CHAPTER XIII.

THE SHADOW ASSUMES SHAPE.

We now lighted our lamp, and, finding a light cane sofa in the hall,

nearly opposite the locked door, we took seats, and kept ourselves

awake by talking. The storm had subsided into the monotonous patter of

a steady rain.

"I am surprised," said Mr. Burton, "that you did not at once comprehend

the secret of this house. The moment you spoke the word 'haunted,' I

knew how our investigations would end. It solved a mystery which has

bothered me for some time. I knew that Leesy Sullivan was here, in this

vicinity; the exact hiding-place was all I wanted to know; and when you

mentioned Moreland villa, I said to myself, 'that's it!' All I was then

afraid of was, that she would again elude us, before we could lay hands

on her. And in fact," he added laughingly, "I hardly feel sure of her

now. She may sublime through the ceiling before morning."

"I did not think of her, Mr. Burton; I was quite sure some person was

playing some game, either of mischief or worse, about the villa; but

how could I be certain, when two thorough daylight examinations failed

to reveal any thing? There did not seem to be a place at which a person

could enter the house; and as for a woman and child being actual

inmates, living and subsisting here for weeks--I think nothing but

actual proof could have convinced me of the marvel. I am curious to

know how she managed it."

"I ought to have come right here at first," continued my friend,

pursuing his train of thought. "Women are like mother-birds, when boys

approach the nest. They betray themselves and their cherished secret by

fluttering about the spot. If this Miss Sullivan had been a man, she

would have been in Kansas or California by this time; being a woman, I

ought to have looked for her in exactly the place it would seem natural

for her to avoid. One thing is certain--she loved young Moreland with

an intensity beyond the strength of most women. I have had to do with

natures like hers before--where a powerful brain is subservient to a

still more powerful emotional force. She was proud, ambitious,

discontented, with tastes and perceptions reaching up into a much

higher sphere of life. Miss Sullivan would have made a magnificent

heiress and pet daughter; yet in love she would be humble,

self-abnegating--give all and count it nothing. It's a sad pity such a

capacity for happiness should have brought only ruin."

"If she had loved Henry, how could she, under any impulse of jealousy,

have injured him? She is terrible to me in any view of the case."

"I do not know that she did injure him, or cause him to be injured.

Circumstances are against her. But I am far from believing her the

guilty person. Yet I am exceedingly anxious to have a quiet interview

with her. I must see her and talk with her alone. She is frightened

now, and defiant. I shall soothe her--magnetize her will, as it

were--and draw from her the truth. Every atom of knowledge which she

has, in any way connected with Henry Moreland, I shall draw from her,

and consolidate into one mass, to be used for or against her. If you

have the reliance upon my judgment which I flatter myself you have,

Richard, you will not object to my seeing Miss Sullivan alone, and

deciding, upon that interview, whether there are causes for her arrest,

as a party to the murder."

"I shall not object. It is your privilege to see her alone; and I have

the utmost confidence in you. I suppose Mr. Argyll and Henry's father

would be the proper persons to decide upon the arrest and prosecution."

"Of course. And if, after I have talked with her, I can elicit no facts

to warrant her being put on trial for her life, I shall not give her

her liberty until I have consulted both families, laying all my

evidence before them. They will be loth to begin a prosecution which

they can not sustain, even if they have an _impression_ of guilt. By

the way, Redfield, these _impressions_ are curious things! Supposing I

should tell you there are persons who, without one particle of proof of

any kind, have an impression that _you_ are the guilty man."

I arose from the sofa, looking at him, not knowing whether or not to

knock him down.

"Don't 'slay me with a look'," he said, laughing quietly. "I don't say

that _I_ have any such inner revelation. And I did not say this,

either, to hurt your feelings. I did it to save them. For, if I mistake

not, the same person who confided his impressions to me, has recently

been gradually confiding them to others. The very thought, the very

possibility, once entertained, or half-entertained and driven away

again, as an unwelcome guest, still has its injurious influence. You

are standing upon an earthquake, Richard--you may be swallowed up any

instant."

"I?"

"Yes. I have detected the premonitory rumblings. I have said this only

to warn you, that you may be ready for self-defense."

"I scorn to defend myself! Defend myself, forsooth! against what? Who

has dared to insinuate that thought against me which you have allowed

yourself to echo? But I need not ask--it is my natural foe, James

Argyll. He hates me as the rattlesnake hates the black-ash tree!"

"Well, the dislike is mutual. Will you deny that you, too, have had a

thought--mind, I say a mere, floating thought--that _he_ may have

instigated the deed?"

My conscious eye sunk before the steel-blue glance which pierced me.

God knows, such a fear, such a belief, at times vague and shadowy,

again vivid but brief as lightning, had again and again troubled me. I

have hinted at it once, when I said that I was glad that if James ever

took money, unpermitted, from his uncle, he took it to waste at the

gaming-table. Soon I raised my eyes.

"If I have had such a suspicion, I have struggled against it; I have

never breathed it into mortal ear. He has sought to injure me in

various ways; I have wished to win and conciliate him; to be friendly

with him, for the sake of my regard for his relatives. As to taking a

step to fix a blasting stigma upon him, without giving him a chance

openly to efface it, I am incapable of it. You are at liberty to judge

between us, Mr. Burton."

"You know that I do not like him," answered my companion. "But no

aversion which I may feel for him shall prevent my weighing all facts

which come under my observation, with the utmost impartiality. I am on

the right track, in this pursuit, and I shall follow it up to the dark

end, though you, yourself, abandon it. Justice shall be meted out! If

the bolt strikes the loftiest head in all this aristocratic vicinity,

it _shall_ fall where it belongs."

He left the sofa, walking up and down the corridor with a stern,

thoughtful face. As for me, I sunk back on my seat, overwhelmed by the

confirmation of a thousand times more than my worst fears. _Suspicion

of me_ was creeping like a shadow over the Argyll household. I had felt

its approach long ago; now my whole being grew cold, freezing, except

one burning spasm of indignation which throbbed in my breast.

As the gray dawn approached, the rain ceased. Morning was long in

coming. As soon as it grew light enough to see, I heard the gardener

cutting wood for the fire, and shortly after I walked over, at Mr.

Burton's request, to ask for some breakfast for the woman and child. I

will not describe the garrulous astonishment of the husband and wife

upon my announcement that the ghost was cornered, and proved to be

Leesy Sullivan. Of course the evil omen of hearing children crying was

now explained, as well as the disappearance of a considerable quantity

of flour, condiments and apples, which Mrs. Scott had charged to the

rats.

It went sorely against the inclination of formal, correct Mrs. Scott,

to furnish a comfortable breakfast to "such a jade as that seemed

likely to prove; behavin' in this style, which nobody on 'arth could

account for;" but the gratification of her feminine curiosity was some

reward for the outrage to her sensibilities, and she went with great

expedition to carry the desired refreshments to the prisoners.

When we entered the attic, in the light of the rising sun, Miss

Sullivan was sitting quietly on the edge of the mattresses, curling

little Nora's flaxen hair around her fingers. An obstinate reticence

marked her looks and actions; she scarcely replied to any of Mrs.

Scott's inquiries--only, when the comfort of the child was concerned.

For _her_ she took some of the warm food and tea, quietly feeding the

eager little girl, while we made a survey of her surroundings.

I now ascertained that a small sky-light, hidden from outside view by

the chimneys and ornamental work of the battlements, had given egress

to the mysterious brightness which had hovered so frequently over the

roof. The tenant of this great house had evidently arranged herself for

the winter. She had chosen the attic as a place of greatest safety, in

the case of parties entering the deserted dwelling for any purpose;

here she had brought a tiny charcoal-furnace, used in the basement in

summer-time for the purpose of heating smoothing-irons, which she

supplied with fuel from the stock left over in the cellar. The

provisions left in the house had served her wants equally well. It was

evident that by the exercise of extreme care and vigilance, leaving the

house only in the darkness of the night, she might have remained here

for a considerable longer time undisturbed in her novel seclusion, had

not the light, which she had never ventured to burn until all was dark

and silent in the little cottage, by chance first attracted the

curiosity which led finally to discovery.

Mr. Burton took a cup of tea and a roll, brought to him there; and

then, at his request, he was left alone with the silent woman, who sat

there with resolute brows and lips firmly closed, as if locked over her

thoughts.

"It will require all his diplomacy to wile her into a communicative

mood," was my decision, as I took a parting glance at her face. I was

chilled with my night's watching, and chilled more utterly by the words

the detective had spoken to me as I watched; I returned to the

cottage-fire, sitting there three hours, in a painful reverie,

answering almost at random the remarks of the housekeeper.

At the close of the three hours, Mr. Burton came into the little

dwelling, carrying Norah in his arms, who was stroking his cheek with

her chubby hand, and followed by the sewing-girl, whose cheeks bore

traces of tears, and whose hunted, defiant look had given place to a

dejected, gentle expression.

"Mrs. Scott, I want you to do me a kindness," he said, in his

authoritative, persuasive manner, to which people seldom thought it

worth while to object. "I want you to take care of Miss Sullivan and

this little cousin of hers, until I send them word they are wanted. It

may be to-day, or not for a week. In the mean time, if you have any

sewing to be done for yourself or little Johnny, she will be glad to

help you."

"She's welcome to stay, I'm sure," said the woman, in a tone not quite

so sure.

"Thank you. I knew I could ask a favor of you. Johnny, come here, and

make Miss Nora's acquaintance. I'm ready, Richard, if you are, to

return to the village. Lenore will wonder what has become of us.

Good-morning, all."

We walked away.

"Are you not afraid to leave that girl unguarded, after all the trouble

she has given us?"

"She will stay there; she has promised me. If she chooses to run away,

now, it is a matter of no consequence. I am perfectly, entirely

convinced that she is innocent of any participation in the murder of

Henry Moreland; or any knowledge of the murder--except, upon one point,

I could use her testimony. I shall give my opinion to Mr. Argyll, with

my grounds for it; if he chooses to arrest her, she will be there at

the cottage. Richard, this affair has gone as far as it can! I shall

tell Mr. Argyll, to-day, that I have withdrawn from it--that I give it

up. But I am willing _you_ should understand that I have not dropped it

entirely--that I shall still retain my interest in it--still secretly

pursue my investigations, which I believe I can carry on to the best

advantage if all parties believe that I have given the matter up. Are

you satisfied?"

"If I am not, what difference does it make? It is not for me to dictate

your course. I believe that you think it is the best one."

"I do. So will you some day, if we live to see the termination of this

thing. In the mean time, I am your friend, Richard, whether I give any

outward signs of friendship very soon or not. You are at liberty to

devote yourself to the cause as ardently as ever--and if ever you wish

to consult me, you will find me what you now know me."

I felt strangely as we walked along together. He talked as if he

thought some change were coming--as if things were to assume new

shapes--as if I were to need friendship, and yet as if he should be

compelled to conceal his for me behind a mask of coldness. I did not

understand it. I felt half offended with him, and wholly disheartened.

I dined with him at Mr. Argyll's. It was the last time I sat at that

table.

In the afternoon he had a private interview with the family, _from

which I was excluded_; and in the evening he returned to the city,

taking with him Lenore, the last wave of whose hand was for James, her

last kiss for Miss Argyll.

The next morning Mr. Argyll informed me that he had resolved to make

his nephew his partner in the practice of the law, and that I was at

liberty to take advantage of any other opportunity I might have for

going into business for myself. His manner was cold; he expressed no

regrets for my probable disappointment, caused by his own suggestions;

I could feel myself dismissed from his friendship as well as his

office. I would not ask why. My tongue grew dry as ashes when I thought

of attempting it. Mr. Burton had given me the clue to the feelings

which prompted this rupture of a life-long friendship--it was such as

to forbid any questions. No explanations could be made--nothing could

obliterate the memory of so deadly a wrong as they were committing upon

me. The golden bowl of friendship was broken at the fountain--the

waters spilled upon the ground.

I told him that I had contemplated a visit to my mother, which I would

take this opportunity to make. I might find what I wished for, in the

way of business, in the vicinity of my father's former home; when, with

formal thanks for his past kindness (which I was mentally vowing I

would find some means to repay), and begging him to trouble himself not

at all about my fortunes, I bowed myself from the office where I had

spent so much of the last three years of my life.

Blind, dizzy, cold, I went to my boarding-house to pack my trunks.

Before I went to bed, my few arrangements were completed. My clothes,

books, the few little articles of taste, or gifts of friends, allowable

in one small rented room, were easily put away in their traveling

receptacle. But, as for the rest!--for the wealth which my heart had

silently garnered during the golden harvest of youth--where was it?

Swept away as by a mighty wind.

I slept some, for I was thoroughly worn out by my emotions, no less

than by my recent vigils; but the earliest morning found me awake. I

was to leave at noon; I had many pleasant acquaintances in the village,

from whom I ought not to have parted without a farewell call; but all

these small pleasures and courtesies of life were swept aside, as sand

upon my path. I had nothing to do, all the tedious morning, save to

pretend to eat my breakfast, until the hour which I had set in my

thoughts for saying good-by to the girls.

I would not go away without seeing them; if there was any accusation in

their eyes I would confront it. And then, I did not believe that

Eleanor would do me an injustice. Blue-eyed, just, gentle as was her

character, _she_, at least, was grieved for me--believed in me. I did

not admit to myself how much comfort I drew from this faith, until I

was startled from it. My baggage was dispatched; my watch told eleven;

I passed the house on the way to the cars, giving myself a few minutes

for this farewell. As I knocked at the door, one of the servants opened

it. I sent her to ask Miss Argyll if she would come down to say

good-by, before I left on my visit to my mother; and Mary--I would like

to see her also.

While I waited for them, I stepped into the dear familiar parlors and

library, mutely taking my leave of them, with all their mingled

associations. Presently the messenger returned:

"Miss Argyll sent her farewell; she could not see Mr. Redfield that

morning."

"Where is she?"

"In the breakfast-room, looking at her flowers."

I started for the room in a wild tumult of anger and passion, resolved

to make her confess the reason of this treatment. Surely, three years

of an intimacy like ours, gave me the right. In three minutes I

confronted her where she stood, in the door between the breakfast-room

and conservatory, like a statue draped in crape.

"Eleanor!"

She shrunk back; she held up her hands with an expression of horror. My

God! that look in Eleanor's eyes was enough to kill me. I turned away

as hastily as I had come. As I stumbled along the passage, half blind

with the terrible surging and throbbing of the blood through me, a soft

pair of arms fell about my neck, a cheek wet with tears was pressed to

mine--it was Mary.

"Never mind what they say about you, Richard," she sobbed. "I don't

believe one word of it--not one word! I never shall. I am your friend.

I love you; indeed I do. _I_ do not want you to go away," and she

kissed me twice or thrice.

I took the sweet face in my cold hands, looked into the brimming eyes,

hastily kissed the blushing cheek--"God bless you, Mary," said I, and

was gone.

END OF THE PART FIRST.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

THE DEAD LETTER.

PART II.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER I.

THE LETTER.

The reader can now understand why it was that I turned cold with

excitement as I sat there in the dead-letter office, holding the

time-stained epistle in my hand. Every word burned itself into my

brain. Obscure as it was--non-committal--directed to an unknown person

of a neighboring village--I yet felt _assured_ that those vague hints

had reference to the sinful tragedy which had occurred October 17th,

1857. Here was placed in my hands--at last!--a clue to that mystery

which I had once sworn to unravel. Yet, how slender was the clue, which

might, after all, lead me into still profounder labyrinths of doubt and

perplexity! As I pondered, it seemed to break and vanish in my fingers.

Yet, I felt, in spite of this, an inward sense _that I held the key

which was surely to unlock the awful secret_. I can never rightly

express the feelings which, for the first few moments, overpowered me.

My body was icy cold, but my soul stung and stirred me as with fire,

and seemed to rise on "budding wings" of flame with conviction of a

speedy triumph which was to come after long suffering. I arose,

clutched my hat, and went forth from the Department, to return to it no

more, for the present. Half the night I sat in my room at my

boarding-place, looking at that letter on the table before me.

Before I proceed further with its history, I will give, in a few words,

the brief, monotonous record of my life, since I was driven--driven is

the word you must use, Richard, haughty and sensitive though you may

be--from the friendship and presence of the Argylls, and from my

prospects of a long-cherished settlement in life. I made the visit to

my mother. She was shocked at the change in me, and grieved that I

withheld my confidence from her. But, I did not feel in a confiding

mood. The gentleness of my nature had been hardened; I was bitter,

sneering, skeptical; not from my own mother would I accept the sympathy

which my chilled heart seemed no longer to crave. Only one thing saved

me from utter loathing of humanity, and that was the memory of Mary's

face, as she had sought me at parting. In those sweet eyes were trust

and love; the tears which streamed down and fell upon her bosom, the

quiver of her lip, the sobs and fond words, attested to the sorrow with

which she had beheld my banishment.

Of course my mother was surprised to hear that I had left Blankville,

with no intention of returning to it; that the long-understood

partnership was not to be entered into. But, she did not press me for

explanations. She waited for me to tell her all, patiently; ministering

to my health and comfort, meanwhile, as a widowed mother will minister

to an only son--with a tenderness only less than that of heaven,

because it is yet, perforce, of earth.

Before I had been at home a fortnight, the unnatural tension of my mind

and nerves produced a sure result--a reäction took place, and I fell

sick. It was in the softer mood which came over me, as I was

convalescing from this illness, that I finally told my mother all the

dreadful story of the influences which had broken up my connection with

the Argylls. Her grief for me, her indignation against my enemy or

enemies, was what might have been expected. I could hardly restrain her

from starting at once for Blankville, to stand before her old friend,

the friend of my father, and accuse him, face to face, of the wrong he

had done her boy. But, out of this I persuaded her. I asked her if she

did not see that the wrong was irreparable? I could not forgive it. It

did not admit of being talked about; let the cloud drop between them

and us; our paths were henceforth apart. To this she finally yielded;

and, if there could have been any balm to my wounded pride and still

more deeply wounded affections, I should have found it in the enhanced,

touching, almost too-perfect tenderness with which my parent sought to

make up to me that which I had lost.

For a few weeks I abandoned myself to her healing attentions. Then I

set myself resolutely to find work both for hands and mind. My mother

was not without influential friends. As I have said, my fortunes were

somewhat nipped by my father's untimely death, but our family and

associations were among the best. We had a relative in power at

Washington. To him I applied for a clerkship, and received, in answer,

the situation I was filling, at the time when that dead-letter came so

strangely into my hands.

It may be thought improbable that I should abandon the profession for

which I had studied with so much zeal. But, the very memory of that

zeal, and of the hopes which had stimulated it, now gave me a dislike

to the law. I required both change of scene and of pursuits. The blow

dealt at my heart had stunned my ambition, also. To one of my

temperament, aspirations, acquisitiveness, all the minor passions and

pursuits of life are but steps leading up the hillside to the

rose-crowned summit, where love sits smiling under the eye of heaven.

And I, being for the time at least, blasted prematurely, was no more

myself, but was to myself like a stranger within my own sanctuary. I

went into the dead-letter office, and commenced my routine of breaking

seals and registering contents, as if I had been born for that

business. I was a rapid worker, quiet, and well-thought-of by my

associates, who deemed me a little cold and skeptical, a trifle

reserved, very steady for so young a fellow, and an efficient clerk who

thoroughly earned his salary. That was all they knew of Richard

Redfield. And in those days I did not know much more about myself. The

months had worn away, one after the other, with a dreary coldness. In

the summer I struggled through the suffocating dust; in the winter I

picked my way through the disgusting mud, to and fro, from my lodgings

to the office buildings; that was about all the change which the

seasons brought to me, whom once the smell of spring violets filled

with pungent delight, and the odor of June roses made happy as a god on

Olympus.

Half the night I sat brooding over that brief revelation, so precious

to me, yet so loathsome. The longer I pondered its words the less vivid

grew my hope of making any triumphant use of it for the detection of

the two guilty persons--the one who wrote it, and the one to whom it

was addressed. I might lay it before Mr. Argyll, but he might not feel,

as I did, that it had any connection with the murder, neither was there

anything to prove but that the missive might have been directed to

_me_. Indeed, Mr. Argyll might well inquire how I could pretend that it

should have reached me through the routine of the dead-letter

department, after all this stretch of time--very nearly two years!

This was a matter which puzzled me exceedingly. In the ordinary course

of affairs, it would, if not claimed, have been forwarded to Washington

three months after its reception at Peekskill, and have long ago been

consigned to the waste-basket and the flames. The hand of an overruling

Providence seemed to be moving the men in this terrible game. At that

hour I recognized it, and felt a solemn conviction that, sooner or

later, the murderer would be checkmated. It was this assurance, more

than any evidence contained in the letter, which gave me hope that it

would eventually be the instrument of punishment to the guilty. I

remembered the vow I had once made to my soul, never to rest in the

peace of my own pursuits, until I had dragged the slayer of the

innocent into the awful presence of Justice. That vow I had neglected

to fulfill to the uttermost, partly because of the injury which had

been done to my self-love, and also because the circumstance which had

attached suspicion to me, in the eyes of those interested, had made it

dangerous for me to move in a matter where all my motives were

misconstrued. But now that Fate had interposed in this singular manner,

in my behalf and in that of Truth, I took fresh courage. I was fully

startled from my apathy. That night I wrote my resignation to the

Department, gathered up my few effects again, and the next morning

found me on the way to New York.

My first purpose was to consult Mr. Burton. I had not seen him since

the day when we parted in Blankville; I only knew, by accident, that he

was still a resident of New York, having casually heard his name

mentioned in connection with a case which had brought some detectives

on to Washington only a few weeks previous.

I had never forgiven or understood the part he had played in that last

interview with the Argylls. I remembered the assurance he had given me

of friendship, but I did not believe that he had shown any friendship

for me, in that consultation with the relatives, or the results would

not have been so disastrous to me. Nevertheless, I felt a confidence in

him; he was the man for the emergency, and to him I would take the

letter. I thought it quite probable, that in the multiplicity of new

interests, the circumstances which had once brought us so much together

had faded from his mind, and that I should have to reawaken his

recollection of the details.

On the morning after my arrival in New York, I consulted the directory,

and finding that Mr. Burton still resided in Twenty-third street, I

called at the house at the earliest admissible hour.

While I was handing my card to the servant, his master came out of the

library at the end of the hall, and hastening forward, shook me

heartily by the hand. His joyous tones were better evidence of his

pleasure at seeing me, than even his words, which were cordial enough.

"I heard your voice, Richard," he said, "and did not wait for you to be

ushered in with the formalities. Welcome, my friend;" his expression

was as if he had said--"Welcome, my son."

He led me into the library, and placing me in an arm-chair, sat down

opposite me, looking at me with the well-remembered piercing shafts of

those steel-blue eyes. After inquiring about my health, etc., he said,

suddenly,

"You have news."

"You are right, Mr. Burton--else I should not have been here. I suppose

you are aware that I have been a clerk in the dead-letter office for

the last eighteen months?"

"I was aware of it. I never intended to let you slip out of the

numbered rosary of my friends, and lose you so entirely as not even to

know your whereabouts."

"Day before yesterday this letter arrived at the office, and I chanced

to be the clerk who opened it."

I handed him the missive. He examined the envelope attentively, before

unfolding the sheet within; and as he continued to hold it in his hand,

and gaze at it, one of those wonderful changes passed over his

countenance that I had remarked on some previous important occasions.

His practical intelligence seized upon the date, the post-office marks,

the hasty direction, and made the contents of the letter his own,

almost, before he read it. For some moments he pondered the outside,

then drew forth the letter, perused it with one swift glance, and sat

holding it, gazing at it, lost in thought, and evidently forgetful of

my presence. A stern pallor settled gradually over his usually placid

face; at last he looked up, and seeing me, recalled his surroundings to

his recollection.

"It is sad to be made to feel that such creatures live and flourish,"

he said, almost despondingly; "but," as his face brightened, "I can not

say how glad I am to get hold of this. It partially explains some

things which I have already found out. The chance which threw this

document into your hands was a marvelous one, Richard."

"However simple the explanation may prove to be, I shall always regard

it as Providential."

"All things are Providential," said my companion, "none less, and none

more so. Causes will have their effects. But now, as to the writer of

this--I am glad I have a specimen of the villain's handwriting; it will

enable me to know the writer when I see him."

"How so, Mr. Burton?"

"Because I have a very good picture of him, now, in my mind's eye. He

is about thirty years of age, rather short and broad-shouldered,

muscular; has dark complexion and black eyes; the third finger of his

right hand has been injured, so as to contract the muscles and leave it

useless. He has some education, which he has acquired by hard study

since he grew up to be his own master. His childhood was passed in

ignorance, in the midst of the worst associations; and his own nature

is almost utterly depraved. He is bad, from instinct, inheritance and

bringing-up; and now, our blessed Redeemer, himself, would hardly find

good enough in him to promise a hope of ultimate salvation. It is

curious that he should ever have seen fit to study, so as to acquire

even the smattering of knowledge which he has. He must have been led

into it by some powerful passion. If I could decide what that passion

was, I might have a key to unlock the gate into some other matters."

I stared at the speaker in astonishment as he rapidly pronounced the

above analysis of the personal appearance and character of the writer.

"Do you know him?" I asked.

"I do not know his _name_, and I have never met him. All the

acquaintance I have with him, I have made through the medium of his

chirography. It is sufficient for me; I can not mistake,"--then,

observing my puzzled and incredulous look, he smiled, as he added, "By

the way, Richard, you are not aware of my accomplishment in the art of

reading men and women from a specimen of their handwriting. It is one

of my greatest aids in the profession to which I have devoted myself.

The results I obtain sometimes astonish my friends. But, I assure you,

there is nothing marvelous in them. Patient study and unwearied

observation, with naturally quick perceptions, are the only witchcraft

I use. With moderate natural abilities, I assert that any other person

could equal me in this art (black art, some of my acquaintances regard

it,) by giving the same time to it that a musician would to master an

instrument."

"I do not know about that, Mr. Burton. I guess it would take a mind of

the singular composition of your own to make much out of an art with no

rules and no foundations."

"It has its rules, for me. But as proof is better than argument, show

me any letters or scraps of writing you may have about you. I would

like to satisfy you, before we proceed further, for I do not wish you

to feel that you are working with a crack-brained individual, who is

riding a hobby at your expense."

I emptied my inside coat-pocket of its contents, among which were

several letters--one from my mother, a note from my uncle in

Washington, an invitation from an old college-chum to attend his

wedding in Boston, and two or three business epistles from casual

acquaintances--one, I remember, an entreaty from a young man to get him

something to do in that magnetic center of all unemployed

particles--Washington. Of these, I revealed only to him the

superscription and signature, with, perhaps, some unimportant sentence,

which would, in no way, of itself, betray the characters or pursuits of

the writers. I need not describe my surprise when, in each instance, he

gave a careful and accurate description of the age, appearance, habits,

profession and mental qualities of the person whose handwriting he had

examined.

I could hardly credit my own senses; there must be some "_hocus-pocus_"

about it, as in the tricks which jugglers play with cards. But my

respect for the earnestness of my companion's pursuits, and the

indubitable nature of his proof, did not allow me to doubt any length

of time. I became a believer in _his facts_, and I give these facts to

my readers, at the risk of seeing the plain, sensible nose of the

majority turned up with an expression of skepticism, mortifying to me.

Mr. Burton's character is a real one, and the truth of his wonderful

achievements will become history.

The terrible interest of the subject which had brought us together did

not permit us to spend much time in these interesting but irrelevant

experiments. We discussed the past and present. Mr. Burton assured me

that he had never, for a day, lost sight of the case--that his interest

in it had deepened, rather than lessened; that he had not been idle

during all this long period; but that he had already gathered up a fact

or two of some importance, and had been on the point of sending for me,

once or twice. He had refrained, waiting for some lights to culminate,

and "now, he was glad enough to get hold of that letter."

He informed me that Leesy Sullivan was living quietly in the city,

subsisting mostly upon donations from himself, she being too far gone

with consumption to exert herself much with the needle. The child was

with her, healthy and pretty.

I made no inquiries after James Argyll, but he told me that the young

man came frequently to the city; that, for a while, he had seemed

dispirited, and gambled desperately, but that lately he was looking and

behaving better.

"It is my impression," added he, "that he is about to marry one of his

cousins--probably the youngest. And as to his bad habits, I caused him

to understand, indirectly, that if they were not reformed, he should be

convicted of them, before his uncle. This I did (after I became

convinced that he would marry one of the young ladies) out of

compassion to the family."

My head drooped on my hand. It was long since I had any tidings of the

Argylls--death could hardly have created a more barren space between

us. Yet, now that I heard the names of the girls mentioned, a flood of

old emotions broke over me, beneath which I struggled, half-suffocated.

Keen pain shot through my heart at the idea of Mary, that innocent,

most sweet and lovable girl, becoming the wife of James. I felt as if

it ought to be prevented, yet how could I interfere? Why should I wish

to? I recalled the hour when she had flown to me--had said, "_I_

believe in you, Richard; _I_ love you!" and I knew that I had put a

construction upon the tearful, passionate words of her last avowal,

which was, after all, not warranted. I had feared that she did really

love me, and that, in the last moment of sorrow and trouble, her

feelings had betrayed themselves to her own comprehension--and I had

felt a hope that it was not so. My own unanswered passion--my lonely,

unmated life--had taught me sympathy; and I was not so utterly selfish

as to have my personal vanity tickled with the idea that this young

creature loved me, who did not love her, except truly as a sister.

Yet now, when hearing that James had turned from Eleanor to her, I felt

a pang of pity--a wish that she might rather have loved me than him

whose cold, deceitful bosom could never be a safe shelter for a woman

as affectionate as Mary. With this regret I felt a triumph that Eleanor

had remained unassailable on the sublime and solitary hight of her

sorrow. It was what I expected of her. I gloried in her constancy to

the dead. I had loved her for this noble beauty of her nature, and

should have been disappointed had the test found her wanting in any of

the attributes with which my worship had invested her. She had done me

a wrong too cruel for me to complain about; but I would rather, still,

that she would wrong me than herself.

Lastly, Mr. Burton assured me that he had tidings of the

five-hundred-dollar bill which had been stolen from Mr. Argyll's desk.

This was, indeed, important, and I showed by my looks how deeply I was

absorbed in the particulars. That bill had come into the hands of

Wells, Fargo & Co., about six months after the robbery, having been

sold for specie to their agent in California, and forwarded to them

along with the other sums which they were constantly receiving. At

least, he had taken it for granted that it was the same bill, it being

one of the two which left the city of New York the week of the robbery;

the other he had traced to St. Louis, and ascertained that no possible

suspicious circumstances attached to it.

Wells, Fargo & Co. had given him every assistance in their power to

discover who had sold that bill to the California branch of their

house; but an answer had been returned from there that the person who

disposed of it was a stranger, on his way to the mining regions, whom

they had never seen before or since, and whose name they had not taken.

The clerk who transacted the brief business with him, had no distinct

recollection of him, except that he was rather a thick-set man, with an

unpleasant expression--doubtless one of the "hard cases" so frequent in

the precincts of San Francisco.

Of course, it was clear to us two, who sat in company with the

dead-letter, that the five-hundred-dollar bill was a part of the sum

referred to by the writer; that it had come out of Mr. Argyll's desk,

and that it was blood-money paid for a murder; and the receiver was

this person who, in the letter, so explicitly declared his intention of

fleeing to California. We were much excited in the presence of these

bold facts. In our enthusiasm, then, it seemed easy to stretch a hand

across the continent and lay it upon the guilty. We scarcely realized

the long and wearisome pursuit to which we were doomed--the slight clue

which we had to the individual whose deeds were yet so patent to us.

At this revelation of conspiracy, my mind eagerly searched about for

the accessory, and again settled itself upon Miss Sullivan. It did seem

to me that she had thrown a glamour over the usually clear sight of Mr.

Burton; so that I resolved to keep a separate watch which should not be

influenced by his decisions. While I was thinking of this, Mr. Burton

was walking about the floor. Suddenly he stopped before me and looked

into mine with those vivid eyes, so full of power, and said, as

confidently as if a vision had revealed it to him,

"I have now made out all the meaning of the letter. In the first place,

it is written '_by contraries_'--that is, it means just the contrary of

what it says. The contract _was_ fulfilled. The price was expected, the

emigration decided upon. The bright day was a rainy night; the picture

taken was a human life. And, don't you see it, Richard?--the old friend

was the hiding-place of the instrument of death, after which the

accomplice is directed to look. That instrument is the broken

tooth-pick. It was secreted in the pocket of the old friend. Now, who

or what is this old friend? Richard, didn't Leesy affirm she saw a man

descending from the old oak tree at the right of the Argyll mansion, on

the evening of the murder?"

"She did."

"Then _that_ is it. I want to know no more. The arms are the arms of

that old oak. Unless it has been removed, which is not probable, since

this letter was never received, the broken knife or dagger (of which I

have the point which was taken from the wound), will be found in some

hollow on the left side of that oak."

I gazed at him in astonishment; but he, unconscious of my wonder, sat

down, with a relieved, almost happy, expression.

CHAPTER II.

OUR VISITS.

So engrossed were we by our plans, which we were laboring to get into

shape, that we forgot the passing hours and the demands of appetite. It

was long past the lunch hour when a servant appeared to ask if he

should not bring in the tray, having waited in vain for the usual

summons. With its appearance Lenore came in, the same lovely,

sylph-like little creature, but looking rather less fragile than when I

saw her last. At the sight of me, her color went and came--one instant

she hesitated, then approached and gave me her hand, with a smile and

kiss. Her father had already told of her having made two or three

visits to the Argyll mansion within the time of my absence; and I

attributed her blushes, upon meeting me, to her frank heart accusing

her of the disparaging thoughts she had entertained of me. The subtle

influence of James had doubtless, without any necessity for putting the

idea into words, warned her against me as a bad man; but now as she

looked at me, she was sorry for what she had felt, and disposed to

renew her old friendship.

Before lunch was concluded, Mr. Burton fell into a reverie, which he

ended by saying,

"We must have the assistance of Lenore, if she can give us any."

I felt reluctant to see the child placed again in that unnatural

trance; but other considerations were even weightier than our fears for

the shock to her nervous system; and after she had chatted a while with

us, and had sung for me, Mr. Burton subjected her to the experiment. It

had been so long since he had exercised his power over her, that it

required a greater effort than on the former occasion which I

witnessed, to place her in the desired condition. He, however, finally

succeeded perfectly. The dead-letter was placed in her hands, when we

observed her shrink as if a serpent had glided over her lap; but she

did not throw it down, as she seemed moved to do.

"What do you see, Lenore?"

"It is too dark to see. A lamp shines across the walk, and I see a man

dropping the letter in the box. He is muffled up so that I can not tell

about his face; he steals up and goes off again very quickly."

"Follow him, Lenore."

"It is too dark, father. I am lost in the streets. Oh! now I have

overtaken him again; he walks so fast--he is short and thick--he looks

as if he were afraid of something. He will not pass the police-officer,

but crosses the street, and keeps in the shadow. Now we are at the

ferry--it is the Fulton Ferry--I know it well. Oh, dear! the water

rises and the wind blows--it is getting morning, but it rains so--and

the water is so wild I can not make my way on to the boat."

"Don't be discouraged, my child. I would give much to have you follow

him across the river, and tell me at what house he stops."

"The wind blows so," continued Lenore, pitifully; "all is dark and

uncertain. I have missed him--I do not know him from others."

"Try again, my darling. Look well at the letter."

"All is dark and uncertain," she repeated, in a vague tone.

"It is useless," exclaimed Mr. Burton, in a burst of disappointment;

"it has been too long since the letter was penned. The personality of

the writer has departed from it. If she had only been able to pursue

him to his haunts, our investigations in that vicinity might have

richly repaid us."

Finding it impossible to get any more information from the child, she

was relieved from her trance, stimulated with a glass of cordial, and

sent up to take a siesta before the hour for dinner. Scarcely had she

left the library before I sprung to my feet, exclaiming,

"Good heavens, how easy!--and here I have never thought of it."

"What is easy?"

"To ascertain who is the John Owen who calls for these letters at

Peekskill. Of course--why, what a fool I am!"

"I am afraid you will not find it so easy. People carrying on a

correspondence for such a purpose, do not come forward openly for their

letters--and this was a good while ago--and it is quite possible this

may be the only missive ever sent, through the mail, to that

address--and this, evidently, was never called for."

"At least, it is worth inquiring into," I added, less triumphantly.

"Of course it is. We wish, also, to ascertain how the letter came

dragging along to Washington two years, nearly, behind its time. I

propose that we start for Peekskill by the early morning train."

To wait, even until morning, seemed too tardy for my mood. But as it

was now four o'clock, and I had no right to ask the detective to resign

his dinner and evening comfort, I made no objection to the time. And,

in truth, the time sped more swiftly than I expected; we had still so

much to discuss. Dinner came--and the hour of retiring followed--before

we had matured our course of action. We were to go to Peekskill and

learn all possible about John Owen. If we gained no important

information there, we were to go on, in the evening, to Blankville, to

enter, under cover of the darkness, the lawn of the Argyll house, and

secure the broken knife or dagger, which, we believed, we should find

secreted in a certain oak upon the premises. This we wished to do

without the knowledge of the family, for two reasons: the smaller one

of which was, that I did not wish my visit to be made known, and the

larger, that we both were certain we could prosecute our plans more

successfully if the friends knew nothing of our efforts. Then, if we

still failed to discover the accomplice, we were to sail for California.

The reader may see that we were set upon the accomplishment of our

purposes by the willingness with which we gave time, money and mind to

our object. I had first proposed the visit to California, avowing my

intention to make it, when Mr. Burton had surprised me by offering to

be my companion. This was a sacrifice which I could not have asked or

expected of him; but he would not allow me to view it in that light,

saying, with pleasant peremptoriness, that Lenore needed a sea-voyage;

and he had been thinking of taking one on her account. He would make it

a pleasure-tour, as well as one of business, "and then," with a laugh

which would have been satirical if it had not been so frank--"he was

afraid my mission would not be so successful, if undertaken alone." And

I had answered him that I realized my own inefficiency, as compared

with his talent and experience--all I had to encourage me was the

devotion with which I undertook my work--to _that_, alone, I trusted to

insure me some reward. But if he really were willing to go with me, I

should feel almost elated.

We were at Peekskill the next day in good season. We found the same

postmaster in service who had been in the office at the time the

dead-letter arrived there. When Mr. Burton--I lounging carelessly in

the background--showed the envelope and inquired how it had occurred

that it had been forwarded to the Department at this late hour, the

official showed a little embarrassment, as inferring that he was about

to be taken to task for a neglect of duty by some indignant individual.

"I will tell you how it happened, Mr. Owen," said he, "if you're the

person addressed on that envelope. You never came for the letter, and

before the expiration of the time required by law for forwarding it to

Washington, it got slipped into a crack, and was never discovered till

about a fortnight ago. You see, our place here wasn't just the thing

for an office; it never did suit, and this month, I finally had new

boxes and shelves put in, and the room fixed up. In tearing down the

old fixings, several letters were discovered which had slipped into a

crack between the shelf and wall. This was one of them. I thought,

'better late than never,' though at first I had a mind to throw them

into the stove. I hope, sir, the loss of the letter hasn't put you to

any very great inconvenience?"

"It was of some importance," answered my companion, in a commonplace

tone, "and I'm not sorry, even yet, to have recovered it, as it settles

a matter I had been in doubt about. My man must have been very

negligent; I certainly sent him for the letter. Don't you remember a

young man, a coachman, coming for my letters?"

"He never came but twice, to my knowledge," answered the postmaster,

giving a glance of curiosity at the speaker. "I wondered who it was

they were for--not being any one that I knew--and I know mostly

everybody in the district. Traveling through our town, perhaps?"

"Yes, I was a stranger, who merely passed two or three times through

your village, stopping on business. My usual address is New York. That

coachman was hired at the next village to drive me about the country a

few days. I have nearly forgotten him. I would like to call him to an

account for some of his conduct which was not satisfactory. Can you

describe his personal appearance?--though, I suppose, you could not

have taken any particular notice of him."

"It was evening on both occasions of his calling. He was muffled up

about the lower part of the face, and his cap pulled down. I couldn't

tell you a thing about him, indeed, except that he had black eyes. If

I'm not mistaken, he had black or dark eyes. I think I remember of

their looking at me very sharp through the window here. But it was

evening, and I shouldn't mind the circumstance at all if I had not

wondered, at the time, who John Owen was. It's likely the fellow was a

rogue--he looked kind of slippery."

I, listening apart to the conversation, longed to ask if this muffled

driver was small and slender, for I was thinking of a woman. While I

was studying how to propose the question to Mr. Burton, he continued,

"A smallish fellow, if I remember rightly? I really wish I had his

name."

"Can't say any thing more about it," was the reply of the postmaster.

"I couldn't answer if he were large or small, white or black, except as

to his eyes, which were about all I saw of him. If you want to find out

about him, why don't you go to the livery-keeper who furnished your

team to you? Of course, his employer could tell you all you want to

know."

"That _would_ be the most sensible course," answered the detective,

with a laugh. "But, my good friend, it is considerably out of my way to

go to S--; and I must leave on the train up, in half an hour. After

all, the matter is not of so much importance. I had a curiosity to

learn what had kept the letter so long on its travels. Good-day, sir."

It never entered the official's thoughts to inquire how we came in

possession of a document which had not been returned from the

Dead-Letter Department--at least, not while we remained with

him--though he may afterward have puzzled his brains over the affair.

As we did not wish to arrive in Blankville until after dark, we had to

leave the cars once again, and to get off at a little intermediate

station, with half a dozen houses clustered about it; and here we

whiled away, as we best could, several tedious hours, whose dreariness

was only partially soothed by the influences of such a supper as could

be obtained in the small public-house attached to the depot.

As the sun drew toward setting and the night approached, a fierce

restlessness thrilled along my nerves. That peace--if the dullness and

sluggishness of my chilled feelings could be called peace--into which I

had forced myself for many months, was broken up. The mere fact of my

nearness to the spot which had once been so dear to me, overpowered me

with strong attractions; the force of habit and of memory was at work;

and when, at twilight, the train stopped and took us up, my mind ran on

before the iron-horse, and was at the end of the little journey before

the commencement. Upon arriving at Blankville, we descended the rear

car and walked up toward the village, without approaching the depot, as

I was afraid the lamps might betray me to some former acquaintance. It

was a mild evening, early in September, and I had no excuse for

muffling up; so I pulled my hat down over my eyes, quite sure that I

should escape recognition, in the dim moonlight, which, overblown by

light, thin clouds, transfused the western sky. We walked about, in

quiet parts of the village, until ten o'clock; and then, the moon

having set, we approached the Argyll mansion, along the well-remembered

street. I know not if my companion guessed my disturbance, as I passed

the office and came up in front of the lawn, black beneath the

starlight, with the shadows of its fine old trees. The past was not

half so dead as I had got in the habit of believing it--life is sweet

and strong in the heart of youth, which will endure many blows before

it will cease to beat with the tremulous thrill of hope and passion.

A bright light was shining from the windows of the parlor and several

of the other rooms, but the hall-door was closed, and every thing was

so quiet about the premises that I did not believe I ran any risk in

entering the gate and seeking out the monarch oak--a mighty tree, the

pride of the lawn, which stood quite to one side from the central

avenue which led up to the front portico, and only some thirty feet

from the left corner of the mansion, which was, at times, almost

touched by the reach of its outermost branches. We advanced together

through the darkness, it being the understanding that, should any

accident betray our visit, before its purpose was accomplished, I was

to retreat, while Mr. Burton would boldly approach and make the excuse

of a call upon Mr. Argyll. My familiarity with the premises and my

superiority in the art of climbing, made the duty of ascending the tree

devolve upon me. While my companion stood on guard beneath, I drew

myself up, carefully making my way through the night, out along to the

"second branch to the left," feeling for the hollow which I knew

existed--for, in my more boyish days, I had left no possible point of

the grand old tree unvisited. Not five minutes had elapsed since I

began my search, before my fingers, pressing into the ragged cavity of

the slowly-decaying limb, touched a cold object which I knew to be

steel. My hand recoiled with an instinctive shudder, but returned

immediately to its duty, cautiously drawing forth a slender instrument

of which I could not make out the precise character. Upon raising my

head, after securing the object of our anxiety, my eyes fell upon a

scene which held them fascinated for so long a time that the patience

of my friend at the foot of the tree must have been sorely tried.

The windows on the side of the parlor looking on the left were both

open, the chandeliers lighted, and from my airy eyrie in the tree, I

commanded a full view of the interior. For a time I saw but one person.

Sitting by a center-table, directly under the flood of light from the

chandelier, was one of the sisters, reading a book. At first--yes, for

a full minute--I thought it was Eleanor!--Eleanor as she was, when the

homage of my soul first went out toward her, like the exhalation of a

flower to the sun--as young, as blooming and radiant as she was before

the destroyer came--the dew upon the lip, the light on the brow, the

glory of health, youth and joy upon every feature and in every flow of

her garments, from the luster of her hair to the glimmer of her silken

slipper.

"Can it be?" I murmured. "Is there such power of resuscitation in human

vitality as this?"

While I asked myself the question, I was undecided. I saw (and wondered

how I could have been mistaken for an instant), that this beautiful

woman was Mary, grown so like her older sister, during the months of my

absence, as to be almost the counterpart of what Eleanor had been. When

I left her she was a girl, half-child, half-woman, bright with the

promise of rare sweetness; and now, in this brief summer-time of

fifteen months--so rapid had the magic culmination been--she had

expanded into the perfection of all that is loveliest in her sex. A

thoughtfulness, caused, probably, by the misfortune which had befallen

the house--a shadow from the cloud which wrapped her sister--toned down

the frolicsome gayety which had once characterized her, and added the

grace of sentiment to her demeanor. I could not gaze upon the fair,

meditative brow without perceiving that Mary had gained in depth of

feeling as well as in womanly beauty. She wore a dress of some lustrous

fabric, which gleamed slumberously in the yellow light, like water

shining about a lily; as she bent above her book, her hair clustered

about her throat, softening its exquisite outlines; so near, so vivid,

was the unconscious _tableau-vivant_, seen through the open frame of

the window, that I imagined I heard her breathe, and inhaled the

fragrance lingering in her curls and handkerchief.

While I gazed, another figure glided within range of my vision.

Eleanor, as I beheld her in my dreams, colorless, robed in black, young

still, beautiful still, but crowned, like a queen, with the majesty of

her desolation, which kept her apart from sympathy, though not from

adoration. Gliding behind her sister's chair, she bent a moment to see

what volume had such attractions, kissed the fair face turned instantly

with a smile to hers, and passed away, going out into the hall. I had

heard her low "good-night."

Then, almost before she had vanished, came the third figure into the

picture. James, approaching as if from some sofa where he had been

lounging, took the book from Mary's hand, which he held a little,

saying something which brought blushes to her cheeks. Presently she

withdrew her hand; but he caught it again, and kissed it, and I heard

him say,

"Oh! Mary, you are cruel with me--you know it."

Not until I heard him speak, did it rush upon me that I had no business

to be there, spying and eavesdropping. I had looked at first,

unconscious of the circumstances, like a wandering spirit lingering by

the walls of Eden, gazing upon the beauty which is not within its

sphere. No sooner did I realize my position than I began to descend

from my eyrie; but James had drawn his cousin from her chair, and the

pair approached the window, and stood there, their eyes fixed,

apparently, upon that very point in the giant oak where I crouched,

suddenly fear-blasted, with the square of light from the window

illuminating the limb where I lay concealed. I had crawled from my

first resting-place, and was about jumping to the ground, when their

presence transfixed me, in the most dangerous possible predicament. I

dared not move for fear of being discovered. I was paralyzed by a

lightning consciousness that should I then and there be betrayed, I

would be the victim of a singular combination of _circumstantial

evidence_. Found lingering at night, like a thief, upon the premises of

those I had injured; stealthily seeking to remove the evidence of my

guilt--the weapon with which the murder was committed, hidden by me, at

the time, in this tree, and now sought for in order to remove it from

possible discovery--why, I tell you, reader, had James Argyll sprung

upon me there, seized the knife, accused me, nothing would have saved

me from condemnation. The probabilities are, that the case would have

been so very conclusive, and the guilt so horribly aggravated, that the

populace would have taken the matter in their own hands, and torn me to

pieces, to show their love of justice. Even the testimony of Mr. Burton

would not have availed to turn the tide in my favor; he would have been

accused of seeking to hide my sin, and his reputation would not have

saved him from the ban of public opinion. A cold sweat broke over me as

I thought of it. Not the fear of death, nor of the horror of the

world--but dread of the judgment of the two sisters took possession of

me. If this statement of my critical position, when the trembling of a

bough might convict an innocent man, should make my reader more

thoughtful in the matter of circumstantial evidence, I shall be repaid

for the pangs which I then endured.

The young couple stepped out upon the sward. I did not trouble myself

about what had become of Mr. Burton, for I knew that he was in the

shadow, and could retreat with safety; he, doubtless, felt more anxiety

about me.

"Draw your scarf up over your head, Mary," said James, in that soft,

pleasant voice of his, which made me burn with dislike as I heard

it--"the night is so warm, it will not harm you to be out a few

moments. Do not deny me a little interval of happiness to-night."

As if drawn forward more by his subtle will than by her own wish, she

took his arm, and they walked back and forth, twice or thrice, in the

light of the window, and paused directly under the limb of the tree,

which seemed to shake with the throbbing of my heart. A beam of light

fell athwart the face of James, so that I could see its expression, as

he talked to the young creature on his arm--a handsome face, dark,

glowing with passion and determination, but sinister. I prayed, in my

heart, for Mary to have eyes to read it as I read it.

"Mary, you promised me an answer this week. Give it to me to-night. You

have said that you would be my wife--now, tell me how soon I may claim

you. I do not believe in long engagements; I want to make you mine

before any disaster comes between us."

"Did I promise you, James? I really did not know that you considered

what I said in the light of a promise. Indeed, I am so young, and we

have always been such friends--cousins, you know--that I hardly

understand my own feelings. I do wish you would not overpersuade me; we

might both be sorry. I never believed in the marriage of cousins; so I

do not think you ought to feel hurt, cousin James."

He interrupted the tremulous voice with one a little sharper than his

first persuasive tone:

"I am surprised that you do not feel that I regard you as already

betrothed to me. I did not think you were a coquette, Mary. And, as for

cousinship, I have already told you what I think of it. I know the

secret of your reluctance--shall I betray it to you?"

She was silent.

"Your heart is still set on that scoundrel. One might suppose that

dread and loathing would be the only sentiment you could entertain

toward a traitor and--I will not speak the word, Mary. You took up

swords in his defense, and persisted in accusing us of wronging him,

against the judgment of your own father and friends. I suspected, then,

by the warmth of your avowed friendship for him, that he had, among his

other _honorable_ deeds, gained my little cousin's heart, for the

pleasure of flattering his self-love. And I shall suspect, if you

persist in putting me off, when you know that your father desires our

union, and that my whole existence is wrapped up in you, that he still

holds it, despite of what has passed."

"He never 'gained' my heart by unfair means," said the girl, speaking

proudly. "I _gave_ him what he had of it--and he never knew how large a

part that was. I wish he _had_ known, poor Richard! for I still believe

that you are all wronging him cruelly. I am _his friend_, James, and it

hurts me to hear you speak so of him. But that would not prevent my

being your friend, too, cousin--"

[Illustration:

Page 223.

IN THE OAK.]

"You must not say 'cousin,' again, Mary. I'm worn out, now, and half

mad with my feelings--and it makes me desperate. One thing is certain:

I can not stay any longer where you are, if you continue so undecided.

I want a final answer to-night. If it is unpropitious, I shall go away

to-morrow, and seek for such poor fortune as may be mine, in some other

part of the world."

"But what will father do without you, James?"

There was distress and a half-yielding cadence in Mary's voice.

"That is for you to think of."

"His health is failing so rapidly of late; and he leans so much upon

you--trusts every thing to you. I am afraid it would kill him to have

all his hopes and plans again frustrated. He has never recovered from

the shock of Henry's death, and Richard's--going away."

"If you think so, Mary, why do you any longer hesitate? You acknowledge

that you love me as a cousin--let me teach you to love me as a lover.

My sweetest, it will make us all so happy."

But why should I try to repeat here the arguments which I heard?--the

main burden of which was the welfare and wishes of her father and

sister--mingled with bursts of tender entreaty--and, what was more

powerful than all, the exercise of that soft yet terrible will which

had worked its way, thus far, against all obstacles. Suffice it, that

when the cousins at last--after what seemed to me an age, though it

could not have been twenty minutes--returned through the window, I had

heard the promise of Mary to become the wife of James before the

beginning of another year.

Never was a man more glad to release himself from an unpleasant

predicament than I was to descend from my perch when the two figures

had passed within the house. My fear of discovery had become absorbed

in my keen shame and regret at being compelled to play the eavesdropper

to a conversation like that which I had overheard. Moving a few paces

in the shadow of the trees, I whispered--"Burton."

"Got yourself into a pretty scrape," was instantly answered, in a low

tone, as my friend took my arm and we moved forward to the gate. "I

didn't know but we should have a tragico-comedy upon the spot,

impromptu and highly interesting."

"I almost wonder that you are not too greatly out of patience with

waiting to jest about the matter."

"I've told you my motto--'learn to _wait_,' Richard. The gods will not

be hurried; but have you the knife?"

"Ay!" was my grim answer; I felt grim, as I grasped the treacherous,

murderous thing which had wrought such deadly mischief. The sound of

shutters drawn together startled us into a quicker pace; we looked back

and saw the lower part of the house dark--hurried forward, and without

any molestation, or our presence in Blankville being known to a single

acquaintance, took the night-train back to New York, which we reached

about two, A. M. and were at Mr. Burton's house, ringing up the

surprised servants, shortly after.

It was not until we were in the library, with the doors closed, and the

full blaze of a gas-burner turned on, that I took from my pocket the

weapon, and handed it to my companion.

Both of us bent curiously forward to examine it.

"This," said the detective, in a surprised and somewhat agitated tone,

"is a surgical instrument. You see, it is quite unlike a common knife.

It corroborates one of my conclusions. I told you the blow was dealt by

a practiced hand--it has been dealt by one skilled in anatomy. There's

another link in my chain. I hope I shall have patience until I shall

have forged it together about the guilty."

"There is no longer any doubt about the dead-letter referring to the

murder. You see the instrument is broken," I remarked.

"No doubt, indeed," and Mr. Burton went to a drawer of a secretary

standing in the room, and took out the little piece of steel which had

been found in Henry Moreland's body.

"You see it is the very fragment. I obtained this important bit of

evidence, and laid it away, after others had given up all efforts to

make it available. How fortunate that I preserved it! So, the wedding

is to take place within three months, is it? Richard, we must not rest

now. A great deal can be done in three months, and I would give all the

gold I have in bank to clear this matter up before that marriage takes

place. Should _that_ once be consummated before we are satisfied with

our investigations, I shall drop them for ever. A doctor--a doctor"--he

continued, musingly--"I knew the fellow had half-studied some

profession--he was a surgeon--yes! By George!" he exclaimed, presently,

leaping from his chair as if he had been shot, and walking rapidly

across the room and back.

I knew he was very much excited, for it was the first time I had heard

him use any expression like the above. I waited for him to tell me what

had flashed into his mind so suddenly.

"The fellow who married Leesy's cousin, and ran away from her, was a

doctor--Miss Sullivan has told me that. Richard, I begin to see

light!--day is breaking!"

I hardly knew whether his speech was figurative or literal, as day was

really breaking upon us two men, plotting there in the night, as if we

were the criminals instead of their relentless pursuers.

"Three months! There will be time, Richard!" and Mr. Burton actually

flung his arms about me, in a burst of exultation.

CHAPTER III.

THE CONFESSION.

In the afternoon we paid Miss Sullivan a visit. It was the first time I

had met her since that strange night of watching at Moreland villa; and

I confess that I could not meet her without an inward shudder of

abhorrence. Unbounded as was my respect and confidence for Mr. Burton,

I did think that he had erred in his conclusions as to the character of

this woman; or else that he concealed from me his real opinions, for

some purpose to be explained at the proper time. If he still had

suspicions, it was evident that he had kept them from their object as

skillfully as from me, for I saw, by her manner of receiving him, that

she regarded him as a friend.

Notwithstanding I had been informed of her rapidly-failing health, I

was shocked at the change in Miss Sullivan since I had seen her. It was

with an effort that she rose from her easy-chair at our approach; the

fullness had all wasted from her naturally queenly figure; her cheeks

were hollow, and aflame with the fire of fever; while those black eyes,

which had ever seemed to smolder above unfathomable depths of volcanic

passion, now almost blazed with light. Something like a smile flitted

across her face when she saw my companion, but smiles were too strange

there to feel at home, and it vanished as soon as seen. I do not think

she liked me any better than I did her; each recoiled from the other

instinctively; she would not have spoken to me had I come alone; but

out of concession to the presence of her friend, she bowed to me and

asked me to be seated. A little child in the room ran to Mr. Burton, as

if expecting the package of bon-bons which he took from his pocket;

but, as he became engaged in conversation with Leesy, I coaxed her over

to me, where she was soon sitting on my knee. She was a pretty little

girl, about three years old, in whose chubby little features I could no

longer trace any resemblance to her "aunt." She prattled after the

fashion of children, and in listening to her, I lost a remark or two of

Mr. Barton's; but soon had my attention aroused by hearing Miss

Sullivan exclaim,

"Going away! For how long?"

"Three months, at least."

Her hands sunk in her lap, and she became pale and agitated.

"It is presumptuous in me to dare to be sorry; I am nothing to you; but

you are much to me. I don't know how we shall get along without you."

"Don't be uneasy about that, my child. I shall make arrangements with

this same person who boards you now to keep you until my return, and,

if you should fall sick, to take good care of you."

"You are far too good," she responded, tremulously. "You will have the

blessing of the friendless. I only wish it had the power to bring you

good luck on your journey."

"Perhaps it will," he said, with a smile. "I have a great deal of faith

in such blessings. But, Leesy, I think you can assist my journey in

even a more tangible way than that."

She looked at him inquiringly.

"I want you to tell me all and every thing you know about the father of

little Nora."

"Why, sir?" she quickly asked. "I hope you have not heard from him,"

looking over toward the child, as if afraid it might be snatched from

her.

"Your health is very far gone, Leesy; I suppose you hardly hope ever to

recover it. Would you not be glad to see Nora under her father's

protection before you were taken away?"

She stretched out her arms for the child, who slid off my knee, ran and

climbed into her lap, where she held the curly head close to her bosom

for a moment; her attitude was as if she sheltered the little one from

threatened danger.

"I know, much more surely than any one else, that my days are numbered.

I believe I shall never see your face again, Mr. Burton; and that was

what grieved me when you spoke of going away--it was not that I thought

of my comfort so much. The winter snow will hide me before you come

back from your journey; and my darling will be left friendless. I know

it--it is my only care. But I would rather, far rather, leave her to

the cold charity of an orphan asylum--yes, I would rather turn her upon

the street, with her innocent face only for a protector--than that her

father should have aught to do with Nora."

"Why?"

"Because he is a bad man."

"I understand that he is in California; and as I am going to San

Francisco, and perhaps shall visit the mining regions before my return,

I thought you might wish to send him a message, telling him the child's

condition. He may have laid up money by this time, and be able to send

you a sum sufficient to provide for little Nora until she is old enough

to take care of herself."

She only shook her head, drawing the child closer, with a shudder.

"I have forgotten his name," said Mr. Burton.

"I will not tell you," answered Miss Sullivan, with a return of the old

fierceness, like that of a hunted panther. "Why can I never, never,

never be let alone?"

"Do you think I would do any thing for your injury or disadvantage?"

asked the detective in that gentle yet penetrating voice which had such

power to move people to his will.

"I do not know," she cried; "you have seemed to be my friend. But how

do I know that it is not all simply to compass my destruction at last?

You have brought into my house that person," looking at me, "who has

persecuted me. You promised me that I should be free from him. And now

you want to set a bloodhound on my track--as if I must be driven into

my grave, and not allowed to go in peace."

"I assure you, Leesy, I had no idea that you regarded Nora's father

with so much dislike. I have no object in the world in troubling you

with him. I promise you that no word of mine shall give him the clue to

your present circumstances, nor to the fact that he has a child living,

if he is ignorant of it. You shall be protected--you shall have peace

and comfort. What I would like is, that you shall give me a history of

his life, his habits, character, where he lived, what was his business,

etc.; and I will give you my reasons for wishing the information. A

circumstance has come to light which connects him with an affair which

I am investigating--that is, if he is the person I think he is--a sort

of a doctor, I believe?"

Miss Sullivan did not answer the question so skillfully put; she still

watched us with shining, half-sullen eyes, as if ready to put forth a

claw from the velvet, if we approached too near.

"Come, Leesy, you must tell me what I want to hear." Mr. Burton's air

was now that of a master. "Time is precious. I can not wait upon a

woman's whim. I have promised you--and repeat it, upon my honor--that

no annoyance or injury shall come to _you_ through what you may tell

me. If you prefer to answer me quietly to being compelled to answer

before a court, all is right. I _must_ know what I desire about this

man."

"_Man_, Mr. Burton! Call him creature."

"Very well, creature, Leesy. You know him better than I do, and if you

say he is a creature, I suppose I may take it for granted. His name

is--"

"Or was, George Thorley."

When the name was spoken, I gave a start which attracted the attention

of both my companions.

"You probably know something about him, Mr. Redfield," remarked the

girl.

"George Thorley, of Blankville, who used to have an apothecary shop in

the lower part of the village, and who left the place some three years

ago, to escape the talk occasioned by a suspicious case of malpractice,

in which he was reported to be concerned?"

"The same person, sir. Did you know him?"

"I can not say that I was acquainted with him. I do not remember that I

ever spoke a word with him. But I knew him, by sight, very well. He had

a face which made people look twice at him. I think I bought some

trifles in his shop once. And the gossip there was about him at the

time he ran away, fixed his name in my memory. I was almost a stranger

then in Blankville--had lived there only about a year."

"How did he come to have any connection with your family, Leesy?"

Miss Sullivan had grown pale during the agitation of our talk, but she

flushed again at the question, hesitated, and finally, looking the

detective full in the eyes, answered:

"Since you have promised, upon your honor, not to disturb me any

further about this matter, and since I am under obligations to you,

sir, which I can not forget, I will tell you the rest of the story, a

part of which I told you that morning at Moreland villa. I confessed to

you, there, the secret of my own heart, as I never confessed it to any

but God, and I told you something of my cousin's history to satisfy you

about the child. I will now tell you all I know of George Thorley,

which is more than I wish I knew. The first time I ever saw him was

over four years ago, a short time after he set up his little shop,

which, you recollect, was not far from my aunt's in Blankville. My aunt

sent me, one evening, for something to relieve the toothache, and I

went into the nearest place, which was the new one. There was no one in

but the owner. I was surprised by the great politeness with which he

treated me, and the interest he seemed to take in the case of my aunt.

He was a long time putting up the medicine, pasting the label on, and

making change, so that I thought my aunt would surely be out of temper

before I could bring her the drops. He asked our name, and where we

lived, which was all, I thought, but a bit of his blarney, to get the

good will of his customers." (Miss Sullivan usually spoke with great

propriety, but occasionally a touch of her mother's country, in accent

or expression, betrayed her Irish origin.) "That was the beginning of

our acquaintance, but not the end of it. It was but a few days before

he made an excuse to call at our house. I was a young girl, then, gay

and healthy; and the plain truth of it is that George Thorley fell in

love with me. My aunt was very much flattered, telling me I would be a

fool not to encourage him--that he was a doctor and a gentleman--and

would keep his wife like a lady--that there would be no more going out

to sew and slave for others, if I were once married to him; it was only

what she expected of me, that I would at least be a doctor's wife,

after the schooling she had given me, and with the good looks I had. It

is no vanity in me, now, to say of this clay, so soon to be mingled

with the dust of the earth, that it was beautiful--too much so, alas,

for my own peace of mind--for it made me despise the humble and honest

suitors who might have secured me a lowly, happy life. Yet it was not

that, either, and I'll not demean myself to say so--it was not because

I was handsome that I held myself aloof from those in my own station;

it was because I felt that I had thoughts and tastes they could not

understand--that my life was above theirs in hope, in aspiration. I was

ambitious, but only to develop the best that was in me. If I could only

be a needle-woman all my days, then I would be so skillful and so

fanciful with my work, as almost to paint pictures with my needle and

thread. But this isn't telling you about George Thorley. From the first

I took a dislike to him. I'm not good at reading character, but I

understood his pretty thoroughly, and I was afraid of him. I was very

cold to him, for I saw that he was of a quick temper, and I did not

mean he should say that I had ever encouraged him. I told my aunt I did

not think he was a gentleman--I had seen plenty of real gentlemen in

the houses where I sewed, and they were not like him. I told her, too,

that he had a violent temper, and a jealous disposition, and could not

make any woman happy. But she would not think of him in that light; her

heart was set on the apothecary's shop, which, she said, would grow

into a fine drug-store with the doctor's name in gilt letters on the

door of his office.

"George soon offered himself, and was terribly angry when I refused

him. I believe he loved me, in his selfish way, better than he loved

any other human creature. He would not give me up, nor allow me any

peace from his persecutions. He dogged my steps whenever I went out,

and if I spoke to any other man, it put him in a rage. I got to feeling

that I was watched all the time; for sometimes he would laugh in his

hateful way, and tell me of things he had seen when I thought him miles

away.

"Twice, in particular, I remember of his being in a savage passion, and

threatening me. It was after"--here the speaker's voice, despite of her

efforts to keep it steady, trembled and sunk--"he had seen me riding

out in the carriage with Mrs. Moreland. He said those people were

making a fool of me--that I was so set up, by their attentions, as to

despise him. I told him that if I despised him, it was not for any such

reason. It was because he behaved so ungentlemanly toward me, spying

around me, when he had no business whatever with my affairs. That made

him madder than ever, and he muttered words which I did not like. I

told him I was not afraid of any mortal thing, and I didn't think he

would frighten me into marrying him. He said he would scare me yet, so

that I would never get over it. I think he liked the spirit I showed;

it seemed the more I tried to make him hate me, the more determined he

was to pursue me. I don't know how it was that I understood him so

well, for in those days there had been nothing whispered against his

character. Indeed, people didn't know much about him; and he got

himself into the good graces of some of the leading citizens of

Blankville. He had told me something of his history; that is, that his

family were English; that he, like myself, was an orphan; that, by dint

of good luck, he had got a place in a doctor's office in one of the

towns in this State--one of those humble situations where he was

expected to take care of the physician's horse, drive the carriage, put

up medicines, attend upon orders, and any thing and every thing. He was

smart and quick; he had many hours of leisure when waiting behind the

little counter, and these hours he spent in studying the doctor's

books, which he managed to get hold of one at a time. By these means,

and by observing keenly the physician's methods, his advice to patients

who called at the office, and by reading and putting up prescriptions

constantly, he picked up a really surprising smattering of science.

Making up his mind to be a doctor, and to keep a drug-store (a

profitable business, he knew) he had the energy to carry out his plans.

How he finally obtained the capital to set up the little business in

Blankville, I never understood, but I knew that he attended lectures on

surgery, one winter, in New York, and was in a hospital there a short

time. All this was fair enough, and proved him ambitious and energetic;

but I did not like or trust him. There was something dark and hidden in

the workings of his mind, from which I shrunk. I knew him, too, to be

cruel. I could see it in his manner of treating children and animals;

there was nothing he liked so well as to practice his half-learned art

of surgery upon some unfortunate sufferer. The more he insisted on my

liking him, the more I grew to dread him.

"Affairs were at this crisis when my cousin came from New York to pay

my aunt a visit. Coming to our rooms almost every evening, of course he

made her acquaintance immediately. For the purpose of making me

jealous, he began to pay the most devoted attention to her. Nora was a

pretty girl, with blue eyes and fair hair; an innocent-minded thing,

not very sharp, apprenticed to a milliner in the city; she believed all

that _Doctor_ Thorley told her, and fell in love with him, of course.

When she went away, after her little holiday, George found that,

instead of provoking me to jealousy, he had only roused my temper at

the way he had fooled Nora. I scolded him well for it, and ended by

telling him that I never would speak to him again.

"Well, it was just after that the scandal arose about his causing the

death of a person by malpractice. He found it was prudent to run away;

so he sold his stock for what he could get, and hid himself in New

York. I did not know, at first, where he was; but felt so relieved to

be rid of him. I had made up my own mind to go to New York, and get

employment in a fancy-store. You know, Mr. Burton, for I once laid my

heart before you, what wild, mad, but sinless infatuation it was which

drew me there. I am not ashamed of it. God is love. When I stand in his

presence, I shall glory in that power of love, which in this bleak

world has only fretted and wasted my life. In heaven our whole lives

will be one adoration." She clasped her thin hands together, and turned

her dark eyes upward with an expression rapt to sublimity. I gazed upon

her with renewed surprise and almost reverence. Never do I expect to

meet another woman, the whole conformation of whose mind and heart so

fitted her for blind, absolute devotion as Leesy Sullivan's.

"When I went to the city to see about getting a place, I met my cousin,

who told me that she was married to George Thorley, and had been for

some weeks; that they were boarding in a nice, quiet place, and that

George staid at home a great deal--indeed, he hardly went out at all.

"It was evident that she had not heard of his reasons for leaving

Blankville, and that she did not guess why he kept himself so quiet. Of

course I hadn't the heart to tell her; but I made up my mind that I'd

be better to stay where I was, for the present--so I went back to my

aunt, without trying to get a situation in New York.

"It was about six months after this I got word from Nora, begging me to

come and see her. I loved my cousin, and I'd felt grieved that she was

married to Dr. Thorley. I mistrusted something was wrong; so I went to

the city, and found her out in the miserable tenement where she was now

stopping, starving herself in a room with hardly a bit of furniture.

She burst out a-crying when she saw me; and when I stopped her sobbing,

she told me she had not seen George for more than three months; that

either he had met with an accident, or he'd run away from her, leaving

her without a cent of money, and she in such health that she could

hardly earn enough to buy a bit of bread and pay the rent of this room.

"'Do you really think he has left you?' I asked her.

"'Sure, how can I tell?' she answered, looking at me so pitifully with

her innocent blue eyes. 'He was a fine gentleman, and it's afraid I am

that he's grown tired of his poor Irish Nora.'

"'I warned you, cousin,' I said; 'I knew George Thorley for a villain;

but you were taken with his fine words, and wouldn't heed. I'm sorry,

sorry, sorry for you--but that won't undo what's done. Are you sure you

are his wife, Nora dear?'

"'As sure as I am of heaven,' she cried, angry with me. 'But it's

married we were by a Protestant clergyman, to please George--and I've

got my certificate safe--ah, yes, indeed.'

"I could never ascertain whether the ceremony had been performed by a

legalized minister; I always suspected my poor cousin had been

deceived, and it was because my aunt thought so, too, and was sore on

the subject, that she got so angry with you two gentlemen when you went

to inquire. But, whether my suspicions were or were not correct, Nora

was George's wife as certainly, in the sight of the angels, as woman

was ever the wife of man. Poor child! I no longer hesitated about

coming to New York. She needed my protection, and my help, too. I paid

her board till the day of her death, which was but a few days after her

poor little baby was born; I saw her decently buried, and then I put

out the infant to nurse, and I worked to keep that. It was a comfort to

me, sir. My own heart was sad, and I took to the little creature almost

as if it was my own. I had promised Nora that I would bring it up, and

I have kept my word, thus far. I hated its father for the way he'd

treated Nora, but I loved the child; I took pleasure in making its

pretty garments and in seeing that it was well taken care of. I knew I

should never marry; and I adopted Nora's child as my own.

"Hardly was poor Nora cold in her grave when I was, one evening,

surprised by a visit from George Thorley. Where he had been during his

absence I did not know. He tried to excuse his conduct toward my

cousin, by saying that he had married her in a fit of jealousy, to

which I'd driven him by my coldness; that he'd been so tormented in

mind he couldn't stay with her, for he didn't love her, and he'd gone

out West, and been hard at work, to try and forget the past. But he

couldn't forget it; and when he saw his wife's death in the papers, he

had felt awfully; but now he hoped I'd forgive it all, and marry him.

He said he had a good business started in Cincinnati, and I should want

for nothing, and I _mustn't_ say no to him again. I stood up, I was so

indignant, and faced him till he grew as white as a sheet. I called him

a _murderer_--yes, Nora's murderer--and ordered him never to speak to

me nor come near me again. I knew he was terribly angry; his eyes

burned like fire; but he did not say much that time; as he took up his

hat to go, he asked about his baby--if it was living? I would not

answer him. He had no right to the child, and I did not wish him to see

it, or have any thing to do with it.

"What became of him, after that, for a long time, I don't know. He may

have been in the city all the time, or he may have been in Cincinnati.

At any rate, one day, as I was going from my boarding-house to the

store, I found him walking along by my side. Nora was nigh a year old

then. He commenced talking to me on the street, asking me again to

marry him; and then, to frighten me, he said what a pretty baby Nora

had got to be; and that he should have to find a wife to take care of

his child. She was his, and he was going to have her, right away; and

if I had any interest in her, I could show it by becoming her

step-mother. He said he had plenty of money, and pulled out a handful

of gold and showed me. But this only made me think the worse of him. He

followed me home, and into my room, against my will, and there I turned

upon him and told him that if he ever dared to force himself into my

presence again, I would summon the police, and he should be turned over

to the Blankville authorities for the crime that had driven him out of

the village.

"After he was gone, I sunk into a chair, trembling with weakness,

though I had been so bold in his presence. He looked like an evil

spirit, when he smiled at me as he shut the door. His smile was more

threatening than any scowl would have been. I was frightened for Nora.

Every day I expected to hear that the little creature had been taken

from her nurse; I trembled night and day; but nothing happened to the

child, and from that day to this I have not seen George Thorley. If he

is in California, I am glad of it; for that is a good ways off, and

perhaps he'll never get track of his daughter. I'd far rather she'd die

and be buried with her mother and myself, than to live to ever know

that she had such a father.

"It seems a strange lot has been mine," concluded the sewing-girl, her

dark eyes musing with a far-away look, "to have been followed by such a

man as that, to have set my heart so high above me, and then to have

fallen, by means of that love, into such a dreadful pit of

circumstances--not only to be heart-broken, but so driven and hunted

about the world, with my poor little lambkin here."

The pathetic look and tone with which she said this touched me deeply.

For the first time, I felt fully the exceeding cruelty I had been

guilty of toward her, if she were as innocent as her words averred of

that nameless and awful crime which I had written down against her. At

that moment, I did believe her innocent; I did pity her for her own

melancholy sufferings, which had wasted the fountains of her life; and

I did respect her for that humble and perfect devotion, giving all and

asking nothing, with which she lavished her soul upon him whose memory

called upon his friends for sleepless vigilance in behalf of justice. I

did not wonder that she shrunk from me as from one ready to wound her.

But this was only when in her presence; as soon as I was away I felt

doubtful again.

"Have you any likeness of George Thorley?" asked Mr. Burton.

"No. Poor Nora had his ambrotype, but after her death I threw it into

the fire."

"Will you describe him to us?"

Miss Sullivan gave a description corresponding in all particulars with

that given by Mr. Burton, after reading the dead-letter; he asked her

about the third finger of the right hand, and she said--"Yes, it had

been injured by himself, in some of his surgical experiments."

We now proposed to take leave, the detective again assuring Leesy that

he should rather protect her against Thorley than allow him any chance

to annoy her; he assured her she should be cared for in his absence,

and, what was more, that if little Nora should be left friendless, he

would keep an eye on the child and see that it was suitably brought up.

This last assurance brightened the face of the consumptive with smiles

and tears; but when he gave her his hand at parting, she burst into

sobs.

"It is our last meeting, sir."

"Try to keep as well as you are now until I come back," he said,

cheerfully. "I may want you very much then. And, by the way, Leesy--one

question more. You once told me that you did not recognize the person

you saw upon the lawn, at Mr. Argyll's, that night--have you a

suspicion who it might be?"

"None. I believe the man was a stranger to me. I only saw him by a

flash of lightning at the instant he was descending from the tree; if

he had been an acquaintance I do not know that I should have known him."

"That is all. Good-by, little Nora. Don't forget Burton."

We heard the girl's sobs after the door was shut.

"I'm her only friend," said my companion, as he walked away. "No wonder

she is moved at letting me go. I think, with her, that it is doubtful

if she lasts until we get back. Still, her disease is a lingering

one--I hope I shall see her live to witness the sad triumph of our

industry."

"You speak as if the triumph were already secured."

"If he's on the face of the earth, we'll find Doctor George Thorley. It

is no longer possible that we should be on the wrong track. You know,

Richard, that I have not confided all my secrets to you. There will be

no one more astonished than yourself when I summon my witnesses and sum

up my conclusions. Oh, that the hour were come! But I forget my

motto--'learn to labor and to wait.'"

CHAPTER IV.

EMBARKED FOR CALIFORNIA.

We were on our way to California by the next steamer. By the advice of

Mr. Burton I purchased my ticket under an assumed name, for he did not

wish to excite the curiosity of the Argylls, who might happen to see

the passage-list, and who would be sure to suspect something from the

contiguity of our names. To his friends, who chanced to know of his

sudden intentions, Mr. Burton represented that the health of his

daughter demanded a change of climate, and business matters had led him

to prefer California.

It was fortunate, since the expenses of such a trip had become so

unexpected a necessity, that I had lived in the plain, retiring manner

which I had done in Washington. I had wasted no money on white kids,

bouquets, nor champagne-suppers; I had paid my board and washing-bills,

and a very moderate bill to my tailor; the rest of my salary had been

placed in a New York bank to my account. My scorched soul and withered

tastes had demanded no luxurious gratification--not even the purchase

of new books; so that now, when this sudden demand arose, I had a fund

sufficient for the purpose. Mr. Burton bore his own expenses, which,

indeed, I could not help, for I had not the means of urging a different

course upon him.

We had a very definite object, but no definite plans; these were to be

formed according to the circumstances we had to encounter after our

arrival in El Dorado. Of course our man was living under an assumed

name, and had traveled under an assumed one; we might have every

difficulty in getting upon his track. At the time the detective had

discovered the return of the five-hundred dollar bill from San

Francisco, he had, with great perseverance, gained access to, and "made

a note of" the passengers' lists of all the steamers which sailed at or

about the time of the murder, for California. These he had preserved.

Out of the names, he had chosen those which his curious sagacity

suggested were the most likely to prove fictitious, and, if no quicker

method presented itself, he intended to trace out one and all of those

passengers, until he came upon _the man_. In all this I was his

assistant, willing to carry out his directions, but trusting the whole

affair to his more experienced hand.

During the long, monotonous days of our voyage, I seemed to have

"Suffered a sea-change"

into something quite different from the wooden sort of being into which

I had gradually been hardening. With the dull routine of my office-life

were broken up also many of the cynical ways of thinking into which I

had fallen. I felt as if the springs of youth were not quite dried up.

The real secret of this improvement was in the eager hope I entertained

that the real criminals were soon to be brought to light, and the

Argylls made to realize the cruel wrong they had done me. Already, in

imagination, I had accepted their regret and forgiven them their

injustice. It seemed as if every breath of the sea-breeze, and every

bound of the sparkling waves, swept away a portion of the bitterness

which had mingled with my nature. The old poetry of existence began to

warm my chilled pulses and to flush the morning and evening sky. For

hours most melancholy, yet most delicious, I would climb to some lonely

post of observation--for I was a perfect sailor among the ropes--and

there, where the blue of heaven bent down to meet the blue of the

ocean, making an azure round in which floated only the ethereal clouds,

all the sweetness of the past would come floating to me in fragments,

like the odor of flowers blown from some beloved and distant shore.

The most vivid picture in my sea-dreams, was that of the parlor of the

old Argyll mansion, as I had seen it last, on the night of my excursion

to the oak-tree. Mary, in the rosy bloom of young womanhood, the ideal

of beauty to the eye of a young and appreciative man, whose standard of

female perfection was high, while his sensitiveness to its charm was

intense--Mary, reading her book beneath the rich light of the

chandelier--I loved to recall the vision, except always that it was

marred by that shadow of James coming too soon between me and the

light. But that flitting vision of Eleanor was as if a saint had looked

down at me out of its shrine. I saw, then, that she was no longer of

this world, as far as her hopes were concerned. My once strong passion

had been slowly changing into reverence; I had grieved with her with a

grief utterly self-abnegating, and when I saw that her despair had

worked itself up to a patient and aspiring resignation, I now felt less

of pity and more of affectionate reverence. I would have sacrificed my

life for her peace of heart; but I no longer thought of Eleanor Argyll

as of a woman to be approached by the loves of this world. Still, as I

mused in my sea-reveries, I believed myself to have exhausted my wealth

of feeling upon this now dead and hallowed love. I had given my first

offering at the feet of a woman, peerless amid her compeers, and since

she had chosen before me, I must needs live solitary, too honored by

having worshiped a woman like Eleanor, to ever be satisfied with a

second choice. For Mary I felt a keen admiration, and a brother's

fondest love. The noble words she had spoken in my favor had thrilled

me with gratitude, and increased the tenderness I had always cherished

toward her. When I thought of her approaching marriage, it was not with

jealousy, but with a certain indefinable pang which came of my dislike

to the motives and character of James. I did not believe that he loved

her. Eleanor he _had_ loved; but Mary was to him only the necessary

means of securing the name, property, respectability, etc., of his

uncle's family. As I recalled that visit to the gaming-table, I felt,

at times, as if I _must_ get back from this journey in time to

interfere, and break up the marriage. I would run the risk of being

again treated as before--of being misunderstood and insulted--I would

run _any_ risk to save her from the unhappiness which must come from

such a partnership! So I thought one hour, and the next I would

persuade myself that I could not and must not make such a fool of

myself; and that, after all, when once "married and settled," James

might make a very good husband and citizen.

Little Lenore was the light and glory of the steamer. People almost

fancied that, with such a good angel aboard, no harm could come to the

ship. And indeed we had a speedy, prosperous voyage.

Yet it was tedious to Mr. Burton. I had never seen him so restless. I

used to tell him that he made the hours a great deal longer by counting

them so often. It was evident that he had some anxiety which he did not

share with me. A feverish dread of delays was upon him.