Had she known what had occurred--had there been no doubt in her mind

as to what lay in the darkness on the other side of the room--it is

likely that, at the noise caused by the closing front door, she would

have made at once for the balcony that opened out from the window

before which she was standing, and taken one look at the flying

figure below. But her uncertainty as to what lay hidden from her by

the darkness chained her feet to the floor, and there is no knowing

when she would have moved, if a carriage had not at that moment

passed down Astor Place, bringing with it a sense of companionship

which broke the spell that held her, and gave her strength to light

the gas, which was in ready reach of her hand.

As the sudden blaze illuminated the room, revealing in a burst the

old familiar walls and well-known pieces of furniture, she felt for a

moment as if released from some heavy nightmare and restored to the

common experiences of life. But in another instant her former dread

returned, and she found herself quaking at the prospect of passing

around the foot of the bed into that part of the room which was as

yet hidden from her eyes.

But the desperation which comes with great crises finally drove her

from her retreat; and, creeping slowly forward, she cast one glance

at the floor before her, when she found her worst fears realized by

the sight of the dead body of her husband lying prone before the open

doorway, with a bullet-hole in his forehead.

Her first impulse was to shriek, but, by a powerful exercise of will,

she checked herself, and, ringing frantically for the servants who

slept on the top floor of the house, flew to the nearest window and

endeavored to open it. But the shutters had been bolted so securely

by Mr. Hasbrouck, in his endeavor to shut out light and sound, that

by the time she had succeeded in unfastening them, all trace of the

flying murderer had vanished from the street.

Sick with grief and terror, she stepped back into the room just as

the three frightened servants descended the stairs. As they appeared

in the open doorway, she pointed at her husband's inanimate form, and

then, as if suddenly realizing in its full force the calamity which

had befallen her, she threw up her arms, and sank forward to the

floor in a dead faint.

The two women rushed to her assistance, but the old butler, bounding

over the bed, sprang to the window, and shrieked his alarm to the

street.

In the interim that followed, Mrs. Hasbrouck was revived, and the

master's body laid decently on the bed; but no pursuit was made, nor

any inquiries started likely to assist me in establishing the

identity of the assailant.

Indeed, every one, both in the house and out, seemed dazed by the

unexpected catastrophe, and as no one had any suspicions to offer as

to the probable murderer, I had a difficult task before me.

I began, in the usual way, by inspecting the scene of the murder. I

found nothing in the room, or in the condition of the body itself,

which added an iota to the knowledge already obtained. That Mr.

Hasbrouck had been in bed; that he had risen upon hearing a noise;

and that he had been shot before reaching the door, were self-evident

facts. But there was nothing to guide me further. The very

simplicity of the circumstances caused a dearth of clues, which made

the difficulty of procedure as great as any I ever encountered.

My search through the hall and down the stairs elicited nothing; and

an investigation of the bolts and bars by which the house was

secured, assured me that the assassin had either entered by the front

door, or had already been secreted in the house when it was locked up

for the night.

"I shall have to trouble Mrs. Hasbrouck for a short interview," I

hereupon announced to the trembling old servitor, who had followed me

like a dog about the house.

He made no demur, and in a few minutes I was ushered into the

presence of the newly made widow, who sat quite alone, in a large

chamber in the rear. As I crossed the threshold she looked up, and I

encountered a good plain face, without the shadow of guile in it.

"Madam," said I, "I have not come to disturb you. I will ask two or

three questions only, and then leave you to your grief. I am told

that some words came from the assassin before he delivered his fatal

shot. Did you hear these distinctly enough to tell me what they

were?"

"I was sound asleep," said she, "and dreamt, as I thought, that a

fierce, strange voice cried somewhere to some one: 'Ah! you did not

expect me!' But I dare not say that these words were really uttered

to my husband, for he was not the man to call forth hate, and only a

man in the extremity of passion could address such an exclamation in

such a tone as rings in my memory in connection with the fatal shot

which woke me."

"But that shot was not the work of a friend," I argued. "If, as

these words seem to prove, the assassin had some other motive than

gain in his assault, then your husband had an enemy, though you never

suspected it."

"Impossible!" was her steady reply, uttered in the most convincing

tone. "The man who shot him was a common burglar, and, frightened at

having been betrayed into murder, fled without looking for booty. I

am sure I heard him cry out in terror and remorse: 'God! what have I

done!'"

"Was that before you left the side of the bed?"

"Yes; I did not move from my place till I heard the front door close.

I was paralyzed by my fear and dread."

"Are you in the habit of trusting to the security of a latch-lock

only in the fastening of your front door at night? I am told that

the big key was not in the lock, and that the bolt at the bottom of

the door was not drawn."

"The bolt at the bottom of the door is never drawn. Mr. Hasbrouck

was so good a man he never mistrusted any one. That is why the big

lock was not fastened. The key, not working well, he took it some

days ago to the locksmith, and when the latter failed to return it,

he laughed, and said he thought no one would ever think of meddling

with his front door."

"Is there more than one night-key to your house?" I now asked.

She shook her head.

"And when did Mr. Hasbrouck last use his?"

"To-night, when he came home from prayer-meeting," she answered, and

burst into tears.

Her grief was so real and her loss so recent that I hesitated to

afflict her by further questions. So returning to the scene of the

tragedy, I stepped out upon the balcony which ran in front. Soft

voices instantly struck my ears. The neighbors on either side were

grouped in front of their own windows, and were exchanging the

remarks natural under the circumstances. I paused, as in duty bound,

and listened. But I heard nothing worth recording, and would have

instantly reentered the house, if I had not been impressed by the

appearance of a very graceful woman who stood at my right. She was

clinging to her husband, who was gazing at one of the pillars before

him in a strange, fixed way which astonished me till he attempted to

move, and then I saw that he was blind. Instantly I remembered that

there lived in this row a blind doctor, equally celebrated for his

skill and for his uncommon personal attractions, and, greatly

interested not only in his affliction, but in the sympathy evinced

for him by his young and affectionate wife, I stood still till I

heard her say in the soft and appealing tones of love:

"Come in, Constant; you have heavy duties for to-morrow, and you

should get a few hours' rest, if possible."

He came from the shadow of the pillar, and for one minute I saw his

face with the lamplight shining full upon it. It was as regular of

feature as a sculptured Adonis, and it was as white.

"Sleep!" he repeated, in the measured tones of deep but suppressed

feeling. "Sleep! with murder on the other side of the wall!" And he

stretched out his arms in a dazed way that insensibly accentuated the

horror I myself felt of the crime which had so lately taken place in

the room behind me.

She, noting the movement, took one of the groping hands in her own

and drew him gently toward her.

"This way," she urged; and, guiding him into the house, she closed

the window and drew down the shades, making the street seem darker by

the loss of her exquisite presence.

This may seem a digression, but I was at the time a young man of

thirty, and much under the dominion of woman's beauty. I was

therefore slow in leaving the balcony, and persistent in my wish to

learn something of this remarkable couple before leaving Mr.

Hasbrouck's house.

The story told me was very simple. Dr. Zabriskie had not been born

blind, but had become so after a grievous illness which had stricken

him down soon after he received his diploma. Instead of succumbing

to an affliction which would have daunted most men, he expressed his

intention of practising his profession, and soon became so successful

in it that he found no difficulty in establishing himself in one of

the best paying quarters of the city. Indeed, his intuition seemed

to have developed in a remarkable degree after his loss of sight, and

he seldom, if ever, made a mistake in diagnosis. Considering this

fact, and the personal attractions which gave him distinction, it was

no wonder that he soon became a popular physician whose presence was

a benefaction and whose word a law.

He had been engaged to be married at the time of his illness, and,

when he learned what was likely to be its results, had offered to

release the young lady from all obligation to him. But she would not

be released, and they were married. This had taken place some five

years previous to Mr. Hasbrouck's death, three of which had been

spent by them in Lafayette Place.

So much for the beautiful woman next door.

There being absolutely no clue to the assailant of Mr. Hasbrouck, I

naturally looked forward to the inquest for some evidence upon which

to work. But there seemed to be no underlying facts to this tragedy.

The most careful study into the habits and conduct of the deceased

brought nothing to light save his general beneficence and rectitude,

nor was there in his history or in that of his wife any secret or

hidden obligation calculated to provoke any such act of revenge as

murder. Mrs. Hasbrouck's surmise that the intruder was simply a

burglar, and that she had rather imagined than heard the words that

pointed to the shooting as a deed of vengeance, soon gained general

credence. But, though the police worked long and arduously in this

new direction, their efforts were without fruit, and the case bade

fair to remain an unsolvable mystery.

But the deeper the mystery the more persistently does my mind cling

to it, and some five months after the matter had been delegated to

oblivion, I found myself starting suddenly from sleep, with these

words ringing in my ears:

"_Who uttered the scream that gave the first alarm of Mr. Hasbrouck's

violent death?_"

I was in such a state of excitement that the perspiration stood out

on my forehead. Mrs. Hasbrouck's story of the occurrence returned to

me, and I remembered as distinctly as if she were then speaking, that

she had expressly stated that she did not scream when confronted by

the sight of her husband's dead body. But some one had screamed, and

that very loudly. Who was it, then? One of the maids, startled by

the sudden summons from below, or some one else--some involuntary

witness of the crime, whose testimony had been suppressed at the

inquest, by fear or influence?

The possibility of having come upon a clue even at this late day, so

fired my ambition, that I took the first opportunity of revisiting

Lafayette Place. Choosing such persons as I thought most open to my

questions, I learned that there were many who could testify to having

heard a woman's shrill scream on that memorable night just prior to

the alarm given by old Cyrus, but no one who could tell from whose

lips it had come. One fact, however, was immediately settled. It

had not been the result of the servant-women's fears. Both of the

girls were positive that they had uttered no sound, nor had they

themselves heard any, till Cyrus rushed to the window with his wild

cries. As the scream, by whomever given, was uttered before they

descended the stairs, I was convinced by these assurances that it had

issued from one of the front windows, and not from the rear of the

house, where their own rooms lay. Could it be that it had sprung

from the adjoining dwelling, and that-- My thoughts went no further,

but I made up my mind to visit the Doctor's house at once.

It took some courage to do this, for the Doctor's wife had attended

the inquest, and her beauty, seen in broad daylight, had worn such an

aspect of mingled sweetness and dignity, that I hesitated to

encounter it under any circumstances likely to disturb its pure

serenity. But a clue, once grasped, can not be lightly set aside by

a true detective, and it would have taken more than a woman's frown

to stop me at this point. So I rang Dr. Zabriskie's bell.

I am seventy years old now and am no longer daunted by the charms of

a beautiful woman, but I confess that when I found myself in the fine

reception parlor on the first floor, I experienced no little

trepidation at the prospect of the interview which awaited me.

But as soon as the fine commanding form of the Doctor's wife crossed

the threshold, I recovered my senses and surveyed her with as direct

a gaze as my position allowed. For her aspect bespoke a degree of

emotion that astonished me; and even before I spoke I perceived her

to be trembling, though she was a woman of no little natural dignity

and self-possession.

"I seem to know your face," she said, advancing courteously toward

me, "but your name"--and here she glanced at the card she held in her

hand--"is totally unfamiliar to me."

"I think you saw me some eighteen months ago," said I. "I am the

detective who gave testimony at the inquest which was held over the

remains of Mr. Hasbrouck."

I had not meant to startle her, but at this introduction of myself I

saw her naturally pale cheek turn paler, and her fine eyes, which had

been fixed curiously upon me, gradually sink to the floor.

"Great heaven!" thought I, "what is this I have stumbled upon!"

"I do not understand what business you can have with me," she

presently remarked, with a show of gentle indifference that did not

in the least deceive me.

"I do not wonder," I rejoined. "The crime which took place next door

is almost forgotten by the community, and even if it were not, I am

sure you would find it difficult to conjecture the nature of the

question I have to put to you."

"I am surprised," she began, rising in her involuntary emotion and

thereby compelling me to rise also. "How can you have any question

to ask me on this subject? Yet if you have," she continued, with a

rapid change of manner that touched my heart in spite of myself, "I

shall, of course, do my best to answer you."

There are women whose sweetest tones and most charming smiles only

serve to awaken distrust in men of my calling; but Mrs. Zabriskie was

not of this number. Her face was beautiful, but it was also candid

in its expression, and beneath the agitation which palpably disturbed

her, I was sure there lurked nothing either wicked or false. Yet I

held fast by the clue which I had grasped, as it were, in the dark,

and without knowing whither I was tending, much less whither I was

leading her, I proceeded to say:

"The question which I presume to put to you as the next-door neighbor

of Mr. Hasbrouck, is this: Who was the woman who screamed out so

loudly that the whole neighborhood heard her on the night of that

gentleman's assassination?"

The gasp she gave answered my question in a way she little realized,

and, struck as I was by the impalpable links that had led me to the

threshold of this hitherto unsolvable mystery, I was about to press

my advantage and ask another question, when she quickly started

forward and laid her hand on my lips.

Astonished, I looked at her inquiringly, but her head was turned

aside, and her eyes, fixed upon the door, showed the greatest

anxiety. Instantly I realized what she feared. Her husband was

entering the house, and she dreaded lest his ears should catch a word

of our conversation.

Not knowing what was in her mind, and unable to realize the

importance of the moment to her, I yet listened to the advance of her

blind husband with an almost painful interest. Would he enter the

room where we were, or would he pass immediately to his office in the

rear? She seemed to wonder too, and almost held her breath as he

neared the door, paused, and stood in the open doorway, with his ear

turned toward us.

As for myself, I remained perfectly still, gazing at his face in

mingled surprise and apprehension. For besides its beauty, which was

of a marked order, as I have already observed, it had a touching

expression which irresistibly aroused both pity and interest in the

spectator. This may have been the result of his affliction, or it

may have sprung from some deeper cause; but, whatever its source,

this look in his face produced a strong impression upon me and

interested me at once in his personality. Would he enter? Or would

he pass on? Her look of silent appeal showed me in which direction

her wishes lay, but while I answered her glance by complete silence,

I was conscious in some indistinct way that the business I had

undertaken would be better furthered by his entrance.

The blind have been often said to possess a sixth sense in place of

the one they have lost. Though I am sure we made no noise, I soon

perceived that he was aware of our presence. Stepping hastily

forward, he said, in the high and vibrating tone of restrained

passion:

"Helen, are you here?"

For a moment I thought she did not mean to answer, but knowing

doubtless from experience the impossibility of deceiving him, she

answered with a cheerful assent, dropping her hand as she did so from

before my lips.

He heard the slight rustle which accompanied the movement, and a look

I found it hard to comprehend flashed over his features, altering his

expression so completely that he seemed another man.

"You have some one with you," he declared, advancing another step but

with none of the uncertainty which usually accompanies the movements

of the blind. "Some dear friend," he went on, with an almost

sarcastic emphasis and a forced smile that had little of gaiety in it.

The agitated and distressed blush which answered him could have but

one interpretation. He suspected that her hand had been clasped in

mine, and she perceived his thought and knew that I perceived it also.

Drawing herself up, she moved toward him, saying in a sweet, womanly

tone that to me spoke volumes:

"It is no friend, Constant, not even an acquaintance. The person

whom I now present to you is an agent from the police. He is here

upon a trivial errand which will be soon finished, when I will join

you in your office."

I knew she was but taking a choice between two evils. That she would

have saved her husband the knowledge of a detective's presence in the

house, if her self-respect would have allowed it, but neither she nor

I anticipated the effect which this presentation produced upon him.

"A police officer," he repeated, staring with his sightless eyes, as

if, in his eagerness to see, he half hoped his lost sense would

return. "He can have no trivial errand here; he has been sent by God

Himself to--"

"Let me speak for you," hastily interposed his wife, springing to his

side and clasping his arm with a fervor that was equally expressive

of appeal and command. Then turning to me, she explained: "Since Mr.

Hasbrouck's unaccountable death, my husband has been laboring under a

hallucination which I have only to mention for you to recognize its

perfect absurdity. He thinks--oh! do not look like that, Constant;

you know it is a hallucination which must vanish the moment we drag

it into broad daylight--that he--_he_, the best man in all the world,

was himself the assailant of Mr. Hasbrouck."

Good God!

"I say nothing of the impossibility of this being so," she went on in

a fever of expostulation. "He is blind, and could not have delivered

such a shot even if he had desired to; besides, he had no weapon.

But the inconsistency of the thing speaks for itself, and should

assure him that his mind is unbalanced and that he is merely

suffering from a shock that was greater than we realized. He is a

physician and has had many such instances in his own practise. Why,

he was very much attached to Mr. Hasbrouck! They were the best of

friends, and though he insists that he killed him, he can not give

any reason for the deed."

At these words the Doctor's face grew stern, and he spoke like an

automaton repeating some fearful lesson.

"I killed him. I went to his room and deliberately shot him. I had

nothing against him, and my remorse is extreme. Arrest me, and let

me pay the penalty of my crime. It is the only way in which I can

obtain peace."

Shocked beyond all power of self-control by this repetition of what

she evidently considered the unhappy ravings of a madman, she let go

his arm and turned upon me in frenzy.

"Convince him!" she cried. "Convince him by your questions that he

never could have done this fearful thing."

I was laboring under great excitement myself, for I felt my youth

against me in a matter of such tragic consequence. Besides, I agreed

with her that he was in a distempered state of mind, and I hardly

knew how to deal with one so fixed in his hallucination and with so

much intelligence to support it. But the emergency was great, for he

was holding out his wrists in the evident expectation of my taking

him into instant custody; and the sight was killing his wife, who had

sunk on the floor between us, in terror and anguish.

"You say you killed Mr. Hasbrouck," I began. "Where did you get your

pistol, and what did you do with it after you left his house?"

"My husband had no pistol; never had any pistol," put in Mrs.

Zabriskie, with vehement assertion. "If I had seen him with such a

weapon--"

"I threw it away. When I left the house, I cast it as far from me as

possible, for I was frightened at what I had done, horribly

frightened."

"No pistol was ever found," I answered, with a smile, forgetting for

the moment that he could not see. "If such an instrument had been

found in the street after a murder of such consequence it certainly

would have been brought to the police."

"You forget that a good pistol is valuable property," he went on

stolidly. "Some one came along before the general alarm was given;

and seeing such a treasure lying on the sidewalk, picked it up and

carried it off. Not being an honest man, he preferred to keep it to

drawing the attention of the police upon himself."

"Hum, perhaps," said I; "but where did you get it. Surely you can

tell where you procured such a weapon, if, as your wife intimates,

you did not own one."

"I bought it that self-same night of a friend; a friend whom I will

not name, since he resides no longer in this country. I--" He

paused; intense passion was in his face; he turned toward his wife,

and a low cry escaped him, which made her look up in fear.

"I do not wish to go into any particulars," said he. "God forsook me

and I committed a horrible crime. When I am punished, perhaps peace

will return to me and happiness to her. I would not wish her to

suffer too long or too bitterly for my sin."

"Constant!" What love was in the cry! and what despair! It seemed

to move him and turn his thoughts for a moment into a different

channel.

"Poor child!" he murmured, stretching out his hands by an

irresistible impulse toward her. But the change was but momentary,

and he was soon again the stern and determined self-accuser. "Are

you going to take me before a magistrate?" he asked. "If so, I have

a few duties to perform which you are welcome to witness."

"I have no warrant," I said; "besides, I am scarcely the one to take

such a responsibility upon myself. If, however, you persist in your

declaration, I will communicate with my superiors, who will take such

action as they think best."

"That will be still more satisfactory to me," said he; "for though I

have many times contemplated giving myself up to the authorities, I

have still much to do before I can leave my home and practise without

injury to others. Good-day; when you want me, you will find me here."

He was gone, and the poor young wife was left crouching on the floor

alone. Pitying her shame and terror, I ventured to remark that it

was not an uncommon thing for a man to confess to a crime he had

never committed, and assured her that the matter would be inquired

into very carefully before any attempt was made upon his liberty.

She thanked me, and, slowly rising, tried to regain her equanimity;

but the manner as well as the matter of her husband's

self-condemnation was too overwhelming in its nature for her to

recover readily from her emotions.

"I have long dreaded this," she acknowledged. "For months I have

foreseen that he would make some rash communication or insane avowal.

If I had dared, I would have consulted some physician about this

hallucination of his; but he was so sane on other points that I

hesitated to give my dreadful secret to the world. I kept hoping

that time and his daily pursuits would have their effect and restore

him to himself. But his illusion grows, and now I fear that nothing

will ever convince him that he did not commit the deed of which he

accuses himself. If he were not blind I would have more hope, but

the blind have so much time for brooding."

"I think he had better be indulged in his fancies for the present," I

ventured. "If he is laboring under an illusion it might be dangerous

to cross him."

"_If?_" she echoed in an indescribable tone of amazement and dread.

"Can you for a moment harbor the idea that he has spoken the truth?"

"Madam," I returned, with something of the cynicism of my later

years, "what caused you to give such an unearthly scream just before

this murder was made known to the neighborhood?"

She stared, paled, and finally began to tremble, not, as I now

believe, at the insinuation latent in my words, but at the doubts

which my question aroused in her own breast.

"Did I?" she asked; then with a great burst of candor, which seemed

inseparable from her nature, she continued: "Why do I try to mislead

you or deceive myself? I did give a shriek just before the alarm was

raised next door; but it was not from any knowledge I had of a crime

having been committed, but because I unexpectedly saw before me my

husband whom I supposed to be on his way to Poughkeepsie. He was

looking very pale and strange, and for a moment I thought I was

beholding his ghost. But he soon explained his appearance by saying

that he had fallen from the train and had been only saved by a

miracle from being dismembered; and I was just bemoaning his mishap

and trying to calm him and myself, when that terrible shout was heard

next door of 'Murder! murder!' Coming so soon after the shock he had

himself experienced, it quite unnerved him, and I think we can date

his mental disturbance from that moment. For he began almost

immediately to take a morbid interest in the affair next door, though

it was weeks, if not months, before he let a word fall of the nature

of those you have just heard. Indeed it was not till I repeated to

him some of the expressions he was continually letting fall in his

sleep, that he commenced to accuse himself of crime and talk of

retribution."

"You say that your husband frightened you on that night by appearing

suddenly at the door when you thought him on his way to Poughkeepsie.

Is Dr. Zabriskie in the habit of thus going and coming alone at an

hour so late as this must have been?"

"You forget that to the blind, night is less full of perils than the

day. Often and often has my husband found his way to his patients'

houses alone after midnight; but on this especial evening he had

Harry with him. Harry was his driver, and always accompanied him

when he went any distance."

"Well, then," said I, "all we have to do is to summon Harry and hear

what he has to say concerning this affair. He surely will know

whether or not his master went into the house next door."

"Harry has left us," she said. "Dr. Zabriskie has another driver

now. Besides--(I have nothing to conceal from you)--Harry was not

with him when he returned to the house that evening, or the Doctor

would not have been without his portmanteau till the next day.

Something--I have never known what--caused them to separate, and that

is why I have no answer to give the Doctor when he accuses himself of

committing a deed on that night which is wholly out of keeping with

every other act of his life."

"And have you never questioned Harry why they separated and why he

allowed his master to come home alone after the shock he had received

at the station?"

"I did not know there was any reason for doing so till long after he

left us."

"And when did he leave?"

"That I do not remember. A few weeks, or possibly a few days, after

that dreadful night."

"And where is he now?"

"Ah, that I have not the least means of knowing. But," she suddenly

cried, "what do you want of Harry? If he did not follow Dr.

Zabriskie to his own door, he could tell us nothing that would

convince my husband that he is laboring under an illusion."

"But he might tell us something which would convince us that Dr.

Zabriskie was not himself after the accident that he--"

"Hush!" came from her lips in imperious tones. "I will not believe

that he shot Mr. Hasbrouck even if you prove him to have been insane

at the time. How could he? My husband is blind. It would take a

man of very keen sight to force himself into a house that was closed

for the night, and kill a man in the dark at one shot."

"Rather," cried a voice from the doorway, "it is only a blind man who

could do this. Those who trust to eyesight must be able to catch

some glimpse of the mark they aim at, and this room, as I have been

told, was without a glimmer of light. But the blind trust to sound,

and as Mr. Hasbrouck spoke--"

"Oh!" burst from the horrified wife, "is there no one to stop him

when he speaks like that?"

II

When I related to my superiors the details of the foregoing

interview, two of them coincided with the wife in thinking that Dr.

Zabriskie was in an irresponsible condition of mind which made any

statement of his questionable. But the third seemed disposed to

argue the matter, and, casting me an inquiring look, seemed to ask

what my opinion was on the subject. Answering him as if he had

spoken, I gave my conclusion as follows: That whether insane or not,

Dr. Zabriskie had fired the shot which terminated Mr. Hasbrouck's

life.

It was the Inspector's own idea, but it was not shared in by the

others, one of whom had known the Doctor for years. Accordingly they

compromised by postponing all opinion till they had themselves

interrogated the Doctor, and I was detailed to bring him before them

the next afternoon.

He came without reluctance, his wife accompanying him. In the short

time which elapsed between their leaving Lafayette Place and entering

Headquarters, I embraced the opportunity of observing them, and I

found the study equally exciting and interesting. His face was calm

but hopeless, and his eye, which should have shown a wild glimmer if

there was truth in his wife's hypothesis, was dark and unfathomable,

but neither frenzied nor uncertain. He spake but once and listened

to nothing, though now and then his wife moved as if to attract his

attention, and once even stole her hand toward his, in the tender

hope that he would feel its approach and accept her sympathy. But he

was deaf as well as blind; and sat wrapped up in thoughts which she,

I know, would have given worlds to penetrate.

Her countenance was not without its mystery also. She showed in

every lineament passionate concern and misery, and a deep tenderness

from which the element of fear was not absent. But she, as well as

he, betrayed that some misunderstanding, deeper than any I had

previously suspected, drew its intangible veil between them and made

the near proximity in which they sat, at once a heart-piercing

delight and an unspeakable pain. What was this misunderstanding? and

what was the character of the fear that modified her every look of

love in his direction? Her perfect indifference to my presence

proved that it was not connected with the position in which he had

put himself toward the police by his voluntary confession of crime,

nor could I thus interpret the expression of frantic question which

now and then contracted her features, as she raised her eyes toward

his sightless orbs, and strove to read, in his firm-set lips, the

meaning of those assertions she could only ascribe to a loss of

reason.

The stopping of the carriage seemed to awaken both from thoughts that

separated rather than united them. He turned his face in her

direction, and she, stretching forth her hand, prepared to lead him

from the carriage, without any of that display of timidity which had

been previously evident in her manner.

As his guide she seemed to fear nothing; as his lover, everything.

"There is another and a deeper tragedy underlying the outward and

obvious one," was my inward conclusion, as I followed them into the

presence of the gentlemen awaiting them.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Dr. Zabriskie's appearance was a shock to those who knew him; so was

his manner, which was calm, straightforward, and quietly determined.

"I shot Mr. Hasbrouck," was his steady affirmation, given without any

show of frenzy or desperation. "If you ask me why I did it, I can

not answer; if you ask me how, I am ready to state all that I know

concerning the matter."

"But, Dr. Zabriskie," interposed his friend, "the why is the most

important thing for us to consider just now. If you really desire to

convince us that you committed the dreadful crime of killing a

totally inoffensive man, you should give us some reason for an act so

opposed to all your instincts and general conduct."

But the Doctor continued unmoved:

"I had no reason for murdering Mr. Hasbrouck. A hundred questions

can elicit no other reply; you had better keep to the how."

A deep-drawn breath from the wife answered the looks of the three

gentlemen to whom this suggestion was offered. "You see," that

breath seemed to protest, "that he is not in his right mind."

I began to waver in my own opinion, and yet the intuition which has

served me in cases as seemingly impenetrable as this bade me beware

of following the general judgment.

"Ask him to inform you how he got into the house," I whispered to

Inspector D----, who sat nearest me.

Immediately the Inspector put the question I had suggested:

"By what means did you enter Mr. Hasbrouck's house at so late an hour

as this murder occurred?"

The blind doctor's head fell forward on his breast, and he hesitated

for the first and only time.

"You will not believe me," said he; "but the door was ajar when I

came to it. Such things make crime easy; it is the only excuse I

have to offer for this dreadful deed."

The front door of a respectable citizen's house ajar at half-past

eleven at night. It was a statement that fixed in all minds the

conviction of the speaker's irresponsibility. Mrs. Zabriskie's brow

cleared, and her beauty became for a moment dazzling as she held out

her hands in irrepressible relief toward those who were interrogating

her husband. I alone kept my impassibility. A possible explanation

of this crime had flashed like lightning across my mind; an

explanation from which I inwardly recoiled, even while I was forced

to consider it.

"Dr. Zabriskie," remarked the Inspector who was most friendly to him,

"such old servants as those kept by Mr. Hasbrouck do not leave the

front door ajar at twelve o'clock at night."

"Yet ajar it was," repeated the blind doctor, with quiet emphasis;

"and finding it so, I went in. When I came out again, I closed it.

Do you wish me to swear to what I say? If so, I am ready."

What could we reply? To see this splendid-looking man, hallowed by

an affliction so great that in itself it called forth the compassion

of the most indifferent, accusing himself of a cold-blooded crime, in

tones that sounded dispassionate because of the will that forced

their utterance, was too painful in itself for us to indulge in any

unnecessary words. Compassion took the place of curiosity, and each

and all of us turned involuntary looks of pity upon the young wife

pressing so eagerly to his side.

"For a blind man," ventured one, "the assault was both deft and

certain. Are you accustomed to Mr. Hasbrouck's house, that you found

your way with so little difficulty to his bedroom?"

"I am accustomed--" he began.

But here his wife broke in with irrepressible passion:

"He is not accustomed to that house. He has never been beyond the

first floor. Why, why do you question him? Do you not see--"

His hand was on her lips.

"Hush!" he commanded. "You know my skill in moving about a house;

how I sometimes deceive those who do not know me into believing that

I can see, by the readiness with which I avoid obstacles and find my

way even in strange and untried scenes. Do not try to make them

think I am not in my right mind, or you will drive me into the very

condition you deprecate."

His face, rigid, cold, and set, looked like that of a mask. Hers,

drawn with horror and filled with question that was fast taking the

form of doubt, bespoke an awful tragedy from which more than one of

us recoiled.

"Can you shoot a man dead without seeing him?" asked the

Superintendent, with painful effort.

"Give me a pistol and I will show you," was the quick reply.

A low cry came from the wife. In a drawer near to every one of us

there lay a pistol, but no one moved to take it out. There was a

look in the Doctor's eye which made us fear to trust him with a

pistol just then.

"We will accept your assurance that you possess a skill beyond that

of most men," returned the Superintendent. And beckoning me forward,

he whispered: "This is a case for the doctors and not for the police.

Remove him quietly, and notify Dr. Southyard of what I say."

But Dr. Zabriskie, who seemed to have an almost supernatural

acuteness of hearing, gave a violent start at this and spoke up for

the first time with real passion in his voice:

"No, no, I pray you. I can bear anything but that. Remember,

gentlemen, that I am blind; that I can not see who is about me; that

my life would be a torture if I felt myself surrounded by spies

watching to catch some evidence of madness in me. Rather conviction

at once, death, dishonor, and obloquy. These I have incurred. These

I have brought upon myself by crime, but not this worse fate--oh! not

this worse fate."

His passion was so intense and yet so confined within the bounds of

decorum that we felt strangely impressed by it. Only the wife stood

transfixed, with the dread growing in her heart, till her white,

waxen visage seemed even more terrible to contemplate than his

passion-distorted one.

"It is not strange that my wife thinks me demented," the Doctor

continued, as if afraid of the silence that answered him. "But it is

your business to discriminate, and you should know a sane man when

you see him."

Inspector D---- no longer hesitated.

"Very well," said he, "give us the least proof that your assertions

are true, and we will lay your case before the prosecuting attorney."

"Proof? Is not a man's word--"

"No man's confession is worth much without some evidence to support

it. In your case there is none. You can not even produce the pistol

with which you assert yourself to have committed the deed."

"True, true. I was frightened by what I had done, and the instinct

of self-preservation led me to rid myself of the weapon in any way I

could. But some one found this pistol; some one picked it up from

the sidewalk of Lafayette Place on that fatal night. Advertise for

it. Offer a reward. I will give you the money." Suddenly he

appeared to realize how all this sounded. "Alas!" cried he, "I know

the story seems improbable; all I say seems improbable; but it is not

the probable things that happen in this life, but the improbable, as

you should know, who every day dig deep into the heart of human

affairs."

Were these the ravings of insanity? I began to understand the wife's

terror.

"I bought the pistol," he went on, "of--alas! I can not tell you his

name. Everything is against me. I can not adduce one proof; yet

she, even she, is beginning to fear that my story is true. I know it

by her silence, a silence that yawns between us like a deep and

unfathomable gulf."

But at these words her voice rang out with passionate vehemence.

"No, no, it is false! I will never believe that your hands have been

plunged in blood. You are my own pure-hearted Constant, cold,

perhaps, and stern, but with no guilt upon your conscience, save in

your own wild imagination."

"Helen, you are no friend to me," he declared, pushing her gently

aside. "Believe me innocent, but say nothing to lead these others to

doubt my word."

And she said no more, but her looks spoke volumes.

The result was that he was not detained, though he prayed for instant

commitment. He seemed to dread his own home, and the surveillance to

which he instinctively knew he would henceforth be subjected. To see

him shrink from his wife's hand as she strove to lead him from the

room was sufficiently painful; but the feeling thus aroused was

nothing to that with which we observed the keen and agonized

expectancy of his look as he turned and listened for the steps of the

officer who followed him.

"I shall never again know whether or not I am alone," was his final

observation as he left our presence.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

I said nothing to my superiors of the thoughts I had had while

listening to the above interrogatories. A theory had presented

itself to my mind which explained in some measure the mysteries of

the Doctor's conduct, but I wished for time and opportunity to test

its reasonableness before submitting it to their higher judgment.

And these seemed likely to be given me, for the Inspectors continued

divided in their opinion of the blind physician's guilt, and the

District-Attorney, when told of the affair, pooh-poohed it without

mercy, and declined to stir in the matter unless some tangible

evidence were forthcoming to substantiate the poor Doctor's

self-accusations.

"If guilty, why does he shrink from giving his motives," said he,

"and if so anxious to go to the gallows, why does he suppress the

very facts calculated to send him there? He is as mad as a March

hare, and it is to an asylum he should go and not to a jail."

In this conclusion I failed to agree with him, and as time wore on my

suspicions took shape and finally ended in a fixed conviction. Dr.

Zabriskie had committed the crime he avowed, but--let me proceed a

little further with my story before I reveal what lies beyond that

"but."

Notwithstanding Dr. Zabriskie's almost frenzied appeal for solitude,

a man had been placed in surveillance over him in the shape of a

young doctor skilled in diseases of the brain. This man communicated

more or less with the police, and one morning I received from him the

following extracts from the diary he had been ordered to keep:

"The Doctor is settling into a deep melancholy from which he tries to

rise at times, but with only indifferent success. Yesterday he rode

around to all his patients for the purpose of withdrawing his

services on the plea of illness. But he still keeps his office open,

and to-day I had the opportunity of witnessing his reception and

treatment of the many sufferers who came to him for aid. I think he

was conscious of my presence, though an attempt had been made to

conceal it. For the listening look never left his face from the

moment he entered the room, and once he rose and passed quickly from

wall to wall, groping with outstretched hands into every nook and

corner, and barely escaping contact with the curtain behind which I

was hidden. But if he suspected my presence, he showed no

displeasure at it, wishing perhaps for a witness to his skill in the

treatment of disease.

"And truly I never beheld a finer manifestation of practical insight

in cases of a more or less baffling nature than I beheld in him

to-day. He is certainly a most wonderful physician, and I feel bound

to record that his mind is as clear for business as if no shadow had

fallen upon it.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

"Dr. Zabriskie loves his wife, but in a way that tortures both

himself and her. If she is gone from the house he is wretched, and

yet when she returns he often forbears to speak to her, or if he does

speak, it is with a constraint that hurts her more than his silence.

I was present when she came in to-day. Her step, which had been

eager on the stairway, flagged as she approached the room, and he

naturally noted the change and gave his own interpretation to it.

His face, which had been very pale, flushed suddenly, and a nervous

trembling seized him which he sought in vain to hide. But by the

time her tall and beautiful figure stood in the doorway he was his

usual self again in all but the expression of his eyes, which stared

straight before him in an agony of longing only to be observed in

those who have once seen.

"'Where have you been, Helen?' he asked, as, contrary to his wont, he

moved to meet her.

"'To my mother's, to Arnold & Constable's, and to the hospital, as

you requested,' was her quick answer, made without faltering or

embarrassment.

"He stepped still nearer and took her hand, and as he did so my

physician's eye noted how his finger lay over her pulse in seeming

unconsciousness.

"'Nowhere else?' he queried.

"She smiled the saddest kind of smile and shook her head; then,

remembering that he could not see this movement, she cried in a

wistful tone:

"'Nowhere else, Constant; I was too anxious to get back.'

"I expected him to drop her hand at this, but he did not; and his

finger still rested on her pulse.

"'And whom did you see while you were gone?' he continued.

"She told him, naming over several names.

"'You must have enjoyed yourself,' was his cold comment, as he let go

her hand and turned away. But his manner showed relief, and I could

not but sympathize with the pitiable situation of a man who found

himself forced to means like these for probing the heart of his young

wife.

"Yet when I turned toward her I realized that her position was but

little happier than his. Tears are no strangers to her eyes, but

those that welled up at this moment seemed to possess a bitterness

that promised but little peace for her future. Yet she quickly dried

them and busied herself with ministrations for his comfort.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

"If I am any judge of woman, Helen Zabriskie is superior to most of

her sex. That her husband mistrusts her is evident, but whether this

is the result of the stand she has taken in his regard, or only a

manifestation of dementia, I have as yet been unable to determine. I

dread to leave them alone together, and yet when I presume to suggest

that she should be on her guard in her interviews with him, she

smiles very placidly and tells me that nothing would give her greater

joy than to see him lift his hand against her, for that would argue

that he is not accountable for his deeds or for his assertions.

"Yet it would be a grief to see her injured by this passionate and

unhappy man.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

"You have said that you wanted all details I could give; so I feel

bound to say that Dr. Zabriskie tries to be considerate of his wife,

though he often fails in the attempt. When she offers herself as his

guide, or assists him with his mail, or performs any of the many acts

of kindness by which she continually manifests her sense of his

affliction, he thanks her with courtesy and often with kindness, yet

I know she would willingly exchange all his set phrases for one fond

embrace or impulsive smile of affection. That he is not in the full

possession of his faculties would be too much to say, and yet upon

what other hypothesis can we account for the inconsistencies of his

conduct?

. . . . . . . . . . . .

"I have before me two visions of mental suffering. At noon I passed

the office door, and looking within, saw the figure of Dr. Zabriskie

seated in his great chair, lost in thought or deep in those memories

which make an abyss in one's consciousness. His hands, which were

clenched, rested upon the arms of his chair, and in one of them I

detected a woman's glove, which I had no difficulty in recognizing as

one of the pair worn by his wife this morning. He held it as a tiger

might hold his prey or a miser his gold, but his set features and

sightless eyes betrayed that a conflict of emotions was waging within

him, among which tenderness had but little share.

"Though alive, as he usually is, to every sound, he was too absorbed

at this moment to notice my presence, though I had taken no pains to

approach quietly. I therefore stood for a full minute watching him,

till an irresistible sense of the shame of thus spying upon a blind

man in his moments of secret anguish seized upon me and I turned

away. But not before I saw his features relax in a storm of

passionate feeling, as he rained kisses after kisses on the senseless

kid he had so long held in his motionless grasp. Yet when an hour

later he entered the dining-room on his wife's arm, there was nothing

in his manner to show that he had in any way changed in his attitude

toward her.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

"The other picture was more tragic still. I have no business with

Mrs. Zabriskie's affairs; but as I passed upstairs to my room an hour

ago, I caught a fleeting vision of her tall form, with the arms

thrown up over her head in a paroxysm of feeling which made her as

oblivious to my presence as her husband had been several hours

before. Were the words that escaped her lips, 'Thank God we have no

children!' or was this exclamation suggested to me by the passion and

unrestrained impulse of her action?"

Side by side with these lines, I, Ebenezer Gryce, placed the

following extracts from my own diary:

"Watched the Zabriskie mansion for five hours this morning, from the

second story window of an adjoining hotel. Saw the Doctor when he

drove away on his round of visits, and saw him when he returned. A

colored man accompanied him.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

"To-day I followed Mrs. Zabriskie. I had a motive for this, the

nature of which I think it wisest not to divulge. She went first to

a house in Washington Place where I am told her mother lives. Here

she stayed some time, after which she drove down to Canal Street,

where she did some shopping, and later stopped at the hospital, into

which I took the liberty of following her. She seemed to know many

there, and passed from cot to cot with a smile in which I alone

discerned the sadness of a broken heart. When she left, I left also,

without having learned anything beyond the fact that Mrs. Zabriskie

is one who does her duty in sorrow as in happiness. A rare and

trustworthy woman I should say, and yet her husband does not trust

her. Why?

. . . . . . . . . . . .

"I have spent this day in accumulating details in regard to Dr. and

Mrs. Zabriskie's life previous to the death of Mr. Hasbrouck. I

learned from sources it would be unwise to quote just here that Mrs.

Zabriskie had not lacked enemies ready to charge her with coquetry;

that while she had never sacrificed her dignity in public, more than

one person had been heard to declare that Dr. Zabriskie was fortunate

in being blind, since the sight of his wife's beauty would have but

poorly compensated him for the pain he would have suffered in seeing

how that beauty was admired.

"That all gossip is more or less tinged with exaggeration I have no

doubt, yet when a name is mentioned in connection with such stories,

there is usually some truth at the bottom of them. And a name is

mentioned in this case, though I do not think it worth my while to

repeat it here; and loth as I am to recognize the fact, it is a name

that carries with it doubts that might easily account for the

husband's jealousy. True, I have found no one who dares to hint that

she still continues to attract attention or to bestow smiles in any

direction save where they legally belong. For since a certain

memorable night which we all know, neither Dr. Zabriskie nor his wife

have been seen save in their own domestic circle, and it is not into

such scenes that this serpent, of which I have spoken, ever intrudes,

nor is it in places of sorrow or suffering that his smile shines, or

his fascinations flourish.

"And so one portion of my theory is proved to be sound. Dr.

Zabriskie is jealous of his wife: whether with good cause or bad I am

not prepared to decide; for her present attitude, clouded as it is by

the tragedy in which she and her husband are both involved, must

differ very much from that which she held when her life was

unshadowed by doubt, and her admirers could be counted by the score.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

"I have just found out where Harry is. As he is in service some

miles up the river, I shall have to be absent from my post for

several hours, but I consider the game well worth the candle.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

"Light at last. I have seen Harry, and, by means known only to the

police, have succeeded in making him talk. His story is

substantially this: That on the night so often mentioned, he packed

his master's portmanteau at eight o'clock and at ten called a

carriage and rode with the Doctor to the Twenty-ninth Street station.

He was told to buy tickets for Poughkeepsie, where his master had

been called in consultation, and having done this, hurried back to

join his master on the platform. They had walked together as far as

the cars, and Dr. Zabriskie was just stepping on to the train when a

man pushed himself hurriedly between them and whispered something

into his master's ear, which caused him to fall back and lose his

footing. Dr. Zabriskie's body slid half under the car, but he was

withdrawn before any harm was done, though the cars gave a lurch at

that moment which must have frightened him exceedingly, for his face

was white when he rose to his feet, and when Harry offered to assist

him again on to the train, he refused to go and said he would return

home and not attempt to ride to Poughkeepsie that night.

"The gentleman, whom Harry now saw to be Mr. Stanton, an intimate

friend of Dr. Zabriskie, smiled very queerly at this, and taking the

Doctor's arm led him away to a carriage. Harry naturally followed

them, but the Doctor, hearing his steps, turned and bade him, in a

very peremptory tone, to take the omnibus home, and then, as if on

second thought, told him to go to Poughkeepsie in his stead and

explain to the people there that he was too shaken up by his misstep

to do his duty, and that he would be with them next morning. This

seemed strange to Harry, but he had no reasons for disobeying his

master's orders, and so rode to Poughkeepsie. But the Doctor did not

follow him the next day; on the contrary, he telegraphed for him to

return, and when he got back dismissed him with a month's wages.

This ended Harry's connection with the Zabriskie family.

"A simple story bearing out what the wife has already told us; but it

furnishes a link which may prove invaluable. Mr. Stanton, whose

first name is Theodore, knows the real reason why Dr. Zabriskie

returned home on the night of the seventeenth of July, 1851. Mr.

Stanton, consequently, I must see, and this shall be my business

to-morrow.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

"Checkmate! Theodore Stanton is not in this country. Though this

points him out as the man from whom Dr. Zabriskie bought the pistol,

it does not facilitate my work, which is becoming more and more

difficult.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

"Mr. Stanton's whereabouts are not even known to his most intimate

friends. He sailed from this country most unexpectedly on the

eighteenth of July a year ago, which was _the day after the murder of

Mr. Hasbrouck_. It looks like a flight, especially as he has failed

to maintain open communication even with his relatives. Was he the

man who shot Mr. Hasbrouck? No; but he was the man who put the

pistol in Dr. Zabriskie's hand that night, and, whether he did this

with purpose or not, was evidently so alarmed at the catastrophe

which followed that he took the first outgoing steamer to Europe. So

far, all is clear, but there are mysteries yet to be solved, which

will require my utmost tact. What if I should seek out the gentleman

with whose name that of Mrs. Zabriskie has been linked, and see If I

can in any way connect him with Mr. Stanton or the events of that

night?

. . . . . . . . . . . .

"Eureka! I have discovered that Mr. Stanton cherished a mortal

hatred for the gentleman above mentioned. It was a covert feeling,

but no less deadly on that account; and while it never led him into

any extravagances, it was of force sufficient to account for many a

secret misfortune which happened to that gentleman. Now, if I can

prove he was the Mephistopheles who whispered insinuations into the

ear of our blind Faust, I may strike a fact that will lead me out of

this maze.

"But how can I approach secrets so delicate without compromising the

woman I feel bound to respect, if only for the devoted love she

manifests for her unhappy husband!

. . . . . . . . . . . .

"I shall have to appeal to Joe Smithers. This is something which I

always hate to do, but as long as he will take money, and as long as

he is fertile in resources for obtaining the truth from people I am

myself unable to reach, so long must I make use of his cupidity and

his genius. He is an honorable fellow in one way, and never retails

as gossip what he acquires for our use. How will he proceed in this

case, and by what tactics will be gain the very delicate information

which we need? I own that I am curious to see.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

"I shall really have to put down at length the incidents of this

night. I always knew that Joe Smithers was invaluable to the police,

but I really did not know he possessed talents of so high an order.

He wrote me this morning that he had succeeded in getting Mr. T----'s

promise to spend the evening with him, and advised me that if I

desired to be present also, his own servant would not be at home, and

that an opener of bottles would be required.

"As I was very anxious to see Mr. T---- with my own eyes, I accepted

the invitation to play the spy upon a spy, and went at the proper

hour to Mr. Smithers's rooms, which are in the University Building.

I found them picturesque in the extreme. Piles of books stacked here

and there to the ceiling made nooks and corners which could be quite

shut off by a couple of old pictures that were set into movable

frames that swung out or in at the whim or convenience of the owner.

"As I liked the dark shadows cast by these pictures, I pulled them

both out, and made such other arrangements as appeared likely to

facilitate the purpose I had in view; then I sat down and waited for

the two gentlemen who were expected to come in together.

"They arrived almost immediately, whereupon I rose and played my part

with all necessary discretion. While ridding Mr. T---- of his

overcoat, I stole a look at his face. It is not a handsome one, but

it boasts of a gay, devil-may-care expression which doubtless makes

it dangerous to many women, while his manners are especially

attractive, and his voice the richest and most persuasive that I ever

heard. I contrasted him, almost against my will, with Dr. Zabriskie,

and decided that with most women the former's undoubted fascinations

of speech and bearing would outweigh the latter's great beauty and

mental endowments; but I doubted if they would with her.

"The conversation which immediately began was brilliant but

desultory, for Mr. Smithers, with an airy lightness for which he is

remarkable, introduced topic after topic, perhaps for the purpose of

showing off Mr. T----'s versatility, and perhaps for the deeper and

more sinister purpose of shaking the kaleidoscope of talk so

thoroughly, that the real topic which we were met to discuss should

not make an undue impression on the mind of his guest.

"Meanwhile one, two, three bottles passed, and I saw Joe Smithers's

eye grow calmer and that of Mr. T---- more brilliant and more

uncertain. As the last bottle showed signs of failing, Joe cast me a

meaning glance, and the real business of the evening began.

"I shall not attempt to relate the half-dozen failures which Joe made

in endeavoring to elicit the facts we were in search of, without

arousing the suspicion of his visitor. I am only going to relate the

successful attempt. They had been talking now for some hours, and I,

who had long before been waved from their immediate presence, was

hiding my curiosity and growing excitement behind one of the

pictures, when suddenly I heard Joe say:

"'He has the most remarkable memory I ever met. He can tell to a day

when any notable event occurred.'

"Pshaw!' answered his companion, who, by the by, was known to pride

himself upon his own memory for dates, 'I can state where I went and

what I did on every day in the year. That may not embrace what you

call "notable events," but the memory required is all the more

remarkable, is it not?'

"'Pooh!' was his friend's provoking reply, 'you are bluffing, Ben; I

will never believe that.'

"Mr. T----, who had passed by this time into that state of

intoxication which makes persistence in an assertion a duty as well

as a pleasure, threw back his head, and as the wreaths of smoke rose

in airy spirals from his lips, reiterated his statement, and offered

to submit to any test of his vaunted powers which the other might

dictate.

"'You have a diary--' began Joe.

"'Which is at home,' completed the other.

"'Will you allow me to refer to it to-morrow, if I am suspicious of

the accuracy of your recollections?'

"'Undoubtedly,' returned the other.

"'Very well, then, I will wager you a cool fifty that you can not

tell where you were between the hours of ten and eleven on a certain

night which I will name.'

"'Done!' cried the other, bringing out his pocket-book and laying it

on the table before him.

"Joe followed his example and then summoned me.

"'Write a date down here,' he commanded, pushing a piece of paper

toward me, with a look keen as the flash of a blade. 'Any date,

man,' he added, as I appeared to hesitate in the embarrassment I

thought natural under the circumstances. 'Put down day, month, and

year, only don't go too far back; not farther than two years.'

"Smiling with the air of a flunkey admitted to the sports of his

superiors, I wrote a line and laid it before Mr. Smithers, who at

once pushed it with a careless gesture toward his companion. You can

of course guess the date I made use of: July 17, 1851. Mr. T----,

who had evidently looked upon this matter as mere play, flushed

scarlet as he read these words, and for one instant looked as if he

had rather flee our presence than answer Joe Smithers's nonchalant

glance of inquiry.

"'I have given my word and will keep it,' he said at last, but with a

look in my direction that sent me reluctantly back to my retreat. 'I

don't suppose you want names,' he went on, 'that is, if anything I

have to tell is of a delicate nature?'

"'O no,' answered the other, 'only facts and places.'

"'I don't think places are necessary either,' he returned. 'I will

tell you what I did and that must serve you. I did not promise to

give number and street.'

"'Well, well,' Joe exclaimed; 'earn your fifty, that is all. Show

that you remember where you were on the night of'--and with an

admirable show of indifference he pretended to consult the paper

between them--'the seventeenth of July, 1851, and I shall be

satisfied.'

"'I was at the club for one thing,' said Mr. T----; 'then I went to

see a lady friend, where I stayed till eleven. She wore a blue

muslin--What is that?'

"I had betrayed myself by a quick movement which sent a glass tumbler

crashing to the floor. Helen Zabriskie had worn a blue muslin on

that same night. I had noted it when I stood on the balcony watching

her and her husband.

"'That noise?' It was Joe who was speaking. 'You don't know Reuben

as well as I do or you wouldn't ask. It is his practise, I am sorry

to say, to accentuate his pleasure in draining my bottles, by

dropping a glass at every third one.'

"Mr. T---- went on.

"'She was a married woman and I thought she loved me; but--and this

is the greatest proof I can offer you that I am giving you a true

account of that night--she had not had the slightest idea of the

extent of my passion, and only consented to see me at all because she

thought, poor thing, that a word from her would set me straight, and

rid her of attentions that were fast becoming obnoxious. A sorry

figure for a fellow to cut who has not been without his triumphs; but

you caught me on the most detestable date in my calendar, and--'

"There is where he stopped being interesting, so I will not waste

time by quoting further. And now what reply shall I make when Joe

Smithers asks me double his usual price, as he will be sure to do,

next time? Has he not earned an advance? I really think so.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

"I have spent the whole day in weaving together the facts I have

gleaned, and the suspicions I have formed, into a consecutive whole

likely to present my theory in a favorable light to my superiors.

But just as I thought myself in shape to meet their inquiries, I

received an immediate summons into their presence, where I was given

a duty to perform of so extraordinary and unexpected a nature, that

it effectually drove from my mind all my own plans for the

elucidation of the Zabriskie mystery.

"This was nothing more or less than to take charge of a party of

people who were going to the Jersey Heights for the purpose of

testing Dr. Zabriskie's skill with a pistol."

III

The cause of this sudden move was soon explained to me. Mrs.

Zabriskie, anxious to have an end put to the present condition of

affairs, had begged for a more rigid examination into her husband's

state. This being accorded, a strict and impartial inquiry had taken

place, with a result not unlike that which followed the first one.

Three out of his four interrogators judged him insane, and could not

be moved from their opinion though opposed by the verdict of the

young expert who had been living in the house with him. Dr.

Zabriskie seemed to read their thoughts, and, showing extreme

agitation, begged as before for an opportunity to prove his sanity by

showing his skill in shooting. This time a disposition was evinced

to grant his request, which Mrs. Zabriskie no sooner perceived, than

she added her supplications to his that the question might be thus

settled.

A pistol was accordingly brought; but at sight of it her courage

failed, and she changed her prayer to an entreaty that the experiment

should be postponed till the next day, and should then take place in

the woods away from the sight and hearing of needless spectators.

Though it would have been much wiser to have ended the matter there

and then, the Superintendent was prevailed upon to listen to her

entreaties, and thus it was that I came to be a spectator, if not a

participator, in the final scene of this most sombre drama.

There are some events which impress the human mind so deeply that

their memory mingles with all after-experiences. Though I have made

it a rule to forget as soon as possible the tragic episodes into

which I am constantly plunged, there is one scene in my life which

will not depart at my will; and that is the sight which met my eyes

from the bow of the small boat in which Dr. Zabriskie and his wife

were rowed over to Jersey on that memorable afternoon.

Though it was by no means late in the day, the sun was already

sinking, and the bright red glare which filled the heavens and shone

full upon the faces of the half-dozen persons before me added much to

the tragic nature of the scene, though we were far from comprehending

its full significance.

The Doctor sat with his wife in the stern, and it was upon their

faces my glance was fixed. The glare shone luridly on his sightless

eyeballs, and as I noticed his unwinking lids I realized as never

before what it was to be blind in the midst of sunshine. Her eyes,

on the contrary, were lowered, but there was a look of hopeless

misery in her colorless face which made her appearance infinitely

pathetic, and I felt confident that if he could only have seen her,

he would not have maintained the cold and unresponsive manner which

chilled the words on her lips and made all advance on her part

impossible.

On the seat in front of them sat the Inspector and a doctor, and from

some quarter, possibly from under the Inspector's coat, there came

the monotonous ticking of a small clock, which, I had been told, was

to serve as a target for the blind man's aim.

This tickling was all I heard, though the noise and bustle of a great

traffic was pressing upon us on every side. And I am sure it was all

that she heard, as, with hand pressed to her heart and eyes fixed on

the opposite shore, she waited for the event which was to determine

whether the man she loved was a criminal or only a being afflicted of

God, and worthy of her unceasing care and devotion.

As the sun cast its last scarlet gleam over the water, the boat

grounded, and it fell to my lot to assist Mrs. Zabriskie up the bank.

As I did so, I allowed myself to say: "I am your friend, Mrs.

Zabriskie," and was astonished to see her tremble, and turn toward me

with a look like that of a frightened child.

But there was always this characteristic blending in her countenance

of the childlike and the severe, such as may so often be seen in the

faces of nuns, and beyond an added pang of pity for this beautiful

but afflicted woman, I let the moment pass without giving it the

weight it perhaps demanded.

"The Doctor and his wife had a long talk last night," was whispered

in my ear as we wound our way along into the woods. I turned and

perceived at my side the expert physician, portions of whose diary I

have already quoted. He had come by another boat.

"But it did not seem to heal whatever breach lies between them," he

proceeded. Then in a quick, curious tone, he asked: "Do you believe

this attempt on his part is likely to prove anything but a farce?"

"I believe he will shatter the clock to pieces with his first shot,"

I answered, and could say no more, for we had already reached the

ground which had been selected for this trial at arms, and the

various members of the party were being placed in their several

positions.

The Doctor, to whom light and darkness were alike, stood with his

face toward the western glow, and at his side were grouped the

Inspector and the two physicians. On the arm of one of the latter

hung Dr. Zabriskie's overcoat, which he had taken off as soon as he

reached the field.

Mrs. Zabriskie stood at the other end of the opening, near a tall

stump, upon which it had been decided that the clock should be placed

when the moment came for the Doctor to show his skill. She had been

accorded the privilege of setting the clock on this stump, and I saw

it shining in her hand as she paused for a moment to glance back at

the circle of gentlemen who were awaiting her movements. The hands

of the clock stood at five minutes to five, though I scarcely noted

the fact at the time, for her eyes were on mine, and as she passed me

she spoke:

"If he is not himself, he can not be trusted. Watch him carefully,

and see that he does no mischief to himself or others. Be at his

right hand, and stop him if he does not handle his pistol properly."

I promised, and she passed on, setting the clock upon the stump and

immediately drawing back to a suitable distance at the right, where

she stood, wrapped in her long dark cloak, quite alone. Her face

shone ghastly white, even in its environment of snow-covered boughs

which surrounded her, and, noting this, I wished the minutes fewer

between the present moment and the hour of five, at which he was to

draw the trigger.

"Dr. Zabriskie," quoth the Inspector, "we have endeavored to make

this trial a perfectly fair one. You are to have one shot at a small

clock which has been placed within a suitable distance, and which you

are expected to hit, guided only by the sound which it will make in

striking the hour of five. Are you satisfied with the arrangement?"

"Perfectly. Where is my wife?"

"On the other side of the field, some ten paces from the stump upon

which the clock is fixed."

He bowed, and his face showed satisfaction.

"May I expect the clock to strike soon?"

"In less than five minutes," was the answer.

"Then let me have the pistol; I wish to become acquainted with its

size and weight."

We glanced at each other, then across at her.

She made a gesture; it was one of acquiescence.

Immediately the Inspector placed the weapon in the blind man's hand.

It was at once apparent that the Doctor understood the instrument,

and my last doubt vanished as to the truth of all he had told us.

"Thank God I am blind this hour and can not see her," fell

unconsciously from his lips; then, before the echo of these words had

left my ears, he raised his voice and observed calmly enough,

considering that he was about to prove himself a criminal in order to

save himself from being thought a madman:

"Let no one move. I must have my ears free for catching the first

stroke of the clock." And he raised the pistol before him.

There was a moment of torturing suspense and deep, unbroken silence.

My eyes were on him, and so I did not watch the clock, but suddenly I

was moved by some irresistible impulse to note how Mrs. Zabriskie was

bearing herself at this critical moment, and, casting a hurried

glance in her direction, I perceived her tall figure swaying from

side to side, as if under an intolerable strain of feeling. Her eyes

were on the clock, the hands of which seemed to creep with snail-like

pace along the dial, when unexpectedly, and a full minute before the

minute hand had reached the stroke of five, I caught a movement on

her part, saw the flash of something round and white show for an

instant against the darkness of her cloak, and was about to shriek

warning to the Doctor, when the shrill, quick stroke of a clock rang

out on the frosty air, followed by the ping and flash of a pistol.

A sound of shattered glass, followed by a suppressed cry, told us

that the bullet had struck the mark, but before we could move, or rid

our eyes of the smoke which the wind had blown into our faces, there

came another sound which made our hair stand on end and sent the

blood back in terror to our hearts. Another clock was striking, the

clock which we now perceived was still standing upright on the stump

where Mrs. Zabriskie had placed it.

Whence came the clock, then, which had struck before the time and

been shattered for its pains? One quick look told us. On the

ground, ten paces at the right, lay Helen Zabriskie, a broken clock

at her side, and in her breast a bullet which was fast sapping the

life from her sweet eyes.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

We had to tell him, there was such pleading in her looks; and never

shall I forget the scream that rang from his lips as he realized the

truth. Breaking from our midst, he rushed forward, and fell at her

feet as if guided by some supernatural instinct.

"Helen," he shrieked, "what is this? Were not my hands dyed deep

enough in blood that you should make me answerable for your life

also?"

Her eyes were closed, but she opened them. Looking long and steadily

at his agonized face, she faltered forth:

"It is not you who have killed me; it is your crime. Had you been

innocent of Mr. Hasbrouck's death, your bullet would never have found

my heart. Did you think I could survive the proof that you had

killed that good man?"

"I--I did it unwittingly. I--"

"Hush!" she commanded, with an awful look, which, happily, he could

not see. "I had another motive. I wished to prove to you, even at

the cost of my life, that I loved you, had always loved you, and

not--"

It was now his turn to silence her. His hand crept over her lips,

and his despairing face turned itself blindly toward us.

"Go," he cried; "leave us! Let me take a last farewell of my dying

wife, without listeners or spectators."

Consulting the eye of the physician who stood beside me, and seeing

no hope in it, I fell slowly back. The others followed, and the

Doctor was left alone with his wife. From the distant position we

took, we saw her arms creep round his neck, saw her head fall

confidingly on his breast, then silence settled upon them and upon

all nature, the gathering twilight deepening, till the last glow

disappeared from the heavens above and from the circle of leafless

trees which enclosed this tragedy from the outside world.

But at last there came a stir, and Dr. Zabriskie, rising up before

us, with the dead body of his wife held closely to his breast,

confronted us with a countenance so rapturous that he looked like a

man transfigured.

"I will carry her to the boat," said he. "Not another hand shall

touch her. She was my true wife, my true wife!" And he towered into

an attitude of such dignity and passion that for a moment he took on

heroic proportions and we forgot that he had just proved himself to

have committed a cold-blooded and ghastly crime.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

The stars were shining when we again took our seats in the boat; and

if the scene of our crossing to Jersey was impressive, what shall be

said of that of our return?

The Doctor, as before, sat in the stern, an awesome figure, upon

which the moon shone with a white radiance that seemed to lift his

face out of the surrounding darkness and set it, like an image of

frozen horror, before our eyes. Against his breast he held the form

of his dead wife, and now and then I saw him stoop as if he were

listening for some tokens of life at her set lips. Then he would

lift himself again, with hopelessness stamped upon his features, only

to lean forward in renewed hope that was again destined to

disappointment.

The Inspector and the accompanying physician had taken seats in the

bow, and unto me had been assigned the special duty of watching over

the Doctor. This I did from a low seat in front of him. I was

therefore so close that I heard his laboring breath, and though my

heart was full of awe and compassion, I could not prevent myself from

bending toward him and saying these words:

"Dr. Zabriskie, the mystery of your crime is no longer a mystery to

me. Listen and see if I do not understand your temptation, and how

you, a conscientious and God-fearing man, came to slay your innocent

neighbor.

"A friend of yours, or so he called himself, had for a long time

filled your ears with tales tending to make you suspicious of your

wife and jealous of a certain man whom I will not name. You knew

that your friend had a grudge against this man, and so for many

months turned a deaf ear to his insinuations. But finally some

change which you detected in your wife's bearing or conversation

roused your own suspicions, and you began to doubt if all was false

that came to your ears, and to curse your blindness, which in a

measure rendered you helpless. The jealous fever grew and had risen

to a high point, when one night--a memorable night--this friend met

you just as you were leaving town, and with cruel craft whispered in

your ear that the man you hated was even then with your wife, and

that if you would return at once to your home you would find him in

her company.

"The demon that lurks at the heart of all men, good or bad, thereupon

took complete possession of you, and you answered this fake friend by

saying that you would not return without a pistol. Whereupon he

offered to take you to his house and give you his. You consented,

and getting rid of your servant by sending him to Poughkeepsie with

your excuses, you entered a coach with your friend.

"You say you bought the pistol, and perhaps you did, but, however

that may be, you left his house with it in your pocket and, declining

companionship, walked home, arriving at the Colonnade a little before

midnight.

"Ordinarily you have no difficulty in recognizing your own doorstep.

But, being in a heated frame of mind, you walked faster than usual

and so passed your own house and stopped at that of Mr. Hasbrouck's,

one door beyond. As the entrances of these houses are all alike,

there was but one way by which you could have made yourself sure that

you had reached your own dwelling, and that was by feeling for the

doctor's sign at the side of the door. But you never thought of

that. Absorbed in dreams of vengeance, your sole impulse was to

enter by the quickest means possible. Taking out your night-key, you

thrust it into the lock. It fitted, but it took strength to turn it,

so much strength that the key was twisted and bent by the effort.

But this incident, which would have attracted your attention at

another time, was lost upon you at this moment. An entrance had been

effected, and you were in too excited a frame of mind to notice at

what cost, or to detect the small differences apparent in the

atmosphere and furnishings of the two houses--trifles which would

have arrested your attention under other circumstances, and made you

pause before the upper floor had been reached.

"It was while going up the stairs that you took out your pistol, so

that by the time you arrived at the front-room door you held it ready

cocked and drawn in your hand. For, being blind, you feared escape

on the part of your victim, and so waited for nothing but the sound

of a man's voice before firing. When, therefore, the unfortunate Mr.

Hasbrouck, roused by this sudden intrusion, advanced with an

exclamation of astonishment, you pulled the trigger, killing him on

the spot. It must have been immediately upon his fall that you

recognized from some word he uttered, or from some contact you may

have had with your surroundings, that you were in the wrong house and

had killed the wrong man; for you cried out, in evident remorse,

'God! what have I done!' and fled without approaching your victim.

"Descending the stairs, you rushed from the house, closing the front

door behind you and regaining your own without being seen. But here

you found yourself baffled in your attempted escape by two things.

First, by the pistol you still held in your hand, and secondly, by

the fact that the key upon which you depended for entering your own

door was so twisted out of shape that you knew it would be useless

for you to attempt to use it. What did you do in this emergency?

You have already told us, though the story seemed so improbable at

the time, you found nobody to believe it but myself. The pistol you

flung far away from you down the pavement, from which, by one of

those rare chances which sometimes happen in this world, it was

presently picked up by some late passer-by of more or less doubtful

character. The door offered less of an obstacle than you

anticipated; for when you turned to it again you found it, if I am

not greatly mistaken, ajar, left so, as we have reason to believe, by

one who had gone out of it but a few minutes before in a state which

left him but little master of his actions. It was this fact which

provided you with an answer when you were asked how you succeeded in

getting into Mr. Hasbrouck's house after the family had retired for

the night.

"Astonished at the coincidence, but hailing with gladness the

deliverance which it offered, you went in and ascended at once into

your wife's presence; and it was from her lips, and not from those of

Mrs. Hasbrouck, that the cry arose which startled the neighborhood

and prepared men's minds for the tragic words which were shouted a

moment later from the next house.

"But she who uttered the scream knew of no tragedy save that which

was taking place in her own breast. She had just repulsed a

dastardly suitor, and, seeing you enter so unexpectedly in a state of

unaccountable horror and agitation, was naturally stricken with

dismay, and thought she saw your ghost, or, what was worse, a

possible avenger; while you, having failed to kill the man you

sought, and having killed a man you esteemed, let no surprise on her

part lure you into any dangerous self-betrayal. You strove instead

to soothe her, and even attempted to explain the excitement under

which you labored, by an account of your narrow escape at the

station, till the sudden alarm from next door distracted her

attention, and sent both your thoughts and hers in a different

direction. Not till conscience had fully awakened and the horror of

your act had had time to tell upon your sensitive nature, did you

breathe forth those vague confessions, which, not being supported by

the only explanations which would have made them credible, led her,

as well as the police, to consider you affected in your mind. Your

pride as a man, and your consideration for her as a woman, kept you

silent, but did not keep the worm from preying upon your heart.

"Am I not correct in my surmises, Dr. Zabriskie, and is not this the

true explanation of your crime?"

With a strange look, he lifted up his face.

"Hush!" said he; "you will awaken her. See how peacefully she

sleeps! I should not like to have her awakened now, she is so tired,

and I--I have not watched over her as I should."

Appalled at his gesture, his look, his tone, I drew back, and for a

few minutes no sound was to be heard but the steady dip-dip of the

oars and the lap-lap of the waters against the boat. Then there came

a quick uprising, the swaying before me of something dark and tall

and threatening, and before I could speak or move, or even stretch

forth my hands to stay him, the seat before me was empty, and

darkness had filled the place where but an instant previous he had

sat, a fearsome figure, erect and rigid as a sphinx.

What little moonlight there was only served to show us a few rising

bubbles, marking the spot where the unfortunate man had sunk with his

much-loved burden. We could not save him. As the widening circles

fled farther and farther out, the tide drifted us away, and we lost

the spot which had seen the termination of one of earth's saddest

tragedies.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

The bodies were never recovered. The police reserved to themselves

the right of withholding from the public the real facts which made

this catastrophe an awful remembrance to those who witnessed it. A

verdict of accidental death by drowning answered all purposes, and

saved the memory of the unfortunate pair from such calumny as might

have otherwise assailed it. It was the least we could do for two

beings whom circumstances had so greatly afflicted.

THE RAJAH'S DIAMOND

BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

_The four stories published under this general title are four steps

in the unraveling of the mystery of "The Pride of Kashgar," that

marvelous diamond "as big as a duck's egg and without a flaw, whose

value, in money, would be sufficient to build cathedrals more stately

than Ely or Cologne." Through them moves that prince of

entertainers, Prince Florizel of Bohemia. The buoyant, extravagant

note of the author is one of the most refreshing things in

short-story literature, and the stories have that rare quality of

charm which was the peculiar grace of the author's personality._

THE RAJAH'S DIAMOND

By ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

--------

STORY OF THE BANDBOX

Up to the age of sixteen, at a private school and afterward at one of

those great institutions for which England is justly famous, Mr.

Harry Hartley had received the ordinary education of a gentleman. At

that period, he manifested a remarkable distaste for study; and his

only surviving parent being both weak and ignorant, he was permitted

thenceforward to spend his time in the attainment of petty and purely

elegant accomplishments. Two years later, he was left an orphan and

almost a beggar. For all active and industrious pursuits, Harry was

unfitted alike by nature and training. He could sing romantic

ditties, and accompany himself with discretion on the piano; he was a

graceful although a timid cavalier; he had a pronounced taste for

chess; and nature had sent him into the world with one of the most

engaging exteriors that can well be fancied. Blond and pink, with

dove's eyes and a gentle smile, he had an air of agreeable tenderness

and melancholy, and the most submissive and caressing manners. But

when all is said, he was not the man to lead armaments of war, or

direct the councils of a state.

A fortunate chance and some influence obtained for Harry, at the time

of his bereavement, the position of private secretary to

Major-General Sir Thomas Vandeleur, C.B. Sir Thomas was a man of

sixty, loud-spoken, boisterous, and domineering. For some reason,

some service the nature of which had been often whispered and

repeatedly denied, the Rajah of Kashgar had presented this officer

with the sixth known diamond of the world. The gift transformed

General Vandeleur from a poor into a wealthy man, from an obscure and

unpopular soldier into one of the lions of London society; the

possessor of the Rajah's Diamond was welcome in the most exclusive

circles; and he had found a lady, young, beautiful, and well-born,

who was willing to call the diamond hers even at the price of

marriage with Sir Thomas Vandeleur. It was commonly said at the time

that, as like draws to like, one jewel had attracted another;

certainly Lady Vandeleur was not only a gem of the finest water in

her own person, but she showed herself to the world in a very costly

setting; and she was considered by many respectable authorities as

one among the three or four best dressed women in England.

Harry's duty as secretary was not particularly onerous; but he had a

dislike for all prolonged work; it gave him pain to ink his fingers;

and the charm of Lady Vandeleur and her toilets drew him often from

the library to the boudoir. He had the prettiest ways among women,

could talk fashions with enjoyment, and was never more happy than

when criticizing a shade of ribbon, or running on an errand to the

milliner's. In short, Sir Thomas's correspondence fell into pitiful

arrears, and my Lady had another lady's-maid.

At last the General, who was one of the least patient of military

commanders, arose from his place in a violent access of passion, and

indicated to his secretary that he had no further need for his

services, with one of those explanatory gestures which are most

rarely employed between gentlemen. The door being unfortunately

open, Mr. Hartley fell downstairs headforemost.

He arose somewhat hurt and very deeply aggrieved. The life in the

General's house precisely suited him; he moved, on a more or less

doubtful footing, in very genteel company, he did little, he ate of

the best, and he had a lukewarm satisfaction in the presence of Lady

Vandeleur, which, in his own heart, he dubbed by a more emphatic name.

Immediately after he had been outraged by the military foot, he

hurried to the boudoir and recounted his sorrows.

"You know very well, my dear Harry," replied Lady Vandeleur, for she

called him by name like a child or a domestic servant, "that you

never by any chance do what the General tells you. No more do I, you

may say. But that is different. A woman can earn her pardon for a

good year of disobedience by a single adroit submission; and,

besides, no one is married to his private secretary. I shall be

sorry to lose you; but since you can not stay longer in a house where

you have been insulted, I shall wish you good-by, and I promise you

to make the General smart for his behavior."

Harry's countenance fell; tears came into his eyes and he gazed on

Lady Vandeleur with a tender reproach.

"My Lady," said he, "what is an insult? I should think little indeed

of any one who could not forgive them by the score. But to leave

one's friend; to tear up the bonds of affection--"

He was unable to continue, for his emotion choked him, and he began

to weep.

Lady Vandeleur looked at him with a curious expression. "This little

fool," she thought, "imagines himself to be in love with me. Why

should he not become my servant instead of the General's? He is

good-natured, obliging, and understands dress; and besides it will

keep him out of mischief. He is positively too pretty to be

unattached."

That night she talked over the General, who was already somewhat

ashamed of his vivacity; and Harry was transferred to the feminine

department, where his life was little short of heavenly. He was

always dressed with uncommon nicety, wore delicate flowers in his

buttonhole, and could entertain a visitor with tact and pleasantry.

He took a pride in servility to a beautiful woman; received Lady

Vandeleur's commands as so many marks of favor; and was pleased to

exhibit himself before other men, who derided and despised him, in

his character of male lady's-maid and man milliner. Nor could he

think enough of his existence from a moral point of view. Wickedness

seemed to him an essentially male attribute, and to pass one's days

with a delicate woman, and principally occupied about trimmings, was

to inhabit an enchanted isle among the storms of life.

One fine morning he came into the drawing-room and began to arrange

some music on the top of the piano. Lady Vandeleur, at the other end

of the apartment, was speaking somewhat eagerly with her brother,

Charlie Pendragon, an elderly young man, much broken with

dissipation, and very lame of one foot. The private secretary, to

whose entrance they paid no regard, could not avoid overhearing a

part of their conversation.

"To-day or never," said the lady. "Once and for all, it shall be

done to-day."

"To-day if it must be," replied the brother, with a sigh. "But it is

a false step, a ruinous step, Clara; and we shall live to repent it

dismally."

Lady Vandeleur looked her brother steadily and somewhat strangely in

the face.

"You forget," she said; "the man must die at last."

"Upon my word, Clara," said Pendragon, "I believe you are the most

heartless rascal in England."

"You men," she returned, "are so coarsely built, that you can never

appreciate a shade of meaning. You are yourselves rapacious,

violent, immodest, careless of distinction; and yet the least thought

for the future shocks you in a woman. I have no patience with such

stuff. You would despise in a common banker the imbecility that you

expect to find in us."

"You are very likely right," replied her brother; "you were always

cleverer than I. And, anyway, you know my motto: 'The family before

all.'"

"Yes, Charlie," she returned, taking his hand in hers, "I know your

motto better than you know it yourself. 'And Clara before the

family!' Is not that the second part of it? Indeed, you are the

best of brothers, and I love you dearly."

Mr. Pendragon got up, looking a little confused by these family

endearments.

"I had better not be seen," said he. "I understand my part to a

miracle, and I'll keep an eye on the Tame Cat."

"Do," she replied. "He is an abject creature, and might ruin all."

She kissed the tips of her fingers to him daintily; and the brother

withdrew by the boudoir and the back stair.

"Harry," said Lady Vandeleur, turning toward the secretary as soon as

they were alone, "I have a commission for you this morning. But you

shall take a cab; I can not have my secretary freckled."

She spoke the last words with emphasis and a look of half-motherly

pride that caused great contentment to poor Harry; and he professed

himself charmed to find an opportunity of serving her.

"It is another of our great secrets," she went on, archly, "and no

one must know of it but my secretary and me. Sir Thomas would make

the saddest disturbance; and if you only knew how weary I am of these

scenes! Oh, Harry, Harry, can you explain to me what makes you men

so violent and unjust? But, indeed, I know you can not; you are the

only man in the world who knows nothing of these shameful passions;

you are so good, Harry, and so kind; you, at least, can be a woman's

friend; and, do you know? I think you make the others more ugly by

comparison."

"It is you," said Harry, gallantly, "who are so kind to me. You

treat me like--"

"Like a mother," interposed Lady Vandeleur, "I try to be a mother to

you. Or, at least," she corrected herself with a smile, "almost a

mother. I am afraid I am too young to be your mother really. Let us

say a friend--a dear friend."

She paused long enough to let her words take effect in Harry's

sentimental quarters, but not long enough to allow him a reply.

"But all this is beside our purpose," she resumed. "You will find a

bandbox in the left-hand side of the oak wardrobe; it is underneath

the pink slip that I wore on Wednesday with my Mechlin. You will

take it immediately to this address," and she gave him a paper; "but

do not, on any account, let it out of your hands until you have

received a receipt written by myself. Do you understand? Answer, if

you please--answer! This is extremely important, and I must ask you

to pay some attention."

Harry pacified her by repeating her instructions perfectly; and she

was just going to tell him more when General Vandeleur flung into the

apartment, scarlet with anger, and holding a long and elaborate

milliner's bill in his hand.

"Will you look at this, madam!" cried he. "Will you have the

goodness to look at this document? I know well enough you married me

for my money, and I hope I can make as great allowances as any other

man in the service; but, as sure as God made me, I mean to put a

period to this disreputable prodigality."

"Mr. Hartley," said Lady Vandeleur, "I think you understand what you

have to do. May I ask you to see to it at once?"

"Stop," said the General, addressing Harry, "one word before you go."

And then, turning again to Lady Vandeleur, "What is this precious

fellow's errand?" he demanded. "I trust him no further than I do

yourself, let me tell you. If he had as much as the rudiments of

honesty, he would scorn to stay in this house; and what he does for

his wages is a mystery to all the world. What is his errand, madam?

and why are you hurrying him away?"

"I supposed you had something to say to me in private," replied the

lady.

"You spoke about an errand," insisted the General. "Do not attempt

to deceive me in my present state of temper. You certainly spoke

about an errand."

"If you insist on making your servants privy to our humiliating

dissensions," replied Lady Vandeleur, "perhaps I had better ask Mr.

Hartley to sit down. No?" she continued; "then you may go, Mr.

Hartley. I trust you may remember all that you have heard in this

room; it may be useful to you."

Harry at once made his escape from the drawing-room; and as he ran

upstairs he could hear the General's voice upraised in declamation,

and the thin tones of Lady Vandeleur planting icy repartees at every

opening. How cordially he admired the wife! How skilfully she could

evade an awkward question! with what secure effrontery she repeated

her instructions under the very guns of the enemy! and on the other

hand, how he detested the husband!

There had been nothing unfamiliar in the morning's events, for he was

continually in the habit of serving Lady Vandeleur on secret

missions, principally connected with millinery. There was a skeleton

in the house, as he well knew. The bottomless extravagance and the

unknown liabilities of the wife had long since swallowed her own

fortune, and threatened day by day to engulf that of the husband.

Once or twice in every year exposure and ruin seemed imminent, and

Harry kept trotting round to all sorts of furnishers' shops, telling

small fibs, and paying small advances on the gross amount, until

another term was tided over, and the lady and her faithful secretary

breathed again. For Harry, in a double capacity, was heart and soul

upon that side of the war: not only did he adore Lady Vandeleur and

fear and dislike her husband, but he naturally sympathized with the

love of finery, and his own single extravagance was at the tailor's.

He found the bandbox where it had been described, arranged his toilet

with care, and left the house. The sun shone brightly; the distance

he had to travel was considerable, and he remembered with dismay that

the General's sudden irruption had prevented Lady Vandeleur from

giving him money for a cab. On this sultry day there was every

chance that his complexion would suffer severely; and to walk through

so much of London with a bandbox on his arm was a humiliation almost

insupportable to a youth of his character. He paused, and took

counsel with himself. The Vandeleurs lived in Eaton Place; his

destination was near Notting Hill; plainly, he might cross the Park

by keeping well in the open and avoiding populous alleys; and he

thanked his stars when he reflected that it was still comparatively

early in the day.

Anxious to be rid of his incubus, he walked somewhat faster than his

ordinary, and he was already some way through Kensington Gardens

when, in a solitary spot among the trees, he found himself confronted

by the General.

"I beg your pardon, Sir Thomas," observed Harry, politely falling on

one side; for the other stood directly in his path.

"Where are you going, sir?" asked the General.

"I am taking a little walk among the trees," replied the lad.

The General struck the bandbox with his cane.

"With that thing?" he cried; "you lie, sir, and you know you lie!"

"Indeed, Sir Thomas," returned Harry, "I am not accustomed to be

questioned in so high a key."

"You do not understand your position," said the General. "You are my

servant, and a servant of whom I have conceived the most serious

suspicions. How do I know but that your box is full of teaspoons?"

"It contains a silk hat belonging to a friend," said Harry.

"Very well," replied General Vandeleur. "Then I want to see your

friend's silk hat. I have," he added, grimly, "a singular curiosity

for hats; and I believe you know me to be somewhat positive."

"I beg your pardon, Sir Thomas, I am exceedingly grieved," Harry

apologized; "but indeed this is a private affair."

The General caught him roughly by the shoulder with one hand, while

he raised his cane in the most menacing manner with the other. Harry

gave himself up for lost; but at the same moment Heaven vouchsafed

him an unexpected defender in the person of Charlie Pendragon, who

now strode forward from behind the trees.

"Come, come, General, hold your hand," said he, "this is neither

courteous nor manly."

"Aha!" cried the General, wheeling round upon his new antagonist,

"Mr. Pendragon! And do you suppose, Mr. Pendragon, that, because I

have had the misfortune to marry your sister, I shall suffer myself

to be dogged and thwarted by a discredited and bankrupt libertine

like you? My acquaintance with Lady Vandeleur, sir, has taken away

all my appetite for the other members of her family."

"And do you fancy, General Vandeleur," retorted Charlie, "that,

because my sister has had the misfortune to marry you, she there and

then forfeited her rights and privileges as a lady? I own, sir, that

by that action she did as much as anybody could to derogate from her

position; but to me she is still a Pendragon. I make it my business

to protect her from ungentlemanly outrage, and if you were ten times

her husband I would not permit her liberty to be restrained, nor her

private messengers to be violently arrested."

"How is that, Mr. Hartley?" interrogated the General. "Mr. Pendragon

is of my opinion, it appears. He too suspects that Lady Vandeleur

has something to do with your friend's silk hat."

Charlie saw that he had committed an unpardonable blunder, which he

hastened to repair.

"How, sir?" he cried; "I suspect, do you say? I suspect nothing.

Only where I find strength abused and a man brutalizing his

inferiors, I take the liberty to interfere."

As he said these words he made a sign to Harry, which the latter was

too dull or too much troubled to understand.

"In what way am I to construe your attitude, sir?" demanded Vandeleur.

"Why, sir, as you please," returned Pendragon.

The General once more raised his cane, and made a cut for Charlie's

head; but the latter, lame foot and all, evaded the blow with his

umbrella, ran in, and immediately closed with his formidable

adversary.

"Run, Harry, run!" he cried; "run, you dolt!"

Harry stood petrified for a moment, watching the two men sway

together in this fierce embrace; then he turned and took to his

heels. When he cast a glance over his shoulder he saw the General

prostrate under Charlie's knee, but still making desperate efforts to

reverse the situation; and the Gardens seemed to have filled with

people, who were running from all directions toward the scene of the

fight. This spectacle lent the secretary wings; and he did not relax

his pace until he had gained the Bayswater road, and plunged at

random into an unfrequented by-street.

To see two gentlemen of his acquaintance thus brutally mauling each

other was deeply shocking to Harry. He desired to forget the sight;

he desired, above all, to put as great a distance as possible between

himself and General Vandeleur; and in his eagerness for this he

forgot everything about his destination and hurried before him

headlong and trembling. When he remembered that Lady Vandeleur was

the wife of one and the sister of the other of these gladiators, his

heart was touched with sympathy for a woman so distressingly

misplaced in life. Even his own situation in the General's household

looked hardly so pleasing as usual in the light of these violent

transactions.

He had walked some little distance, busied with these meditations,

before a slight collision with another passenger reminded him of the

bandbox on his arm.

"Heavens!" cried he, "where was my head? and whither have I wandered?"

Thereupon he consulted the envelope which Lady Vandeleur had given

him. The address was there, but without a name. Harry was simply

directed to ask for "the gentleman who expected a parcel from Lady

Vandeleur," and if he were not at home to await his return. The

gentleman, added the note, should present a receipt in the

handwriting of the lady herself. All this seemed mightily

mysterious, and Harry was above all astonished at the omission of the

name and the formality of the receipt. He had thought little of this

last when he heard it dropped in conversation; but reading it in cold

blood, and taking it in connection with the other strange

particulars, he became convinced that he was engaged in perilous

affairs. For half a moment he had a doubt of Lady Vandeleur herself;

for he found these obscure proceedings somewhat unworthy of so high a

lady, and became more critical when her secrets were preserved

against himself. But her empire over his spirit was too complete, he

dismissed his suspicions and blamed himself roundly for having so

much as entertained them.

In one thing, however, his duty and interest, his generosity and his

terrors, coincided--to get rid of the bandbox with the greatest

possible despatch.