After we had crossed the isthmus, and were fairly embarked on the

Pacific, his restlessness abated. Yet it was just then that a small

delay occurred, which threatened to irritate him into new impatience.

It was found that the captain had taken on board quite a company of

passengers whom he had promised to land at Acapulco. It was a

beautiful, sunny day early in October, that our ship steamed into the

little bay. Nearly all the passengers were on deck, to take a look at

the country and harbor as we approached. I was upon the hurricane-deck

with Lenore, who was delighted with the warm air and green shores, and

whose hair streamed on the fresh yet delicious breeze like a golden

banner. She observed the distant mountains, the sunny haze, the

glimmering water of the bay, with all the intelligence of a woman;

while I could not but be more pleased with the roses blowing on her

cheeks and the trick the wind was playing with her hair, than with all

the scenery about us. The child's attendant, a steady, careful matron,

who had long had the charge of her, was likewise on deck, chatting with

some of her new acquaintances, and she could not refrain from coming to

us, presently, on the pretext of wrapping Lenore's shawl closer about

her.

"Do look at her, Mr. Redfield," said the good woman, "did you ever see

her looking so bright and healthy, sir? The master was right, sure

enough--it was a sea-voyage she needed, above all things. Her cheeks

are like pinies, and, if I do say it, who shouldn't, it's the opinion

of the company that you're the best-lookin' couple on the decks. I've

heard more'n one speak of it this past half-hour."

"That's half true, anyhow," I answered, laughing, and looking at

Lenore, whose modest, quiet mind was never on the alert for

compliments. She laughed because I did, but remained just as

unconscious of her pretty looks as hitherto.

"There's papa coming," she said; "something has happened to him."

With her marvelous quick discernment, so like her father's, she

perceived, before I did, that he was excited, although endeavoring to

appear more calm than he really felt.

"Well, Richard, Lenore," he began, drawing us a little apart from the

others, speaking in a low voice, "what do you say to my leaving you?"

"Leaving us!" we both very naturally exclaimed.

"It would be rather sudden, that is true."

"Where would you go? Walk off on the water, or betake yourself to the

valleys and mountains of Mexico?"

"There's no jest about it, Richard. Information, which has come to me

in the strangest, most unexpected manner, renders it imperative that I

should stop at Acapulco. I am as much surprised as you are. I have not

even time to tell you the story; in twenty minutes the ship will begin

to send off her passengers in a small-boat; and if I decide to remain

here, I must go to my state-room for some of my clothes."

"Are you in earnest, father?" asked Lenore, ready to cry.

"Yes, my darling. I am afraid I must let you go on to San Francisco

without me; but you will have Marie, and Richard will take as good care

of you as I would. I want you to enjoy yourselves, to have no cares, to

take the second return steamer, which will give you a fortnight in San

Francisco, and _I will meet you at the isthmus_. As you will have

nothing to do, after your arrival, I will advise you to explore the

country, ride out every pleasant day, etc. The time will soon pass, and

in five weeks, God willing, we shall meet and be happy, my dear little

girl. Run, run to Marie, and tell her what I am to do; she will come

and get my orders."

Lenore moved away, rather reluctantly, and Mr. Burton continued to

myself, who was standing silent from mere stupidity of astonishment:

"By the merest chance in the world I overheard a conversation between

the people about to land, which convinces me that George Thorley,

instead of being in California, is not thirty miles from Acapulco. If I

were not positive of it, I should not run the risk of experiment, now,

when time is worth every thing. But I am so certain of it, that I do

not see as there is any thing for you to do in San Francisco but to

help little Lenore pass the time pleasantly. I have thought, as calmly

as I could under the pressure of much haste, whether you had better

stop with me, and await, at some hotel in Acapulco, the result of my

visit into the interior, or go on to the end of your journey, and

returning, meet me at the isthmus. On the child's account, I think you

had better finish the voyage as expected. The sea-air is benefiting her

greatly; and, unless you fret too much, there is nothing to prevent

your enjoying the trip."

"I shall do just as you advise, Mr. Burton; but, of course, I shall be

intolerably anxious. For my own part, I would rather keep with you; but

that must be done which is best for all."

"You could do me no good by remaining with me; the only thing to be

gained is, that you would be out of your suspense sooner. But, I assure

you, you ought to rejoice and feel light-hearted in view of so soon

learning the one fact most important to us--the hiding-place of that

man. Think you I would wish delay? No. I'm sure of my man, or I should

not take this unexpected step. How curious are the ways of Providence!

It seems as if I received help outside of myself. I was vexed to hear

that we were to be delayed at Acapulco, and now this has proven our

salvation."

"God grant you are in the right, Mr. Burton."

"God grant it. Do not fear that I shall fail, Richard. You have reason

to be doubly cheerful. Don't you trust me?"

"As much--more, than any person on earth."

"Be true to your part, then; take good care of my child--meet me at the

isthmus--that is your whole duty."

"But, Mr. Burton, do you not place yourself in danger? Are you not

incurring risks which you ought to share with others? Can I go on, idle

and prosperous, leaving you to do all the work, and brave all the

dangers of a journey like yours?"

"I wish it. There may be a little personal risk; but not more, perhaps,

than I incur every day of my life. Perhaps you do not know," he added,

gayly, "that I lead a charmed life. Malice and revenge have followed me

in a hundred disguises--six times I have escaped poisoned food prepared

for me; several times, infernal machines, packed to resemble elegant

presents, have been sent to me; thrice I have turned upon the assassin,

whose arm was raised to strike--but I have come unscathed out of all

danger, to quietly pursue the path to which a vivid sense of duty calls

me. I do not believe that I am going to fail in this, one of the most

atrocious cases in which I have ever interested myself. No, no,

Richard; I enjoy the work--the sense of danger adds to its importance.

I would not have it otherwise. As I said, God willing, I will meet you

at the isthmus. If I do not keep my appointment, _then_ you may know

that harm has come to me; and, after providing for the safe passage

home of my little family, you may, if you please, come back to look

after the threads of the history which I have dropped. The steamer has

cast anchor; I must get my luggage in shape to go ashore."

He turned away; but presently paused and returned, with an air of

perplexity.

"There _will_ be something for you to do, Richard. I had forgotten

about that five-hundred-dollar bill, which certainly went to California

within a short time after the robbery. If I should be mistaken, after

all--but no! my information is too conclusive--I _must_ take the

course, now, and if I am on the wrong track, it will be a bad business.

However, I will not allow myself to think so," he added, brightening

again; "but it will do no harm for you to take a lesson in my art, by

exercising your skill in tracing the fortunes of that bank-note. In

doing that, you may come upon evidence which, if I fail here, may be

turned to use."

With a foreboding of evil I looked after him as he descended the ladder

to the lower deck--form, face and manner expressing the indomitable

energy which made him the man he was.

When the sun sunk, that night, into the molten waves of the Pacific,

Lenore and I paced the deck alone; and as she quietly wiped away the

tears which fell at the sense almost of desertion which her father's

sudden departure caused, I could hardly cheer her, as he had bidden me;

for I, too, felt the melancholy isolation of our position--voyaging to

a strange land in the wake of an awful mystery.

CHAPTER V.

ON THE TRAIL.

I need not dwell at much length upon our visit to San Francisco, since

nothing important to the success of our enterprise came of it. From the

hour we entered the Golden Gate till we departed through it, I was

restless with a solicitude which made me nervous and sleepless,

destroyed my appetite, and blinded me to half the novelties of San

Francisco, with its unparalleled growth and hybrid civilization. I gave

the most of my time to two objects--looking, by night, into all the

bad, popular, or out-of-the-way dens, haunts, saloons, theaters and

hotels, scanning every one of the thousands of strange faces, for that

one sinister countenance, which I felt that I could know at a

glance--and in the endeavor to identify the man who had disposed of the

Park Bank bill to the Express Company.

I was rewarded, for days of research, by ascertaining, finally, and

beyond doubt, that a gentleman of respectability, a Spaniard, still

residing in the city, had offered the bill to be discounted at the time

it had been accepted by the company. I made the acquaintance of the

Spanish gentleman, and, with a delicacy of address upon which I

flattered myself, I managed to learn, without being too impertinent,

that he had obliged a fellow-passenger, two years previously, who was

getting off at Acapulco, and who desired gold for his paper money, with

the specie, and had taken of him some two or three thousand dollars of

New York currency, which he had disposed of to the Express Company.

Burton was right, then! My heart leaped to my throat as the gentleman

mentioned Acapulco. From that moment I felt less fear of failure, but

more, if possible, intense curiosity and anxiety.

It had been my intention to proceed to Sacramento in search of the

haunting face which was forever gliding before my mind's eye; but,

after this revelation, I gladly yielded to the belief that Mr. Burton

would find the face before I did; and, in the relief consequent upon

this hope, I began to give more heed to his injunction, to do my part

of the duty by taking good care of his child.

Lenore was in rising health and spirits, and when I began to exert

myself to help her pass away the time, she grew very happy. The

confiding dependence of childhood is its most affecting trait. It was

enough for her that her father had given her to me for the present; she

felt safe and joyous, and made all those little demands upon my

attention which a sister asks of an older brother. I could hardly

realize that she was nearly thirteen years of age, she remained so

small and slender, and was so innocently childlike in her manners and

feelings. Her attendant was one of those active women who like nothing

so much as plenty of business responsibility; the trip, to her, was

full of the kind of excitement she preferred; the entire charge of the

little maiden intrusted to her care, was one of the most delightful

accidents that ever happened to her; I believe she rejoiced daily in

the absence of Mr. Burton, simply because it added to the importance of

her duties.

But I was glad when the fortnight's long delay was over, and we were

reëmbarked upon our journey. My mind lived in advance of the hour,

dwelling upon the moment when I should either see, awaiting us on the

dock, where he had promised to meet us, at the isthmus, the familiar

form of the good genius of our party, or--that blank which would

announce tidings of fatal evil.

We glided prosperously over the rounded swells of the Pacific, through

sunshiny days, and nights of brilliant moonlight. Through the soft

evenings, Lenore, well wrapped in shawls and hood by her faithful

woman, remained with me upon deck, sometimes until quite late, singing,

one after another, those delicious melodies never more subtly,

understandingly rendered, than by this small spirit of song. Rapt

crowds would gather, at respectful distances, to listen; but she sung

for my sake, and for the music's, unheeding who came or went.

Sometimes, even now, I wake at night from a dream of that voyage, with

the long wake of glittering silver following the ship, as if a million

Peris, in their boats of pearl, were sailing after us, drawn on by the

enchantment of the pure voice which rose and fell between stars and sea.

The last twenty-four hours before reaching the isthmus witnessed a

change in the long stretch of brilliant weather common at that season

of the year. Torrents of rain began to fall, and continued hour after

hour, shutting us in the cabin, and surrounding us with a gray wall,

which was as if some solid world had closed us in, and we were

nevermore to see blue sky, thin air, or the sharp rays of the sun.

Lenore, wearied of the monotony, at length fell asleep on one of the

sofas; and I was glad to have her quiet, for she had been restless at

the prospect of seeing her father early the next morning. It was

expected the steamer would reach her dock some time after midnight. As

the hours of the day and evening wore on, I grew so impatient as to

feel suffocated by the narrow bounds of the ship, and the close, gray

tent of clouds. Lenore went early to her state-room. I then borrowed a

waterproof cloak from one of the officers of the vessel, and walked the

decks the whole night, in the driving rain, for I could not breathe in

my little room. It was so possible, so probable, that harm had befallen

the solitary detective, setting forth, "a stranger in a strange land,"

upon his dangerous errand, that I blamed myself bitterly for yielding

to his wishes, and allowing him to remain at Acapulco. In order to

comfort myself, I recalled his ability to cope with danger--his

physical strength, his unshaken coolness of nerve and mind, his

calmness of purpose and indomitable will, before which the wills of

other men were broken like reeds by a strong wind. The incessant rain

recalled two other memorable nights to me; and the association did not

serve to make me more cheerful. There was no wind whatever, with the

rain; the captain assured me, after I had asked him often enough to vex

a less question-inured officer, for the twentieth time, that we were

"all right"--"not a half-hour after time"--"would arrive at the isthmus

at two o'clock, A.M., precisely, and I might go to bed in peace, and be

ready to get up early in the morning."

I had no idea of going to bed. The passengers were not to be disturbed

until daylight; but I was too anxious to think of sleep; I said to

myself that if Mr. Burton was as impatient as myself, he would, despite

the storm and the late hour, be upon the dock awaiting our arrival; and

if so, he should not find me slumbering. As we neared our landing, I

crowded in among the sailors at the forward part of the boat, and

strained my eyes through the gloom to the little twinkle of light given

out by the lamps along the quay. As usual, there was considerable stir

and noise, upon the arrival of the steamer, shouts from the ship and

shore, and a bustle of ropes and swearing of sailors. The passengers

generally were snug in their berths, where they remained until morning.

In a few moments the ropes were cast ashore and we were moored to our

dock. I leaned over the gunwale and peered through the mist; the rain

had kindly ceased descending, for the time; various lamps and lanterns

glimmered along the wharf, where some persons were busy about their

work, pertaining to the arrival of the ship; but I looked in vain for

Mr. Burton.

Disappointed, despondent, I still reconnoitered the various groups,

when a loud, cheery voice called out,

"Richard, halloo!"

I experienced a welcome revulsion of feeling as these pleasant tones

startled me to the consciousness that Mr. Burton had emerged from the

shadow of a lamp-post, against which he had been leaning, and was now

almost within shaking-hands distance. I could have laughed or cried,

whichever happened, as I recognized the familiar voice and form.

Presently he was on the vessel. The squeeze I gave his hand, when we

met, must have been severe, for he winced under it. I scarcely needed

to say--"You have been successful!" or he to answer; there was a light

on his face which assured me that at least he had not entirely failed.

"I have much, much to tell you, Richard. But first about my darling--is

she well--happy?"

"Both. We have not had an accident. You will be surprised to see

Lenore, she has improved so rapidly. My heart feels a thousand pounds

lighter than it did an hour ago."

"Why so?"

"Oh, I was so afraid you had not got away from Acapulco."

"You do look pale, that's a fact, Richard--as if you had not slept for

a week. Let your mind rest in quiet, my friend. _All is right._ The

trip has not been wasted. Now let God give us favoring breezes home,

and two years of honest effort shall be rewarded. Justice shall be

done. The wicked in high places shall be brought low."

He always spoke as if impressed with an awful sense of his

responsibility in bringing the iniquities of the favored rich to light;

and on this occasion his expression was unusually earnest.

"Where is my little girl? What is the number of her state-room? I would

like to steal a kiss before she wakes; but I suppose that careful Marie

has the door bolted and barred; so I will not disturb them. It is three

whole hours to daylight yet. I can tell you the whole story of my

adventures in that time, and I suppose you have a right to hear it as

soon as possible. I will not keep you in suspense. Come into the cabin."

We found a quiet corner, where, in the "wee sma' hours," by the dim

light of the cabin-lamps, now nearly out, I listened, it is needless to

say with what painful interest, to the account of Mr. Burton's visit in

Mexico. I will give the history here, as he gave it, with the same

reservations which, it was evident, he still made in talking with me.

These reservations--which I could not fail to perceive he had

frequently made, since the beginning of our acquaintance, and which,

the reader will recollect, had at times excited my indignation--puzzled

and annoyed me; but there was soon to come a time when I understood and

appreciated them.

On that day of our outward voyage, when the ship was detained to land a

portion of her passengers at Acapulco, Mr. Burton, restless at the

delay, was leaning over the deck-rails, thrumming impatiently with his

fingers, when his attention became gradually absorbed in the

conversation of a group of Mexicans at his elbow, several of whom were

of the party about to land. They spoke the corrupted Spanish of their

country; but the listener understood it well enough to comprehend the

most of what was said.

One of their number was describing a scene which occurred upon his

landing at this same port some two years previous. The ship, bound for

San Francisco, met with an accident, and put into Acapulco for repairs.

The passengers knowing the steamer would not sail under twenty-four

hours, the most of them broke the monotony of the delay by going on

shore. A number of rough New Yorkers, going out to the mines, got into

a quarrel with some of the natives, during which knives, pistols, etc.,

were freely used. A gentleman, named Don Miguel, the owner of a large

and valuable _hacienda_ which lay about thirty miles from Acapulco, and

who had just landed from the steamer, attempted, imprudently, to

interfere, not wishing his countrymen to be so touchy with their

visitors, and was rewarded for his good intentions by receiving a

severe stab in the side from one of the combatants. He bled profusely,

and would soon have become exhausted, had not his wound been

immediately and well dressed by a young American, one of the New York

passengers, who had landed to see the sights, and was standing idly to

one side, viewing the _mêlée_ at the time Don Miguel was injured. The

Don, exceedingly grateful for the timely attention, conceived a warm

liking for the young man, whose "Yankee" quickness and readiness had

attracted his attention while on board the steamer. Having given such

proof of his fitness for the place as he had done by dressing the Don's

wound, that gentleman, in the course of the two or three hours in which

the young stranger remained in attendance upon him, offered him the

situation of physician upon his immense estates, with the plain promise

that he should receive benefits much more important than his salary.

This offer, after a short hesitation, was accepted by the doctor, who

stated that he was out in search of his fortune, and it made no

difference to him where he found it, whether in Mexico or California,

only that he should be assured of doing well. This Don Miguel, in his

sudden friendship, was prompt to promise. The Don, besides vast grazing

farms, had extensive interests in the silver mines which bordered upon

his _hacienda_. Doctor Seltzer was deeply interested in an account of

these, and returned to the ship for his baggage, bidding his

fellow-passengers good-by, in excellent spirits. "And well he might

consider himself fortunate," continued the narrator, "for there are

none of us who do not feel honored by the friendship of Don Miguel, who

is as honorable as he is wealthy. For my part, I do not understand how

he came to place such confidence in the 'Yankee' doctor, who had to me

the air of an adventurer; but he took him to his home, made him a

member of his family, and before I left Acapulco, I heard that Don

Miguel had given him for a wife his only daughter, a beautiful girl,

who could have had her choice of the proudest young bloods in this

region."

It may be imagined with what interest Mr. Burton listened to the story

thus unconsciously revealed by the chatty Mexican. He at once, as by

prescience, saw his man in this fortunate Dr. Seltzer, who had

registered his name Mr., not Dr., on the passenger-list, and which name

was among those that the detective had selected as suspicious.

(I interrupted my friend's narrative here to explain the matter of the

bank-notes which he had exchanged for specie with a passenger, but

found that Mr. Burton already knew all about them.)

Edging gradually into the conversation, Mr. Burton, with his tact and

experience, was not long in drawing from the group a description of the

personal appearance of Dr. Seltzer, along with all the facts and

conjectures relating to his history since his connection with Don

Miguel. Everything he heard made "assurance doubly sure;" and there was

no time to be lost in deciding upon the course to be pursued in this

unexpected doubling of the chase. To get off at Acapulco was a matter

of course; but what to do with the remainder of his party he could not

at first determine. He knew that I would be eager to accompany him; yet

he feared that, in some way, should we all land and take rooms at any

of the hotels, the wily Doctor Seltzer, doubtless always on the alert,

might perceive some cause for alarm, and secure safety by flight. To go

alone, under an assumed name, in the character of a scientific explorer

of mines, seemed to him the surest and most discreet method of nearing

the game; and to this resolve he had come before he sought us out to

announce his intention of stopping at Acapulco, while leaving us to

pursue our voyage without him.

CHAPTER VI.

AT LAST--AT LAST.

As our ship steered away out into the open sea, Mr. Burton walked up

into the ruinous old Spanish town, and stopped at the hotel, in whose

breezy corridor he found several of his traveling companions, who had

preceded him. These persons had been somewhat surprised at his

desertion of the rest of his party for a visit to their decayed city;

but when he explained to them his desire of visiting some of their

deserted mines, and examining the character of the mountainous region,

a little back, before proceeding to similar investigations in

California, their wonder gave place to the habitual indolence of

temperaments hardly active enough for curiosity. There were two or

three persons from the United States stopping at the hotel, who quickly

made his acquaintance, eager for news direct from home, and while he

conversed with these the four o'clock dinner was announced. He sipped

his chocolate leisurely, after the dessert, chatting at ease with his

new friends; and upon expressing a desire to see more of the old town,

one of them offered to accompany him upon a walk. They strolled out

among cool palm groves, and back through the dilapidated streets, made

picturesque by some processions of Catholics, winding through the

twilight with their torches, until the moon arose and glimmered on the

restless ocean.

Most persons, on business similar to Mr. Burton's, would have gone at

once to the American consul for his assistance; but he felt himself

fully equal to the emergency, and desired no aid in the enterprise

which he was about to prosecute. Therefore he refused the invitation of

his companion to call upon the consul; and finally returned to his

hotel, to sit awhile in the open, moonlit corridor, before retiring to

his room, where he lay long awake, pondering upon the steps to be taken

next day, and somewhat disturbed by the open doors and windows, which

were the order of the establishment.

He was awakened from his first slumber by the cold nose of a dog rubbed

in his face, and from his second by a lizard creeping over him; but not

being a nervous man, he contrived to sleep soundly at last. He was

served, early in the morning, with a cup of coffee in his apartment,

and before the late breakfast was ready, he had been abroad and

concluded his arrangements for a visit to the estates of Don Miguel.

Everybody knew that gentleman by reputation; and he had no difficulty

in securing the services of two half-naked, lazy-looking native

Indians, to act as guides, who, with three forlorn mules, destined to

carry the party, were at the door when he finished his repast. He was

warned to go well armed, as, though the route to Don Miguel's was an

old one, often traveled, there was always more or less danger in that

country. A pistol or two would not be out of place, if only to keep his

shiftless guides in order. Mr. Burton thanked his advisers, told them

he feared nothing, and set out upon his long, hot and tedious

ride--thirty miles on muleback, under a southern sun, being something

more of a task than he had ever known a journey of that length to be

hitherto. At noon he took a rest of a couple of hours at a miserable

inn by the wayside, and a dinner of fried tortillas, rendered tolerable

by a dessert of limes, bananas and oranges. With a supply of this

cooling fruit in his pockets, he braved the afternoon sun, determined

to reach the _hacienda_ before dark. As he neared his destination, the

character of the country changed. The broad road, cut through groves of

palm, and fields of corn, with orchards of figs and peaches, grew more

narrow and uneven, and the surface of the ground more broken. Before

him loomed up hills, growing higher as they retreated, some of the

glittering peaks seeming to glisten with snow. A cool, refreshing air

swept down from them; the scenery, although wilder, was beautiful and

romantic in the extreme. Wearied as he was with the conduct of a mule

which was no disgrace to the reputation of its species, Mr. Burton

enjoyed the magnificent scene which opened before him, as he approached

the _hacienda_ of Don Miguel. It lay at the foot of a low mountain,

first of the brotherhood which overtopped it, and stood looking over

its shoulder. Rich plains, some of them highly cultivated, and others

covered with the grazing herds of a thousand cattle, lay at the foot of

the hill, which was heavily timbered, and down which leaped a sparkling

cascade, not more beautiful to the eye than promising of freshness to

the pastures below, and of "water-privileges" to the mines understood

to lay somewhere in the cañons of the mountain.

Before entering upon the estates which he had now reached, Mr. Burton

secured a night's lodging for his _peons_, at a hovel by the roadside,

and having abundantly rewarded them, dismissed them from his service,

riding forward alone along the private carriage-way, which, through

groves of flowering trees and fragrant peach-orchards, led up to the

long, low, spacious mansion of Don Miguel.

By the servant who came forth to receive him he was informed that the

master of the place was at home, and was soon shown into his presence,

in the cool, tile-floored sitting-room, in which he was lounging,

waiting for the supper-hour.

Mr. Burton's powers of pleasing were too great, and his refinement too

real, for him to fail in making the impression he desired upon the

gentleman into whose house he had intruded himself. The cold courtesy

with which he was at first received, soon took a tinge of warmth, and

it was with sincere cordiality that Don Miguel offered him the

hospitalities of his home, and full liberty to make all the researches

he might desire upon his estate. The habitual dislike of the Spaniard

for "los Yankees," seemed quite overcome in the case of Don Miguel, by

his friendship for his son-in-law, of whom he soon spoke, anticipating

the pleasure it would give Dr. Seltzer to meet a gentleman so recently

from his old home, New York. On this account he made the stranger

doubly welcome. Mr. Burton was interested in his host, and liked him,

perceiving him to be intelligent, generous and enthusiastic; his heart

rebuked him when he thought of the mission upon which he had come into

this little retired Paradise, so remote from the world and so lovely in

itself that it did seem as if evil ought to have forgotten it.

The two had conversed nearly an hour, when Don Miguel said,

"It is now our supper-hour. Allow a servant to show you to your

apartment, where we will give you time to at least bathe your face and

hands after your weary ride. I was so entertained with the news that

you bring me from the States that I have neglected your comfort. Dr.

Seltzer went up on the mountain, to-day, to look after our mining

interest a little, but I expect his return every moment. He will be

charmed to meet a countryman."

This last assertion Mr. Burton doubted, for he knew that the remorse of

a guilty conscience stung the possessor into a restlessness which made

any unexpected event a matter of suspicion. As the door closed upon him

in the large, airy chamber into which he was ushered, he sunk, for a

few moments, into a chair, and something like a tremor shook his

usually steady nerves. He stood so close upon the probable

accomplishment of the object he had kept in view for two years, that,

for an instant, excitement overcame him. He soon rallied, however, and

at the end of fifteen minutes, when the _peon_ came in again to

announce supper, he had toned up his courage with a plentiful dash of

cold water, and was never more his own peculiar self, than when he set

foot in the supper-room. A glance told him that the absent member of

the family had not yet returned; only two persons were present, his

host, and the beautiful woman whom he introduced as his daughter, Mrs.

Seltzer. The three sat down to the table, which was covered with an

elegant repast, the first dish of which was a fine-flavored roast

wild-turkey.

There was a plentiful supply of porcelain and silver-ware; it did not

take five seconds for the guest to decide that the quondam druggist of

Blankville--if this were indeed the person, as he assumed with such

certainty--had gotten himself into enviable quarters.

As his penetrating glance rested on the exquisite face which confronted

him across the "pale specter of the salt," he kept asking himself, with

inward anguish, why it was that he had not circumvented this adventurer

sooner, before the young, girlish creature he saw before him had

involved her fate with that of the guilty.

Beautiful as our dreamiest fancies of Spanish women she was, according

to the report of Mr. Burton, and he was no enthusiast. He saw that she

was as uneasy as a bird which misses its mate, her black eyes

constantly wandering to the door, and her ear so preoccupied with

listening for the expected step as scarcely to take note of the remarks

made to her by the stranger. Once she asked him, with much interest, if

he had known Dr. Seltzer in New York, but upon his answering in the

negative, he could guess that he had fallen in her esteem, for she

immediately withdrew her attention from him.

The senses of the guest were all keenly on the alert; but it was by the

sudden fire which leaped and melted in the eyes of the Donna, and the

rich color which shot into her hitherto olive cheek, that he was

informed of the approach of her husband. She had heard the rapid gallop

of his horse afar off, and now sat; mute and expectant, until he should

arrive at the gate, cross the veranda and enter the room. In three

minutes he stood in the supper-room. The visitor met him just in the

manner he would have most desired--when the man was entirely unwarned

of company, and had no chance to put on a mask. Outwardly Mr. Burton

was serene as a summer day, but inwardly his teeth were set upon each

other to keep his tongue from crying out--"_This is the man!_" When Dr.

Seltzer first perceived a stranger in the room, and heard his

father-in-law say, "A countryman of yours, from New York, doctor," his

slight start of surprise would, to most persons, have appeared no more

than natural; but the person whose courteous eye met his, saw in it the

first impulse of an ever-ready apprehension--an alarm, covered

instantly by a false warmth of manner which caused him to greet the

stranger with extreme friendliness.

The new-comer retired for a moment to his room to prepare for the meal;

upon his taking his place at table, hot dishes were brought in; the

Donna seemed also to have recovered her appetite, which had been

spoiled by his absence; a gay and social hour followed.

Dr. Seltzer might have been good-looking had his eyes not possessed the

shifting, uncertain glance that plays before a soul which dares not

frankly meet its fellows, and had not an evil expression predominated

on his features. His face was one which would have been distrusted in

any intelligent company of our own people; but the Spaniards, with whom

he was now associated, were so accustomed to treachery and untruth

among their race, and so familiar with kindred features and subtle

black eyes, that he, doubtless, had never impressed them unfavorably. A

Spaniard he was at heart, and he had found, in his present life, a

congenial sphere. Not that all Spaniards are necessarily murderers--but

their code of right and wrong is different from ours. Don Miguel was an

excellent gentleman, honorable, to an unusual degree for a Mexican,

real and sanguine in his feelings, and thoroughly deceived as to the

character and acquirements of the person to whom he had confided so

much. It was the bitter flavor in the cup of his assured triumph that

Mr. Burton, in bringing the villain to bay, must shock this amiable

host, and ruin the happiness of his innocent child.

After supper, they sat on the veranda a couple of hours. The

half-filled moon sunk down behind the groves of fragrant trees; the

stars burned in the sky, large, and, to a Northern eye, preternaturally

bright; the wind was luscious with warmth and sweetness; and the

beautiful woman, whose soft eyes dwelt ever on the face of her husband,

looked yet more lovely in the clear moonlight. (Through all the

earnestness of his story, my friend dwelt on these details, because he

observed them at the time, and they became a part of the narrative in

his mind.)

The conversation was principally upon mining. Mr. Burton had sufficient

scientific knowledge to make it apparent that his exploring expedition

was for the purpose of adding to that knowledge. Before they separated

for the night, Dr. Seltzer had promised to escort him, on the following

day, over all the mountainous portion of the ranch.

The visitor retired early, being fatigued with his journey; but he did

not sleep as quietly as usual. He was disturbed by the onerous duty to

which he had devoted himself. Visions of the Donna, pale with grief and

reproach, and of the interview which he had resolved upon with the

murderer, alone on the mountainside, when, by the force of will, and

the suddenness of the accusation, he expected to wring from him the

desired confession--kept him long awake. Once he half rose in his bed;

for, lying in that feverish condition when all the senses are exalted,

he heard, or fancied he heard, the handle of the door turned, and a

person step silently into the apartment. Knowing the thievish

propensities of the Spanish servants, he had no doubt but one of these

had entered for purposes of robbery; he therefore remained quiet, but

ready to pounce upon the intruder should he detect him approaching the

bed. The room was entirely dark, the moon having set some time before.

Whether he made some sound when rising on his couch, or whether the

visitor gave up his purpose at the last moment, he could only

conjecture; after some moments of absolute silence he heard the door

drawn softly together again, and was conscious of being alone. Soon

after this he dropped asleep, and awoke in the dawn to find his purse

and garments undisturbed.

He was summoned to an early breakfast, which was partaken of by the two

excursionists alone; his companion was, if possible, more social and

friendly than on the previous evening. It was yet hardly sunrise when

they arose from the table to mount the horses which awaited them at the

door. A basket of lunch was attached to the pummel of Dr. Seltzer's

saddle, whose parting injunction to the servant was to have dinner at

four, as they should stand in need of it upon their return. Then,

through a world of dew, coolness and perfume, glittering with the first

rays of the sun, the two men rode off toward the mountains.

After following a good road some five or six miles, they commenced

climbing the first of the series of hills of which mention has been

made. The road here was still tolerable; but when they advanced into

the immediate region of the mines they were compelled to abandon their

horses, which were left at a small building, belonging to the ranch,

and to proceed on foot into the mountain gorges.

The scenery now became wild beyond mere picturesqueness--it was

startling, desolate, grand. Traces of old mines, once worked, but now

deserted, were everywhere visible. Finally they came to a new "lead,"

which was being successfully worked by the _peons_ of Don Miguel. There

were some forty of these men at work, under an overseer. Dr. Seltzer

showed his companion the recent improvements which had been made; the

machinery which he himself had introduced, and a portion of which he

had invented; stating that, under the system which he himself had

introduced, Don Miguel was growing a rich man faster than he previously

had any idea was possible. The mountain-stream, spoken of as being

visible at a great distance, glittering from hight to hight, was here

made to do the unromantic work of washing the ore and grinding it. The

overseer was called upon by the host to give every desirable

information to the traveler, and here a long visit was made. Lunch was

partaken of under the cool shadow of a ledge of rock; and then Dr.

Seltzer proposed, if his visitor was not already too much fatigued, to

take him higher up, to a spot which he had discovered only the day

before, and which he had every reason to believe contained a richer

deposit of silver than any vein heretofore opened--in fact, he thought

a fortune lay hidden in the wild gorge to which he referred, and he

anxiously invited the scientific observation of his guest.

This was just the opportunity for being alone with his man that Mr.

Burton desired. It may seem strange that he proposed to confront the

murderer with his guilt in this solitary manner with no witnesses to

corroborate any testimony he might wring from the guilty; but the

detective knew enough of human nature to know that the confronted

criminal is almost always a coward, and he had no fear that this

person, if guilty, accused of his false name and falser character,

would refuse to do what he demanded of him. Again, his principal

object, more important by far than the discovery of the actual hired

assassin, was to gain from the frightened accomplice a full, explicit

confession of _who had tempted him to the crime_--who was really the

most guilty murderer--whose money had paid for the deed which his own

dastardly hand had shrunk from. Strong in resources which never yet had

failed him, Mr. Burton was anxious for the singular encounter he had

devised.

Leaving all traces of man behind them, the two climbed a rugged path,

and entered a cañon, through the center of which roared a foaming

torrent, and which was so deep and sheltered that even at this

noon-hour the path was cool and the sunlight tempered. As they walked

or clambered on, both men gradually grew silent. Of what Dr. Seltzer

might be thinking Mr. Burton did not know--his own mind was absorbed in

the scene which he was awaiting the earliest fitting moment to enact.

The doctor, who should have acted as guide, had, somehow, chanced to

lag behind.

"Which direction shall I take?" asked Mr. Burton, presently.

"Ascend the narrow defile to the right," called out his companion,

pressing after him, "but be cautious of your footing. A misstep may

hurl you upon the rocks below. In three minutes we shall be in a safe

and beautiful region, with our feet, literally, treading a silver

floor."

As he spoke thus, he drew nearer, but the path was too narrow to allow

him to take the advance, and Mr. Burton continued to lead the way.

The subtle perceptions of the detective, a magnetism which amounted

almost to the marvelous, I have so frequently referred to, that my

reader will understand how it was that Mr. Burton, thus in the van, and

not looking at all at his companion, felt a curious, prickly sensation

run along his nerves. He came to the narrowest part of the dangerous

path. An immense rock reached up, a mighty wall, upon the right, and to

the left, far below the uneven, stony and brier-grown ledge along which

he was picking his steps, foamed and roared the torrent, over rocks

which thrust themselves here and there above the yeasty water. Directly

in front arose an obstacle in the shape of a projection of the rock

some three or four feet in hight, covered with tough little bushes, one

of which he took hold of to draw himself up by.

However, instead of pulling himself up, as his action seemed to

indicate that he was about to do, he turned and grasped the arm of Dr.

Seltzer. His movement was rapid as lightning, but it was not made a

moment too soon. The arm which he held in a clasp of steel was raised

to strike, and a Spanish dirk was in the hand.

A stealthy, murderous light, almost red in its intensity, burned in the

eyes which now sunk before his. An instant the foiled assassin stood

surprised; then commenced a struggle between the two men. Dr. Seltzer

made desperate efforts to hurl his antagonist into the torrent beneath;

but, though frantic with rage and hate, his violent exertions did not

effect their object. On the contrary, Mr. Burton, calm and

self-possessed, despite an instant's astonishment, pressed his

adversary backward along the narrow path until they were both on safe

ground, in the middle of a little grassy plateau, which they had lately

traversed, where he held him, having disarmed him of his knife.

What had caused his momentary astonishment was the fact that Dr.

Seltzer knew him and suspected his object, which truth he instantly

comprehended, upon turning and reading the murderous eyes that met his.

Now, as he held him, he remarked,

"Another stab in the back, George Thorley?"

"Well, and what did you come here for, you accursed New York detective?"

"I came to persuade you to turn State's evidence."

"What about?"--there was a slight change in the voice, which told,

against his will, that the adventurer felt relieved.

"I want you to give your written and sworn testimony as to who it was

hired you, for the sum of two thousand dollars, to murder Mr. Moreland,

at Blankville, on the 17th of October, 1857."

"Who said I murdered him? Humph! you must think I'm decidedly simple to

be coaxed or frightened into committing myself."

"We'll not waste words, Thorley. I know you, all your history, all your

bad deeds--or enough of them to hang you. I have a warrant for your

arrest in my pocket, which I brought from the States with me. I could

have brought an escort from Acapulco, and arrested you at once, without

giving you any chance for explanation. But I have my own reasons for

desiring to keep this matter quiet--one of which is that I do not wish

any premature report to alarm your accomplice, man or woman, whichever

it is, until I can put my hand on the right person."

"What makes you think that I did it?"

"No matter what makes me _think_ so--I don't think, I _know_. I have

the instrument with which you committed the act, with your initials on

the handle. I have the letter you wrote to your accomplice, claiming

your reward. In short, I've proof enough to convict you twice over. The

only hope you have of any mercy from me is in at once doing all that I

ask of you--which is to give a full written statement, over your real

name, of all the circumstances which led to the murder."

"I'm not such a fool as to tie the rope around my own neck."

As he made this answer, he gave a powerful jerk to extricate himself

from the unpleasant position in which he was held. Mr. Burton drew a

revolver from his breast-pocket, remarking,

"I will not hold you, Thorley; but just as sure as you make an attempt

to get away, I will shoot you. Supposing you succeeded in getting free

from me--what good would that do you? Your prospects here would be

ruined; for I should expose you to Don Miguel. You would have to flee

from wife, country and fortune; all you would preserve would be your

rascally life, which I do not propose, at present, to take."

"A man's life is his best possession."

"A truth you would have done well to remember before you took away the

life of another. I can't talk to such a scoundrel as you, Thorley; I

fairly ache to inflict upon you the punishment you deserve. It is for

the sake of others, in whom I am interested, that I give you this one

chance of mercy. Here is paper, pen and ink; sit down on that stone

there, and write what I asked of you."

"What security do you offer me against the consequences of criminating

myself? I want you to promise I shall be none the worse off for it."

"You are too fully in my power to demand promises of me. Yet this I

will consent to, as I said before, for the sake of others--to let you

go unprisoned by the warrant I hold against you, and never to put the

officers of justice on your track. One thing, however, I must and shall

do. I can not leave this Paradise, into which you have crept like the

serpent, without warning Don Miguel what manner of creature he is

trusting and sheltering."

"Oh, don't do that, Mr. Burton! He'll turn me off on the world again,

and I shall be exposed to the same temptations as ever--and here I was

leading a better life--I was indeed--reformed, quite reformed and

repentant."

"So reformed and repentant, so very excellent, that you were only

prevented, but now, from killing me and tumbling me into this

convenient ravine, by my own prudence."

"Every thing was at stake, you know. I was desperate. You must forgive

me. It would not be natural for me to submit to see all I had gained

snatched away from me--my life periled. I recognized you within five

minutes after sitting down to the supper-table last night."

"I had no idea you had ever seen me," said Mr. Burton, willing to hear

how it was that this man knew him, when he had never met Thorley until

yesterday.

"I was interested, once, in a forgery case in which you were employed

to detect the criminals, by the examination of several handwritings

which were given you. You accused a highly respectable fellow-citizen,

to the astonishment of everybody, and convicted him, too. I, whom he

had employed as an agent in some transactions, but who did not appear

in any manner in the case, saw you in the court-room once or twice. I

_accidentally_ found out that you were a secret agent of the detective

police. When I saw you here, playing the scientific gentleman, my

conscience was not so easy as to blind me. I saw the game, and what was

at stake. I had the choice between my own safety or yours. I wasn't so

self-denying as to decide in your favor, and so--"

"You visited my room last night."

"Yes. But, on second thought, I decided that to-day would give me the

better opportunity. Had you waited a second longer, your friends would

have had a hard time tracing your fate. An excuse to my father-in-law,

that you had returned to Acapulco without stopping, by a nearer route,

would have ended inquiry here." He set his teeth, as he concluded,

unable to conceal how much he regretted that this convenient

_dénouement_ had been interrupted. "Was it chance caused you to turn?"

he continued, after a moment's silence.

"It was watchfulness. I thought I saw murder in your eyes once before,

to-day, when I met them suddenly; but as I believed myself unknown to

you, I could hardly credit my own impression. It grew upon me, however,

as we proceeded, and 'by the pricking of my ribs,' I turned in time to

prevent the compliment you were about to pay me. But this is wasting

time. Write what I expect of you. I shall permit no lies. I can tell

when I see one, or hear one. If you say any thing which is not true, I

shall make you correct it."

Coerced by the eye which never ceased to watch his slightest movement,

and by the revolver held in range of his breast, the reluctant doctor

took the sheet of paper and the fountain-pen which were offered him,

sat down on the stone, and, with the top of his sombrero for a desk,

wrote slowly for ten or fifteen minutes. Then he arose and handed the

document, which was signed with his real name, to the detective, who,

with one eye on his prisoner, and one on the paper, continued to read

the evidence without giving his companion a chance to profit by any

relaxation of his vigilance.

"You have told the truth, for once in your life," was his remark, as he

finished reading the paper. "I had found this out myself, fact for

fact, all but one or two facts which you give here; but I preferred

having your testimony before I brought the matter before the proper

parties, therefore I came here after it"--speaking as if a trip to

Acapulco were one of the easiest and most commonplace of things.

"You're d--d cool about it," remarked the adventurer, eying his

adversary with a glance of hate, with which was mingled a forced

admiration of a "sharpness" which, had he himself possessed it, he

could have used to such advantage. "And now, maybe you'll be good

enough to tell me if the affair kicked up much of a row."

"I can not talk with you. I want you to lead the way back to our

horses, for, since my business with you is finished, I may say that I

do not fancy your company. You must go with me before Don Miguel, and

we will enlighten him as to your true character, since with him to be

'forewarned may be fore-armed.'"

"Oh, don't do that! I beg you to spare me for my wife's sake--it would

kill her, she loves me so much!" and the creature dropped on his knees.

"I would, indeed, rather than blast her innocent heart with such

knowledge, allow you still to play your part in that little family--,

but I know that, sooner or later, you will contrive to break the heart

of that confiding woman, and it might be worse in the future than even

now. She has yet no children; she is young, and the wound may heal. It

is an unpleasant duty, which I must perform."

Then followed a scene of begging, prayers, even tears upon one side,

and relentless purpose on the other.

CHAPTER VII.

NOW FOR HOME AGAIN.

Dr. Seltzer and his scientific friend returned down the mountain,

reaching the flowery carriage-way which led up to the mansion about

four P. M.; but here the former suddenly whirled his horse and set off

toward Acapulco, at his utmost speed. Mr. Burton did not fire at him,

to stop him; if he wished to run away from the horrible exposure which

he had not the courage to face, it was no longer any business of the

detective. This very flight would prove his guilt the more

incontestably. It was with a pang of pity that he noticed the Donna,

coming forth on the piazza with a face illumined with expectation of

meeting her husband; he replied to her inquiry, that the doctor had

gone down the road without saying how long he expected to be gone; and

asking a private interview with Don Miguel, he at once, without

circumlocution, laid before him the painful facts.

Of course the Don was shocked and grieved beyond expression, more on

his daughter's account than on his own; and blamed himself severely for

having introduced a stranger, without proper credentials, into his

confidence. If the murder had been committed from jealousy, anger, or

upon any impulse of passion, he would not have thought so badly of the

young man; but that it should have been done for _money_ was to him an

irreparable crime and disgrace.

Mr. Burton had thought of returning to Acapulco that afternoon and

evening, considering that his presence could not be welcome to the

family under such circumstances; but Don Miguel positively forbade him

to attempt the journey at that late hour, as it might be dangerous at

any time, and now, if the doctor wished to revenge himself upon his

betrayer, a better opportunity could not occur than on this lonely

road, where he might linger in the expectation of his passing. From the

interview which followed between the father and his child, Mr. Burton

was absent; he saw no more of the beautiful young wife, for he left the

_hacienda_ early the following morning; but her father informed him

that she bore the news better than he expected--simply because she

refused to believe in the guilt of her husband!

Don Miguel and two of his servants accompanied Mr. Burton all the way

back to town; the Don affirming that he had some business requiring a

visit to the city sooner or later; though his guest knew very well that

his real object was to protect him from any danger which might

threaten. For this he was grateful, though his courage did not shrink,

even from the idea of secret assassination.

He was detained in Acapulco several days before he had an opportunity

of leaving for the isthmus. During that time he learned, by a messenger

whom Don Miguel sent him, that, during the Don's absence from the house

in the two days of his journey to town and back, Dr. Seltzer had

returned there, possessed himself of every article of value which he

could carry away upon his person, including the Donna's jewels, which

she had inherited from her mother, and a large sum in gold, and had

persuaded his wife to accompany his flying fortunes to some unknown

region. In the letter which Don Miguel wrote to the stranger, he

expressed himself as one robbed and left desolate. It was not the loss

of money or jewels, but the loss of his poor, confiding, loving child,

that he dwelt upon. The Donna's was one of those impulsive, impassioned

natures which must love, even if it knows the object unworthy. No deed

which her husband could commit could make him otherwise to her than the

man with whose fate her own was linked for "better or worse." Mr.

Burton folded up the letter with a sigh; no power of his could amend

the fate of this young creature, which promised to be so sad.

While he remained in the ruinous old place he used extraordinary

precautions to insure his own safety; for he believed that Dr. Seltzer,

or George Thorley, would seek revenge upon him, not only for the sake

of the revenge, but to silence the accusation which he might carry back

to the States. It was well that he was thus careful, as, among other

proofs that he was thus pursued, was the following. One afternoon, as

he sat in the great, breezy corridor of the hotel, an old woman came in

with a basket and offered to sell him some particularly fine oranges.

He bought a couple of the largest, and was about to eat one, when he

observed that she did _not_ offer the fruit to any other customer; upon

this, he regarded her more closely, and was satisfied that all was not

right. When she had lingered a time to notice if he ate the fruit, he

strolled out to the street, and in her presence called up a stray pig,

to which he fed pieces of the orange. When she saw this, the old hag,

who was an Indian, quickly disappeared, and shortly after the pig died.

It was, therefore, with feelings of satisfaction that the detective

finally bade farewell to Acapulco on a return steamer. He had waited

some time at the isthmus, where the days had hung heavily, but he had

comforted himself with his motto about patience; and now, as he assured

me at the close of his narrative, "If heaven would give us a propitious

passage home we should be _in time_--all would be right."

Day was breaking when Mr. Burton finished his narrative; the rain had

ceased, but a thick fog hung over the sea and land, making every thing

gloomy and disagreeable.

"I must go now, and awaken my little girl," he said, rising.

"But you have not read me the written confession of that Thorley."

"Richard, you must forgive me if I do not see fit to allow you to read

it at present. I have a purpose in it, or I should not keep back from

you any of my own information. That confession did not surprise me; I

knew the murderer long ago, but I could not prove it. You shall soon be

at rest about this affair. I only pray, now, for a speedy voyage, and

that Leesy Sullivan may be alive when we reach New York. Richard!" he

added, with a passionate gesture, "you do not dream what a constant

fever I am in--I am so afraid we shall be _too late_. I can not bear

the horror which that would be to me."

And indeed it did seem, at that time, as if my own engrossing interest

was scarcely equal to that of my companion, who yet had nothing at all

at stake, while I had so much. Not only then, but at various other

times during the remainder of our voyage, he expressed so much anxiety

lest Miss Sullivan should be dead before we arrived home, that I, who

was always torturing myself with conjectures, again revived my

suspicions that she was connected with the murder.

In the mean time, the sun arose upon the bustle of disembarking from

the steamer to the cars. Fortunately, the fog lifted by eight o'clock,

and we could enjoy the magnificent scenery through which the cars

whirled us--scenery so at variance, in its wildness and the exuberance

of its foliage, and the secluded aspect of its beauty, with this noisy

wonder of civilization which scattered its fiery deluge of sparks along

the path of gorgeous tropical flowers waving at us, sometimes, in long

streamers of bloom from the topmost branches of gigantic trees.

Nothing occurred to mar the tranquillity of the passage home. On the

expected day, we landed at the dock in New York, and I stepped upon the

earth with a curious, excited feeling, now that we drew so near to the

close of our efforts, which made me almost light-headed. We took a

carriage and drove to Mr. Burton's; he was expected by the housekeeper,

so that we found the house prepared for our reception. A fine dinner

was served at the usual hour--but I could not eat. Appetite and sleep

fled before my absorbing anticipations. My host, who noticed my

intense, repressed excitement, promised me, before I retired for the

night, that to-morrow, God willing, the secret places of the wicked

should be laid bare--that myself and all those interested should

witness the triumph of the innocent and the confusion of the guilty.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE RIPE HOUR.

I arose from my sleepless bed to face this, the most memorable day of

my life. Whether I ate or drank, I know not; but I noticed that Mr.

Burton's countenance wore a peculiar, illuminated look, as if his soul

was inwardly rejoicing over a victory gained. However, there was still

preoccupation in it, and some perplexity. Immediately after breakfast,

he proposed to go out, saying,

"Richard, remain here a couple of hours with Lenore, until I find out

whether Miss Sullivan is dead or alive. I should not have gone to bed

last night without knowing, had I not been troubled with a severe

headache. This is now the first step in the day's duties. As soon as

possible I will report progress;" and he went out.

The time of his absence seemed very long. Lenore, sweet child, with

much of her father's perception, saw that I was restless and impatient,

and made many pretty efforts to entertain me. She sung me some of the

finest music, while I roamed about the parlors like an ill-bred tiger.

At the end of two hours my friend returned, looking less perplexed than

when he went out.

"God is good!" he said, shaking my hand, as if thus congratulating me.

"Leesy Sullivan is alive, but very feeble. She is scarcely able to

undertake a journey; but, since I have explained the object, she has

consented to go. She says she is so near death's door, that it matters

not how soon she passes through; and she is willing, for the sake of

others, to endure a trial from which she might naturally shrink. So

far, then, all is well."

Was this trial, of which he spoke, that pang which she must feel in

confessing herself implicated in this matter? Did he think, and had he

persuaded her, since she was too far gone for the grasp of the law to

take hold of her, she might now confess a dangerous and dark secret?

I could not answer the questions my mind persisted in asking. "It will

be but a few hours," I whispered to myself.

"We are to go up to Blankville by the evening train," he continued.

"Leesy will accompany us. Until that time, there is nothing to do."

I would rather have worked at breaking stones or lifting barrels than

to have kept idle; but, as the detective wished me to remain in the

house as a matter of caution against meeting any prying acquaintance

upon the streets, I was forced to that dreariest of all things--to

wait. The hours did finally pass, and Mr. Burton set out first with a

carriage, to convey Miss Sullivan to the depot, where I was to meet him

in time for the five o'clock train. When I saw her there, I wondered

how she had strength to endure the ride, she looked so wasted--such a

mere flickering spark of life, which a breath might extinguish. Mr.

Burton had almost to carry her into the car, where he placed her on a

seat, with his overcoat for a pillow. We took our seats opposite to

her, and as those large, unfathomable eyes met mine, still blazing with

their old luster, beneath the pallid brow, I can not describe the

sensations which rushed over me. All those strange scenes through which

I had passed at Moreland villa floated up and shut me in a strange

spell, until I forgot what place we were in, or that any other persons

surrounded us. When the cars moved rapidly out of the city, increasing

their speed as they got beyond the precincts, Leesy asked to have the

window open.

The air was cold and fresh; her feverish lips swallowed it as a

reviving draught. I gazed alternately at her and the landscape, already

flushed with the red of early sunset. It was a December day, chill but

bright; the ground was frozen, and the river sparkled with the keen

blueness of splintered steel. The red banner of twilight hung over the

Palisades. I lived really three years in that short ride--the three

years just past--and when we reached our destination, I walked like one

in a dream. It was quite evening when we got out at Blankville, though

the moon was shining. A fussy little woman passed out before us,

lugging a large band-box; she handed it to the town express, telling

the driver to be very careful of it, and take it round at once to

Esquire Argyll's.

"I suppose it contains the wedding-bonnet," he said, with a laugh.

"That it does, and the dress, too, all of my own selection," said the

little woman, with an air of importance. "Just you carry it in your

hand, sir, and don't you allow nothing to come near it."

When I heard these words, a hot flush came to my face. That Mary Argyll

was already married, or expected to be very soon, I knew; but I could

not hear this reference to the wedding, nor see this article of

preparation, without keen pain. Yet what business was it of mine?

Mr. Burton had also heard the brief colloquy, and I noticed his lips

pressed together with a fierce expression as we passed under the lamp

which lighted the crossing. He took us into the hotel by the depot. Oh,

how suffocating, how close, became memory! Into this building poor

Henry had been carried on that wretched morning. It seemed to be but

yesterday. I think Leesy was recalling it all, for when a cup of tea

was brought in for her, at Mr. Burton's bidding, she turned from it

with loathing.

"Leesy," he said, looking at her firmly, and speaking in a tone of high

command, "I don't want you to fail me now. The trial will soon be over.

Brace yourself for it with all the strength you have. Now, I am going

out a few moments--perhaps for half an hour. When I return, you will

both be ready to go with me to Mr. Argyll's house."

I was nearly as much shaken by this prospect as the frail woman who sat

trembling in a corner of the sofa. To go into that house from which I

had departed with such ignominy--to see Eleanor face to face--to meet

them all who had once been my friends--to greet them as strangers, for

such they were--they must be, to me!--to appear in their midst under

such strange circumstances--to hear, I knew not what--to learn that

mystery--my heart grew as if walled in with ice; it could not half

beat, and felt cold in my breast.

Both Leesy and myself started when Mr. Burton again appeared in the

room.

"All is right thus far," he said, in a clear, cheery voice, which,

nevertheless, had the high ring of excitement. "Come, now, let us not

waste the golden moments, for now the hour is ripe."

We had each of us to give an arm to Miss Sullivan, who could scarcely

put one foot before the other. We walked slowly along over _that_ path

which I never had trodden since the night of the murder without a

shudder. A low moan came from Leesy's lips, as we passed the spot where

the body of Henry Moreland had been discovered. Presently we came to

the gate of the Argyll place, and here Mr. Burton again left us.

"Follow me," he said, "in five minutes. Come to the library-door, and

knock; and, Richard, I particularly desire you to take a seat by the

bay-window."

He went up the walk and entered the house, without seeming to ring the

hall door-bell, leaving the door open as he passed in. I looked at my

watch by the moonlight, forcing myself to count the minutes, by way of

steadying my head, which was all in a whirl. When the time expired, I

helped Leesy forward into the dim hall, on to the library-door, where I

knocked, according to directions, and was admitted by Mr. Argyll

himself.

There was a bright light shining from the chandelier, fully

illuminating the room. In the midst of a flood of recollections, I

stepped within; but my brain, which had been hot and dizzy before, grew

suddenly calm and cool. When Mr. Argyll saw that it was me, he slightly

recoiled, and gave me no greeting whatever. A glance assured me that

every member of the family was present. Eleanor sat in an arm-chair

near the center-table; Mary and James occupied the same sofa. Eleanor

looked at me with a kind of white amazement; James nodded as my eye met

his, his face expressing surprise and displeasure. Mary rose,

hesitated, and finally came forward, saying,

"How do you do, Richard?"

I bowed to her, but did not take her outstretched hand, and she

returned to her place near James. In the mean time, Mr. Burton himself

placed Leesy Sullivan in an easy-chair. I walked forward and took a

seat near the window. I had time to observe the appearance of my whilom

friends, and was calm enough to do it. Mr. Argyll had grown old much

faster than the time warranted; his form was somewhat bent, and his

whole appearance feeble; I grieved, as I noticed this, as though he was

my own father, for I once had loved him as much. Mary looked the same

as when I had seen her, three months since, in that surreptitious visit

to the oak, blooming and beautiful, the image of what Eleanor once was.

Eleanor, doubtless, was whiter than her wont, for my appearance had

startled her; but there was the same rapt, far-away, spiritual look

upon her features which they had worn since that day when she had

wedded herself to the spirit of her lover.

Mr. Burton turned the key in the lock of the door which opened into the

hall; then crossed over and closed the parlor-door, and sat down by it,

saying as he did so,

"Mr. Argyll, I told you a few moments ago, that I had news of

importance to communicate, and I take the liberty of closing these

doors, for it would be very unpleasant for us to be intruded upon, or

for any of the servants to hear any thing of what I have to say. You

will perhaps guess the nature of my communication, from my having

brought with me these two persons. I would not agitate any of you by

the introduction of the painful subject, if I did not believe that you

would rather know the truth, even if it is sad to revive the past. But

I must beg of you to be calm, and to listen quietly to what I have to

say."

"I will be very calm; do not be afraid," murmured Eleanor, growing yet

feebler, for it was to her he now particularly addressed the injunction.

I was so occupied with her that I did not notice the effect upon the

others.

"Mr. Argyll," continued the detective, "I have never yet abandoned a

case of this kind until I have unraveled its mystery to the last

thread. Nearly two years have passed since you supposed that I ceased

to exert myself to discover the murderer of Henry Moreland. But I have

never, for a day, allowed the case to lie idle in my mind. Whenever I

have had leisure, I have partially followed every clue which was put in

my hands at the time when we first had the matter under discussion. It

was not alone the sad circumstances of the tragedy which gave it

unusual interest to me. I became warmly attached to your family, and

as, from the first--yes, from the very first hour when I heard of the

murder--I believed I had discovered the perpetrator, I could not allow

the matter to sink into silence. You remember, of course, our last

interview. Some ideas were there presented which I then opposed. You

know how the discussion of all the facts then known ended. Your

suspicions fell upon one who had been an honored and favored member of

your family--you _feared_, although you were not certain, that Richard

Redfield committed the deed. You gave me all the reasons you had for

your opinions--good reasons, too, some of them were; but I then

combated the idea. However, I was more or less affected by what you

said, and I told you, before parting, that, if you had such feelings

toward the young man, you ought not to allow him to be, any longer, a

member of your family. I believe he came to understand the light in

which you regarded him, and shortly after left the place, and since has

been most of the time, in Washington, employed there as a clerk in the

dead-letter office. I believe _now_, Mr. Argyll, that you were not far

wrong in your conjectures. _I have discovered the murderer of Henry

Moreland, and can give you positive proof of it!_"

This assertion, deliberately uttered, caused the sensation which might

be expected. Eleanor, with all her long habit of self-control, gave a

slight shriek, and began to tremble like a leaf. Exclamations came from

the lips of all--I believe James uttered an oath, but I am not certain;

for I, perhaps more than any other in the room, was at that moment

confounded. As the idea rushed over me that Mr. Burton had been acting

a part toward _me_, and had taken these precautions to get me utterly

in his power, where I could not defend myself, I started to my feet.

"Sit still, Mr. Redfield," said the detective to me, sternly. "There is

no avenue of escape for the guilty," and rising, he took the key of the

door and put it in his pocket, giving me a look difficult to understand.

I did sit down again, not so much because he told me, as that I was

powerless from amazement; as I did so, I met the eyes of James, which

laughed silently with a triumph so hateful that, at the moment, they

seemed to me the eyes of a devil. All the feelings which, at various

times, had been called up by this terrible affair, were nothing to

those which overwhelmed me during the few moments which followed. My

thought tracked many avenues with lightning rapidity; but I could find

no light at the end of any of them. I began to believe that George

Thorley, in his confession, had criminated _me_--who knew him not--who

never had spoken with him--and that _this_ was the reason why Mr.

Burton had withheld that document from me--falsely professing

friendship, while leading me into the pit! If so, what secret enemy had

I who could instruct him to lay the murder at my door? If he _had_

accused me, I was well aware that many little circumstances might be

turned so as to strengthen the accusation.

I sat there dumb. But there is always strength in innocence--even when

betrayed by its friends! So I remained quiet and listened.

"When a crime like this is committed," proceeded the detective, quite

calm in the midst of our excitement, "we usually look for the _motive_.

Next to avarice come the passions of revenge and jealousy in frequency.

We know that money had nothing to do with Henry Moreland's

death--revenge and jealousy had. There lived in Blankville three or

four years ago, a young fellow, a druggist, by the name of George

Thorley; you remember him, Mr. Argyll?"

Mr. Argyll nodded his head.

"He was an adventurer, self-instructed in medicine, without principle.

Shortly after setting up in your village, he fell in love with this

woman here--Miss Sullivan. She rejected him; both because she had a dim

perception of his true character, and because she was interested in

another. She allows me to say, here, what she once before confessed to

us, that she loved Henry Moreland--loved him purely and unselfishly,

with no wish but for his happiness, and no hope of ever being any thing

more to him than his mother's sewing-girl, to whom he extended some

acts of kindness. But George Thorley, with the sharpness of jealousy,

discovered her passion, which she supposed was hidden from mortal eyes,

and conceived the brutal hate of a low nature against the young

gentleman, who was ignorant alike of him and his sentiments. So far, no

harm was done, and evil might never have come of it, for Henry Moreland

moved in a sphere different from his, and they might never have come in

contact. But another bosom was also possessed of the fiend of jealousy.

An inmate of your family had learned to love your daughter Eleanor--not

only to love her, but to look forward to the fortune and position which

would be conferred by a marriage with her as something extremely

desirable. He would not reconcile himself to the engagement which was

formed between Miss Argyll and Mr. Moreland. He cherished bad thoughts,

which grew more bitter as their happiness became more apparent. Once,

he was standing at the gate of this lawn, when the young couple passed

him, going out for a walk together. He looked after them with a dark

look, speaking aloud, unconsciously, the thought of his heart; he said,

'_I hate him! I wish he were dead!_' Instantly, to his surprise and

dismay, a voice replied, '_I'm with you there--you don't wish it so

much as I do!_' The speaker was Thorley, who, passing, had been

arrested by the young couple going out of the gate, and who had

remained, also, gazing after them. It was an unfortunate coincidence.

The first speaker looked at the second with anger and chagrin; but he

had betrayed himself, and the other knew it. He laughed impudently, as

he sauntered on; but, presently, he returned and whispered, 'I wouldn't

object to putting him out of the way, if I was well paid for it.' 'What

do you mean?' inquired the other, angrily, and the response was, 'Just

what I say. I hate him as bad as you do; you've got money, _or can get

it_, and I can't. Pay me well for the job, and I'll put him out of your

way so securely that he won't interfere with your plans any more.' The

young gentleman affected to be, and perhaps was, indignant. The fellow

went off, smirking; but his words left, as he thought they would, their

poison behind. In less than a month from that time, the person had

sought Thorley out, in his lurking-place in the city--for he had, you

recollect, been driven from Blankville by the voice of public

opinion--and had conferred with him upon the possibility of young

Moreland being put out of the way, without risk of discovery of those

who had a hand in it. Thorley agreed to manage every thing without risk

to any one. He wanted three thousand dollars, but his accomplice, who

was aware that you were about to draw two thousand from a bank in New

York, promised him that sum, with which he agreed to be satisfied. It

was expected and planned that the murder should be committed in the

city; but, as the time drew nigh for accomplishing it, opportunity did

not present. Finally, as the steamer upon which Thorley wished to flee

to California was about to sail, and no better thing offered, he

concluded to follow Mr. Moreland out in the evening train, and stab

him, under cover of the rain and darkness, somewhere between the depot

and the house. This he did; then, afraid to take the cars, for fear of

being suspected, he went down along the docks, took possession of a

small boat which lay moored by a chain, broke the chain, and rowed down

the river, completely protected by the storm from human observation.

The next morning found him in New York, dress, complexion and hair

changed, with nothing about him to excite the least suspicion that he

was connected with the tragedy that was just becoming known. However,

he wrote a letter, directed to John Owen, Peekskill, in which he stated

in obscure terms, that the instrument with which the murder was

committed would be found secreted in a certain oak tree on these

premises, and that it had better be taken care of. I have the letter

and the broken instrument. The way it came to be concealed in the tree

was this: After the murder, being so well sheltered by the storm, he

was bold enough to approach the house, in hopes of communicating with

his accomplice, and receiving the money directly from his hands, which

would prevent the latter from the necessity of making a trip to

Brooklyn to pay it. He saw nothing of him, however; perceiving that he

could look into the parlor through the open upper half of the shutter

by climbing the large oak at the corner, he did so; and was looking at

you all for some minutes on that evening. Perceiving by the light which

shone from the window that the instrument was broken at the point, he

at once comprehended how important it was to get rid of it, and

chancing to discover a hollow spot in the limb he stood on, he worked

it well into the rotten heart of the wood. He it was whom Miss Sullivan

detected descending from the tree, on that awful night when she, alas!

led by a hopeless, though a pure love, passing the house on her way to

her aunt's, could not deny herself a stolen look at the happiness of

the two beings so soon, she thought, to be made one. She never expected

to see them again until after their marriage, and a wild, foolish

impulse, if I must call it so, urged her into the garden, to look

through the open bay-window--a folly which came near having serious

consequences for her. George Thorley escaped, and fulfilled the

programme so far as to sail for San Francisco; but the boat stopping at

Acapulco, he received an offer there, from a Spanish gentleman, of the

position of doctor on his immense estates. It was just the country for

a character like that of Thorley to prosper in; he accepted the

proposition, wormed himself into the esteem of the Spaniard, married

his daughter, and was flourishing to his heart's content, when I came

suddenly upon him and disturbed his serenity. Yes! Mr. Argyll, I

started for California after the villain, for I had traces of him which

led me to take the journey, and it was by a providential accident that

I ascertained he was near Acapulco, where I, also, landed, sought him

out, and wrung a confession from him, which I have here in writing. He

has told the story plainly, and I have every other evidence to confirm

it which a court of law could possibly require. I could hang his

accomplice, without doubt."

At the first mention of the name of George Thorley I chanced to be

looking at James, over whose countenance passed an indescribable

change; he moved uneasily, looked at the closed doors, and again

riveted his gaze on Mr. Burton, who did not look at him at all during

the narrative, but kept steadily on, to the end, in a firm, clear tone,

low, so as not to be overheard outside, but assured and distinct.

Having once observed James, I could no longer see any one else. I

seemed to see the story reflected in his countenance, instead of

hearing it. Flushes of heat passed over it, succeeded by an ashy

paleness, which deepened into a sickly blue hue, curious to behold;

dark passions swept like shadows over it; and gradually, as the speaker

neared the climax of his story, I felt like one who gazes into an open

window of the bottomless pit.

"Have I told you _who_ it was that hired George Thorley to murder Henry

Moreland?" asked Mr. Burton, in the pause which followed.

It had been taken for granted who the person was, and as he asked the

question the eyes of all turned to me--of all except James, who

suddenly sprung with a bound against the door opening into the parlor,

which was not locked. But another was too quick for him; the powerful

hand of the detective was on his shoulder, and as he turned the

attempted fugitive full to the light, he said, in words which fell like

fire,

"It was your nephew--James Argyll."

For a moment you might have heard a leaf drop on the carpet; no one

spoke or stirred. Then Eleanor arose from her chair, and, lifting up

her hand, looked with awful eyes at the cowering murderer. Her look

blasted him. He had been writhing under Mr. Burton's grasp; but now, as

if in answer to her gaze, he said,

"Yes--I did it, Eleanor," and dropped to the floor in a swoon.

CHAPTER IX.

JOINING THE MISSING LINKS.

The scene which transpired in the next few minutes was harrowing. The

revulsion of feeling, the shock, the surprise and the horror were

almost too much for human nature to bear. Groan after groan burst from

Mr. Argyll, as if his breast were being rent in twain. Mary tottered to

her sister and threw herself at her feet, with her head buried in her

lap; if she had not been so healthily organized, and of such an even

temperament, I know not how she would have survived this frightful

check to her hopes and affections. It seemed as if Eleanor, who had

lived only to suffer for so many weary months, had now more

self-possession than any of the others; her thin, white hand fell

softly on her sister's curls with a pitying touch; and after a time,

she whispered to her some words. My own surprise was nearly as much as

any one's; for, although many times I had _felt_ that James was the

guilty one, I had always tried to drive away the impression, and had

finally almost succeeded.

In the mean time no one went to the unhappy man, who found a temporary

relief from shame and despair in insensibility. All recoiled from him,

as he lay upon the floor. Finally, Mr. Burton forced himself to raise

him; consciousness was returning, and he placed him on the sofa, and

gave him a handkerchief wet with cologne.

Presently Mary arose from her kneeling position, and looked around the

room until her glance fell on me, when she came toward me, and grasped

both my hands, saying,

"Richard, _I_ never accused you--I always felt that you were innocent,

and always said so. You must forgive the others for my sake. My father

and sister will bear me witness that I always defended you from the

accusations of one who, it is now proved, sought with double, with

inconceivable baseness, to divert suspicion from himself to

another"--her voice trembled with scorn. "I never wanted to marry him,"

she added, bursting into tears, "but they overpersuaded me."

"Quiet yourself, sister," said Eleanor, gently, arising and approaching

us. "We have all wronged you, Richard--I fear beyond forgiveness. Alas!

we can now see what a noble enemy you have been!"

In that moment I felt repaid for all I had suffered, and I said with

joy,

"Never an enemy, Miss Argyll; and I forgive you, wholly."

Then there was another stir; James had risen to slip away from the

company, now so distasteful to him; but Mr. Burton again stood between

him and egress; as he did so, he said,

"Mr. Argyll, it is for you to decide the fate of this miserable man. I

have kept all my proceedings a secret from the public; I even allowed

George Thorley to remain in Mexico, for I thought your family had

already suffered enough, without loading it down with the infamy of

your nephew. If you say that he shall go unpunished by the law, I shall

abide by your wish; this matter shall be kept by the few who now know

it. For _your_ sakes, not for his, I would spare him the death which he

deserves; but he must leave the country at once and for ever."

"Let him go," said the uncle, his back turned upon the murderer, toward

whom he would not look. "Go, instantly and for ever. And remember,

James Argyll, if I ever see your face again, if I ever hear of your

being anywhere in the United States, I shall at once cause you to be

arrested."

"And I, the same," added Mr. Burton. "God knows, if it were not for

these young ladies, whose feelings are sacred to me, I would not let

you off so easily."

He opened the door, and James Argyll slunk out into the night, and

away, none knew whither, branded, expatriated, and alone--away, without

one look at the fair, beautiful girl who was so soon to have been his

bride--away, from the home he had periled his soul to secure.

When he had gone, we all breathed more freely. Mr. Burton had yet much

to say, for he wished to close this horrible business for ever. He took

the surgical instrument which we had found in the tree, and fitted it

to the piece which had been extracted from the body of the murdered

man, and showed the family the initials of George Thorley upon it. He

then produced the written confession of Thorley, which we all read for

ourselves; but as it contained only, in a plain statement, the facts

already given, I will not repeat them here. He then proceeded with the

history of the DEAD LETTER, which, also, he had with him, and which

proved to be in the same handwriting as the confession. In speaking of

the curious manner in which this document had been lost, to be

recovered in the right time by the right person, he seemed to consider

it almost awfully providential.

From this he went on with a minute history of all the steps taken by

both of us, our journey over the ocean, the wonderful success which

waited upon patience, perseverance and energy, securing the final

triumph of justice; and, to conclude with, he said,

[Illustration:

Page 297.

"I NEVER ACCUSED YOU."]

"I owe, still, a good many explanations both to you, Mr. Argyll, and to

Mr. Redfield. I can not lay before you the thousand subtle threads by

which I trace the course of a pursuit like this, and which makes me

successful as a detective; but I can account for some things which at

times have puzzled both of you. In the first place there is about me a

power not possessed by all--call it instinct, magnetism, clairvoyancy,

or remarkable nervous and mental perception. Whatever it is, it enables

me, often, to _feel_ the presence of criminals, as well as of very good

persons, poets, artists, or marked temperaments of any kind. The day on

which this case was placed before me, it was brought by two young men,

your nephew and this person now present. I had not been ten minutes

with them when I began to perceive that _the murderer was in the room

with me_; and before they had left me, I had decided which was the

guilty man. But it would have been unpardonable rashness to denounce

him without proof; by such a course I would throw him on the defensive,

defeat the ends of justice, and overwhelm myself with denunciation. I

waited and watched--I put him under surveillance. That night upon which

he crossed the Brooklyn ferry to pay the money to the hired assassin, I

was upon his track; I heard the angry dismay with which he accused

Richard of following him, when the other met him upon this side. It was

not very long after I began to investigate the case before he

cautiously approached me, as he did you, with hints of the

might-be-guilty party; he made me see how much to the interest of his

friend Richard it would be if rivals were out of the way, and how

desperately that person loved Miss Argyll. (Forgive me, friends, for

using plain language--the whole truth must be told.) But I need not

dwell on his method, for you must be familiar with it. I confess that

he used consummate tact; if I had not read him from the first, I, too,

might have been misled. He was not over-eager in the search for

suspected persons, as the guilty almost always are. He did _not_

suspect Miss Sullivan, as Richard did. I favored the pursuit of Miss

Sullivan for two reasons; the first was to conceal my real suspicions;

the next was, after finding her handkerchief in the garden, after the

flight, and all those really strong grounds for supposing her connected

with the murder, I began to think that she _was_ connected with it,

through some interest in James Argyll. I did not know but that she

might have been attached to him--that the child she cared for might be

his--you see I was totally in the dark as to all the details. I only

took it for granted that James was guilty, and had to gather my proofs

afterward. It was not until after my interview with Leesy, at Moreland

villa, that I became convinced she had nothing to do with the murder,

and that all her strange proceedings were the result of the grief she

felt at the tragic death of one whom she secretly loved. When I had an

interview with you on that same afternoon, I saw that James had

poisoned your mind with suspicions of Mr. Redfield; for the same reason

which had kept me silent so long--that is, that I should eventually

undeceive you--I did not defend him, as I otherwise should. Apparently,

I allowed the case to drop. It was only that I might follow it

undisturbed. I had already fixed upon California as the retreat of the

accomplice, and was about to start off in search of him when Richard

appeared upon the scene with the dead-letter in his hand.

"From that hour I felt sure of perfect success. My only anxiety was

that the marriage should not be consummated which would seal my mouth;

for, if Mary had been married on my return, I should have considered it

too late to reveal the truth. This made me very uneasy--not only for

her sake, but because then I could not clear Mr. Redfield's character

to those friends who had cruelly wronged him. I kept my suspicions from

him, although he was the partner of my investigations, for I was afraid

that his impetuosity might cause him to do something indiscreet, and I

did not want the guilty one alarmed until the net was spread for his

feet. To-night, when I came here, I still further carried on my plan of

allowing you to remain undecided until the last moment, for I counted

on the sudden, overwhelming accusation having the effect to make the

murderer confess--which it did. I wished Miss Sullivan to be present,

not only to corroborate any points of my testimony in which she might

be concerned, but that reparation might also be done her, for we have

troubled and frightened her a great deal, poor thing, when her only

fault has been too keen a perception of the nobility of that departed

martyr, whose memory his friends cherish so sacredly. She has but a

brief space to dwell on earth, and I thought it would comfort her to

know that no one blames her for the pure devotion which has lighted her

soul and consumed it like oil which burns away in perfume."

Mr. Burton never meant to be poetical, but his perceptions were of that

refined kind that he could not withhold from poor Leesy this little

tribute to her noble folly. His words touched Eleanor; she was too

high-minded to despise the fruitless offering of another and a humbler

woman at the shrine before which _she_ was privileged to minister; I

believe in that hour she felt a sister's interest in poor, lowly, but

love-exalted Leesy Sullivan. She crossed over, took the wasted hand in

her own, and pressed it tenderly. We all now perceived how much this

dreadful evening had fatigued the invalid.

"She must go to bed at once," said Eleanor; "I will call Nora, and have

her placed in the room which opens out of ours, Mary."

The young ladies retired to give their gentle attention to the sick

girl; and both, before they went out, pressed my hand as they said

good-night.

We three men remained long, talking over each particular of our strange

story, for we could not feel like sleeping. And before we parted for

the night, Mr. Argyll had humbled himself to confess that he was led to

condemn me without sufficient cause.

"I loved you as a son, Richard," he said, in a broken voice, "better

than I ever loved James, for I was aware that he had many faults of

heart and head. And when I was induced to believe you the author of the

crime which had broken all our hearts, I was still further downcast. My

health has failed, as you see; and I was urgent upon Mary to marry her

cousin, for I felt as if she would soon be left friendless, and I

wanted the girls to have a protector. I might better have left them to

the care of a viper," he added, with a shudder. "Poor Mary, dear girl!

she was right all the time. She never did love that man--though, of

course, she had no idea of the truth. Thank God, it is no worse!"

I knew he was thinking of the marriage, and I, too, murmured, "Thank

God."

"Mr. Argyll," said Mr. Burton, laying his hand on that of the other,

"this terrible affair is now brought to a close, as far as it can be.

Let me advise you to brood over it as little as possible. Your health

is already affected. I acknowledge it is enough to shake one's reason;

but, for that, I would bid you to drop it all from your mind--to banish

the thought of it--never to refer to it again. You can yet be tolerably

happy. A fair future lies before all of you, except dear Miss Eleanor.

Adopt Richard as your son, make him your partner, as you first

intended. I will give you my warrant for what it is worth, that he will

relieve you both of business and household cares--and that you will

feel, during your declining years, as if you, indeed, had a son to

comfort you."

"But I do not believe that Richard would take such a place, after what

has passed," said Mr. Argyll, doubtfully.

I hesitated; for a moment pride rebelled; but since all is forgiven,

ought it not to be forgotten? When I spoke it was with heartiness.

"If you need a partner in your office, and wish me to take the place, I

will do so."

"Then the compact is signed," said Mr. Burton, almost gayly. "And now I

will try to find a bed at the hotel."

"Of course you will not," said our host; "this house is yours as much

as mine, Mr. Burton, always. How much I thank you for all the time,

money and thought you have lavished in our behalf, I will not try to

say to-night. Our gratitude is unspoken because it is boundless."

"Don't thank me for following out the instincts of my nature," said the

detective, affecting carelessness; and with that we shook Mr. Argyll's

hand, and retired to the rooms assigned us.

In the morning Miss Sullivan was found to be much worse; the journey

and the excitement had made her very ill, so that it was impossible for

her to return to the city with Mr. Burton. A physician was sent for who

said that she could not live over two or three days. She heard the

sentence with apparent joy; only she begged Mr. Burton to send little

Nora up to her, on the evening train, that she might see the child

before she died. This he promised to do, and to have always an interest

in her welfare. She was much affected when he bade her farewell, for he

had gained her love and confidence by his manner of treating her.

The child came, and was tenderly received by the sisters. They were

unwearied in their attentions to the sufferer, whose last hours were

soothed by their earnest words of hope and comfort. Leesy died with a

smile on her face, going out of this world, which had been so cold to

one of her impassioned nature, with joy. When I looked at the wasted

corpse, I could hardly realize that the fire was out for ever which had

so long burned in those wonderful eyes--it was not quenched, it had

only been removed to a purer atmosphere. She was buried, very quietly,

but reverently, on a beautiful winter day. Her little charge was much

petted by the young ladies; and as a lady who chanced to see her,

learning that she was an orphan, took a fancy to adopt her, they, with

Mr. Burton's consent, resigned her to a new mother. I have seen little

Nora lately; she is a pretty child, and well cared for.

CHAPTER X.

THE NEW LIFE.

The winter passed away quietly. The sudden absence of James Argyll

caused much harmless gossip in the village. It was reported, and

generally believed, that he had gone abroad, on a tour to Egypt,

because Miss Argyll had jilted him. Fortunately, the arrangements for

the wedding were known to but few, the feelings of the family having

inclined toward a very quiet affair. The little woman who had prepared

the wedding-dress was a New York milliner, who probably never learned

that the wedding was not consummated.

I was very busy in the office. Mr. Argyll's health was poor, and

business had accumulated which took the most of my time. He wished me

to board in his house, but I declined doing so; though, as in the old,

happy times, I spent nearly all my evenings there.

Beyond the first shock, Mary did not seem to suffer from the abrupt

termination of an engagement into which she had entered reluctantly. I

even believed that she felt very much relieved at not being compelled

to marry a cousin for the sake of securing a protector. Her gay laugh

soon resumed its sweetness; her bright loveliness bloomed in the midst

of winter, making roses and sunshine in the old mansion. Eleanor seemed

to love to see her sister happy, gently encouraging her efforts to

drive away the shadow which lingered about the house. Her own sad life

must not be permitted to blight the joy of any other. I have said that

my feelings toward her had changed from passionate love, through

intense sympathy, into affectionate reverence. I think, now, that I

felt toward her a good deal as Mary did--that nothing we could do for

her, to show our silent love and sympathy, could be too much--a tender

regard for her wishes and habits--a deep respect for the manner in

which she bore her loss. We did not expect that she would ever again be

gay or hopeful; so we did not annoy her with trying to make her so.

In the mean time a great change was taking place in my own nature, of

which I was but faintly aware. I only knew that I enjoyed my hard

work--that I felt resolute and strong, and that my evenings were

pleasant and homelike. Further, I did not question. I wrote to my

mother a guarded account of what had occurred; but I was obliged to pay

her a flying visit to explain all the facts, for I dared not trust them

on paper. Thus the winter glided away into sunshine and spring again.

It was the first day which had really seemed like spring. It was warm

and showery; there was a smell of violets and new grass on the air. I

had my office-window open, but as the afternoon wore away, and the sun

shone out after an April sprinkle, I could not abide the dullness of

that court of law. I felt those "blind motions of the spring," which

Tennyson attributes to trees and plants. And verily, I was in sympathy

with nature. I felt _verdant_--and if the reader thinks that to my

discredit, he is at liberty to cherish his opinion. I felt young and

happy--years seemed to have dropped away from me, like a mantle of ice,

leaving the flowers and freshness to appear. Not knowing whither my

fancy would lead me, I walked toward the mansion, and again, as upon

that autumn afternoon upon which I first saw Eleanor after her

calamity, I turned my steps to the arbor which crowned the slope at the

back of the lawn. Thinking of Eleanor, as I saw her then, I entered the

place with a light step, and found Mary sitting, looking off on the

river with a dreamy face. She blushed when she perceived who had

intruded upon her reverie; I saw the warm color sweep, wave after wave,

over the lovely cheek and brow, and I knew instantly the secret it

betrayed. I remembered the arms which had once fallen about my neck,

the tears which had rained upon my cheek from the eyes of a young girl,

the eager voice which had said, "_I_ love you Richard! _I_ will believe

nothing against you!"

Oh, how sweetly the revelation came to me then! My own heart was fully

prepared to receive it. Through months I had been transferring the

wealth of young, hopeful love, which craves the bliss of being shared,

from the sister who was raised so far above mortal passion, to this

dear semblance of her former self. My face must have expressed my

happiness, for when I stood over Mary, as she sat, and turned her sweet

face up toward my own, she gave but one glance before her eyes fell to

hide their thought.

I kissed her, and she kissed me back again, shyly, timidly. She loved

me; I was no longer mateless, but drank the cup of joy which is filled

for youth. What happy children we were, when, late enough after sunset,

we strolled back to the house and went to receive the paternal blessing!

I believe that hour when our betrothal was known was the best which had

blessed the household since the shadow descended upon it.

In June we were married; there was no excuse for delay, and all the

friends expressed themselves urgent to have the matter settled. We

went, on our wedding-tour, to see my mother, with whom we had a long,

delightful visit. Three years have passed since then, and in that time

there have been changes--some of them very sad. Mr. Argyll died about

two years since, his health never rallying from the shock which it

received during those trying times. Since then, we have resided in the

old mansion, and Eleanor lives with us. She is a noble woman--one of

Christ's anointed, who puts aside her own sorrow, to minister to the

griefs and sufferings of others. Both Mary and myself defer a great

deal to her judgment, which is calm and clear, never clouded by

passion, as ours will sometimes be. We feel as if nothing evil could

live where Eleanor is; she is the light and blessing of our household.

The saddest affliction which has fallen upon us since the loss of our

father, is the death of Mr. Burton. Alas! he has fallen a victim, at

last, to the relentless pursuit of enemies which his course in life

raised up about him. The wicked feared him, and compassed his

destruction. Whether he was murdered by some one whom he had detected

in guilt, or by some one who feared the investigations he was making,

is not known; he died of poison administered to him in his food. It

wrings my heart to think that great and good soul is no more of this

world. He was so active, so powerful, of such a genial temperament, it

is hard to conceive him dead. We all loved him so much! Oh, if we could

discover the cowardly assassin! Sometimes I wonder if it may not have

been the man whom he once so mercilessly exposed. God knows--I do not.

Attempts upon his life were many times made, but his acute perceptions

had always, hitherto, warned him of danger.

Lenore is with us. We shall keep her until some lover comes in the

future to rob us of her. She is a rare child--almost a woman now--as

talented as her father, and exceedingly lovely. At present she is

overwhelmed with grief, and clings to Eleanor, who is her best

comforter. In our love for her we try to repay some of the debt we owe

her father.

THE END.

Transcriber's Notes

When italics were used in the original book, the corresponding text has

been surrounded by _underscores_.

Some presumed printer's errors have been corrected, including

normalizing punctuation. Further corrections are listed below with the

printed text (top) and corrected text (bottom):

until it it is

until it is (p. 111)

detcetive

detective (p. 231)

wth

with (p. 266)

reappearance

reäppearance (p. 96; change based on usage elsewhere in the book)

End of Project Gutenberg's The Dead Letter, by Metta Victoria Fuller Victor