself at the old

butler's throat and, without telling him why or by what means he had

learned it, accused him of being his master's poisoner.

"It was the shock! the shock!" the miserable wretch wailed out. "Had I

had more time to think, I would have known that he had no proof

against me; that it was all guess-work, and that I would be a fool to

fear that. But it is too late now. I have said it, and I stand by it.

Only I wish I could have seen the thousand dollars for which I killed

my master lying for one instant in my hand. I would willingly go

without the cottage, go without the evening pipe in the sight of hills

and meadows, just to realise the sensation of holding all that money

and knowing that it was _mine_."

XXXV

ROSES

One more scene, and this narration of my life's most stirring episode

will have reached its conclusion.

It was a memorable scene to me. It took place in the parlours of the

little cottage in New Jersey on the day we laid Mille-fleurs away to

rest.

The burial had taken place, the guests had departed, and only the

members of the family remained to close up the cottage, now more than

ever precious in Leighton's eyes. George and Alfred, with an

assumption of brotherly feeling they probably thought due the

occasion, had stepped out together to see that everything was ready

for Hope's departure, and, from the window where I stood, I could

see--arrant spy that I was--the nonchalant air with which either

turned a wary eye upon the other as Hope's voice was heard above,

speaking to little Claire. They evidently still looked upon each other

as the possible object of her preference, no suspicion having reached

them of the tragic secret which had made this young girl's heart

inaccessible to them both. I, who knew it, and had my own place in the

tragedy to which they had been blind, did not watch them long,

Leighton being the more interesting figure at that moment, as,

standing on his desolate hearthstone, he allowed his eyes to wander

for the last time, perhaps, over the beauties of the bijou dwelling

which, exquisite as it was, had been as powerless as his love to hold

his roving wife in check.

He was waiting for Hope, and as this thought, with its suggestion of

another and longer waiting struck my mind, a pang seized me which it

took all my self-possession to hide. Waiting for--Hope! Hope, who had

sat that day with his child crushed close against her breast, and a

look on her face which angels might view with pity, but which I----

Ah! she was coming! I turned my face away, not that I had anything to

dread from this meeting, but that I felt as if I could not bear at

this moment to see the shadow veiling his melancholy countenance lift,

were it ever so lightly, at the sound of the step that was shaking my

own heart. But I immediately glanced back; uncertainty was worse than

knowledge; and, glancing back, saw Hope, and Hope only.

She was standing in the open doorway with her arms full of

roses--roses which she had brought from New York, and which she now

held out towards Leighton, with a smile I hardly think he saw, so much

was his attention fixed upon the flowers.

"What are these for?" he asked, advancing towards her and touching the

great roses with a trembling hand.

"They are for her," said Hope, in a low tone; "for my cousin

Millicent. I could not bear to have her lie with only her husband's

tokens on her breast, as if she had no--no----"

He caught her to his heart. Moved to the very soul, he kissed her on

the lips; then he took the flowers.

As he passed out, she tottered pale and almost swooning to where I

stood trembling with my own emotions. Lifting her face, with its

candid eyes and quivering lips, she faltered between her sobs:

"Have patience with me! I see now that he has never loved me and never

will. Had so much as the possibility been in his breast, he could not

have kissed me like that to-day."

It was not on George's arm, or Alfred's, or even Leighton's that she

passed out of that little house into the new life she was to share

some day with me.

* * * * *

A long time after those flowers had withered on Mille-fleurs' peaceful

breast, Leighton said to me, with his hand on the head of his child:

"I shall never marry again, Outhwaite. To train this child up to be my

pride as she is now my joy, will fill my life as full of happiness as

is necessary to me now. And, Outhwaite, she is a quiet child,--" he

stopped--I knew what thought had stayed him,--"a quiet and a loving

child. Yesterday she sat for a full hour with her arms about my neck

and her cheek pressed to mine, listening while I talked to her of

things a child usually cares but little about. This is balm for many a

hurt, Outhwaite, and if it is given to her mother to look down upon us

two----"

A smile, the rarest I had ever seen, finished the sentence. Seeing it,

and noting how it irradiated features which once bore the stamp of

deepest melancholy, I could never again look upon Leighton Gillespie

as an unhappy man.

FINIS

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