BOOK II.

THE WEAVING OF A WEB.

XII.

THE SPIDER.

"Thus far we run before the wind."

IN the interview which Mr. Byrd had held with Miss Dare he had been

conscious of omitting one test which many another man in his place would

have made. This was the utterance of the name of him whom he really

believed to be the murderer of Mrs. Clemmens. Had he spoken this name,

had he allowed himself to breathe the words "Craik Mansell" into the

ears of this agitated woman, or even gone so far as to allude in the

most careless way to the widow's nephew, he felt sure his daring would

have been rewarded by some expression on her part that would have given

him a substantial basis for his theories to rest upon.

But he had too much natural chivalry for this. His feelings as a man got

in the way of his instinct as a detective. Nevertheless, he felt

positive that his suspicions in regard to this nephew of Mrs. Clemmens

were correct, and set about the task of fitting facts to his theory,

with all that settled and dogged determination which follows the pursuit

of a stern duty unwillingly embraced.

Two points required instant settling.

First, the truth or falsehood of his supposition as to the

identification of the person confronted by Miss Dare in the Syracuse

depot with the young man described by Miss Firman as the nephew of Widow

Clemmens.

Secondly, the existence or non-existence of proof going to show the

presence of this person at or near the house of Mrs. Clemmens, during

the time of the assault.

But before proceeding to satisfy himself in regard to these essentials,

he went again to the widow's house and there spent an hour in a careful

study of its inner and outer arrangements, with a view to the formation

of a complete theory as to the manner and method of the murder. He found

that in default of believing Mr. Hildreth the assailant, one supposition

was positively necessary, and this was that the murderer was in the

house when this gentleman came to it. A glance at the diagram on next

page will explain why.

The house, as you will see, has but three entrances: the front door, at

which Mr. Hildreth unconsciously stood guard; the kitchen door, also

unconsciously guarded during the critical moment by the coming and going

of the tramp through the yard; and the dining-room door, which, though

to all appearance free from the surveillance of any eye, was so situated

in reference to the clock at which the widow stood when attacked, that

it was manifestly impossible for any one to enter it and cross the room

to the hearth without attracting the attention of her eye if not of her

ear.

[Illustration: Diagram]

To be sure, there was the bare possibility of his having come in by the

kitchen-door, after the departure of the tramp, but such a contingency

was scarcely worth considering. The almost certain conclusion was that

he had been in the house for some time, and was either in the

dining-room when Mrs. Clemmens returned to it from her interview with

Mr. Hildreth, or else came down to it from the floor above by means of

the staircase that so strangely descended into that very room.

Another point looked equally clear. The escape of the murderer--still in

default of considering Mr. Hildreth as such--must have been by means of

one of the back doors, and must have been in the direction of the woods.

To be sure there was a stretch of uneven and marshy ground to be

travelled over before the shelter of the trees could be reached; but a

person driven by fear could, at a pinch, travel it in five minutes or

less; and a momentary calculation on the part of Mr. Byrd sufficed to

show him that more time than this had elapsed from the probable instant

of assault to the moment when Mr. Ferris opened the side door and looked

out upon the swamp.

The dearth of dwellings on the left-hand side of the street, and,

consequently, the comparative immunity from observation which was given

to that portion of the house which over-looked the swamp, made him

conclude that this outlet from the dining-room had been the one made use

of in the murderer's flight. A glance down the yard to the broken fence

that separated the widow's land from the boggy fields beyond, only

tended to increase the probabilities of this supposition, and, alert to

gain for himself that full knowledge of the situation necessary to a

successful conduct of this mysterious affair, he hastily left the house

and started across the swamp, with the idea of penetrating the woods and

discovering for himself what opportunity they afforded for concealment

or escape.

He had more difficulty in doing this than he expected. The ground about

the hillocks was half-sunk in water, and the least slip to one side

invariably precipitated him among the brambles that encumbered this

spot. Still, he compassed his task in little more than five minutes,

arriving at the firm ground, and its sturdy growth of beeches and

maples, well covered with mud, but so far thoroughly satisfied with the

result of his efforts.

The next thing to be done was to search the woods, not for the purpose

of picking up clues--it was too late for that--but to determine what

sort of a refuge they afforded, and whether, in the event of a man's

desiring to penetrate them quickly, many impediments would arise in the

shape of tangled underground or loose-lying stones.

He found them remarkably clear; so much so, indeed, that he travelled

for some distance into their midst before he realized that he had passed

beyond their borders. More than this, he came ere long upon something

like a path, and, following it, emerged into a sort of glade, where,

backed up against a high rock, stood a small and seemingly deserted hut.

It was the first object he had met with that in any way suggested the

possible presence of man, and advancing to it with cautious steps, he

looked into its open door-way. Nothing met his eyes but an empty

interior, and without pausing to bestow upon the building a further

thought, he hurried on through a path he saw opening beyond it, till he

came to the end of the wood.

Stepping forth, he paused in astonishment. Instead of having penetrated

the woods in a direct line, he found that he had merely described a half

circle through them, and now stood on a highway leading directly back

into the town.

Likewise, he was in full sight of the terminus of a line of horse-cars

that connected this remote region of Sibley with its business portion,

and though distant a good mile from the railway depot, was, to all

intents and purposes, as near that means of escape as he would have been

in the street in front of Widow Clemmens' house.

Full of thoughts and inly wondering over the fatality that had confined

the attention of the authorities to the approaches afforded by the lane,

to the utter exclusion of this more circuitous, but certainly more

elusive, road of escape, he entered upon the highway, and proceeded to

gain the horse-car he saw standing at the head of the road, a few rods

away. As he did so, he for the first time realized just where he was.

The elegant villa of Professor Darling rising before him on the ridge

that ran along on the right-hand side of the road, made it at once

evident that he was on the borders of that choice and aristocratic

quarter known as the West Side. It was a new region to him, and,

pausing for a moment, he cast his eyes over the scene which lay

stretched out before him. He had frequently heard it said that the view

commanded by the houses on the ridge was the finest in the town, and he

was not disappointed in it. As he looked across the verdant basin of

marshy ground around which the road curved like a horseshoe, he could

see the city spread out like a map before him. So unobstructed, indeed,

was the view he had of its various streets and buildings, that he

thought he could even detect, amid the taller and more conspicuous

dwellings, the humble walls and newly-shingled roof of the widow's

cottage.

But he could not be sure of this; his eyesight was any thing but

trustworthy for long distances, and hurrying forward to the car, he took

his seat just as it was about to start.

It carried him straight into town, and came to a standstill not ten feet

from the railroad depot. As he left it and betook himself back to his

hotel, he gave to his thoughts a distinct though inward expression.

"If," he mused, "my suppositions in regard to this matter are true, and

another man than Mr. Hildreth struck the fatal blow, then I have just

travelled over the self-same route he took in his flight."

But were his suppositions true? It remained for him to determine.

XIII.

THE FLY.

Like--but oh! how different.--WORDSWORTH.

THE paper mill of Harrison, Goodman & Chamberlain was situated in one of

the main thoroughfares of Buffalo. It was a large but otherwise

unpretentious building, and gave employment to a vast number of

operatives, mostly female.

Some of these latter might have been surprised, and possibly a little

fluttered, one evening, at seeing a well-dressed young gentleman

standing at the gate as they came forth, gazing with languid interest

from one face to another, as if he were on the look-out for some one of

their number.

But they would have been yet more astonished could they have seen him

still lingering after the last one had passed, watching with unabated

patience the opening and shutting of the small side door devoted to the

use of the firm, and such employes as had seats in the office. It was

Mr. Byrd, and his purpose there at this time of day was to see and

review the whole rank and file of the young men employed in the place,

in the hope of being able to identify the nephew of Mrs. Clemmens by his

supposed resemblance to the person whose character of face and form had

been so minutely described to him.

For Mr. Byrd was a just man and a thoughtful one, and knowing this

identification to be the key-stone of his lately formed theory, desired

it to be complete and of no doubtful character. He accordingly held fast

to his position, watching and waiting, seemingly in vain, for the dark,

powerful face and the sturdily-built frame of the gentleman whose

likeness he had attempted to draw in conjunction with that of Miss Dare.

But, though he saw many men of all sorts and kinds issue from one door

or another of this vast building, not one of them struck him with that

sudden and unmistakable sense of familiarity which he had a right to

expect, and he was just beginning to doubt if the whole framework of his

elaborately-formed theory was not destined to fall into ruins, when the

small door, already alluded to, opened once more, and a couple of

gentlemen came out.

The appearance of one of them gave Mr. Byrd a start. He was young,

powerfully built, wore a large mustache, and had a complexion of unusual

swarthiness. There was character, too, in his face, though not so much

as Mr. Byrd had expected to see in the nephew of Mrs. Clemmens. Still,

people differ about degrees of expression, and to his informant this

face might have appeared strong. He was dressed in a business suit, and

was without an overcoat--two facts that made it difficult for Mr. Byrd

to get any assistance from the cut and color of his clothes.

But there was enough in the general style and bearing of this person to

make Mr. Byrd anxious to know his name. He, therefore, took it upon

himself to follow him--a proceeding which brought him to the corner just

in time to see the two gentlemen separate, and the especial one in whom

he was interested, step into a car.

He succeeded in getting a seat in the same car, and for some blocks had

the pleasure of watching the back of the supposed Mansell, as he stood

on the front platform with the driver. Then others got in, and the

detective's view was obstructed, and presently--he never could tell how

it was--he lost track of the person he was shadowing, and when the

chance came for another sight of the driver and platform, the young man

was gone.

Annoyed beyond expression, Mr. Byrd went to a hotel, and next day sent

to the mill and procured the address of Mr. Mansell. Going to the place

named, he found it to be a very respectable boarding-house, and,

chancing upon a time when more or less of the rooms were empty,

succeeded in procuring for himself an apartment there.

So here he was a fixture in the house supposed by him to hold the

murderer of Mrs. Clemmens. When the time for dinner came, and with it an

opportunity for settling the vexed question of Mr. Mansell's identity

not only with the man in the Syracuse depot, but with the person who had

eluded his pursuit the day before, something of the excitement of the

hunter in view of his game seized upon this hitherto imperturbable

detective, and it was with difficulty he could sustain his usual _role_

of fashionable indifference.

He arrived at the table before any of the other boarders, and presently

a goodly array of amiable matrons, old and young gentlemen, and pretty

girls came filing into the room, and finally--yes, finally--the

gentleman whom he had followed from the mill the day before, and whom he

now had no hesitation in fixing upon as Mr. Mansell.

But the satisfaction occasioned by the settlement of this perplexing

question was dampened somewhat by a sudden and uneasy sense of being

himself at a disadvantage. Why he should feel thus he did not know.

Perhaps the almost imperceptible change which took place in that

gentleman's face as their eyes first met, may have caused the

unlooked-for sensation; though why Mr. Mansell should change at the

sight of one who must have been a perfect stranger to him, was more than

Mr. Byrd could understand. It was enough that the latter felt he had

made a mistake in not having donned a disguise before entering this

house, and that, oppressed by the idea, he withdrew his attention from

the man he had come to watch, and fixed it upon more immediate and

personal matters.

The meal was half over. Mr. Byrd who, as a stranger of more than

ordinary good looks and prepossessing manners, had been placed by the

obliging landlady between her own daughter and a lady of doubtful

attractions, was endeavoring to improve his advantages and make himself

as agreeable as possible to both of his neighbors, when he heard a lady

near him say aloud, "You are late, Mr. Mansell," and, looking up in his

amazement, saw entering the door---- Well, in the presence of the real

owner of this name, he wondered he ever could have fixed upon the other

man as the original of the person that had been described to him. The

strong face, the sombre expression, the herculean frame, were unique,

and in the comparison which they inevitably called forth, made all other

men in the room look dwarfed if not actually commonplace.

Greatly surprised at this new turn of affairs, and satisfied that he at

last had before him the man who had confronted Miss Dare in the Syracuse

depot, he turned his attention back to the ladies. He, however, took

care to keep one ear open on the side of the new-comer, in the hope of

gleaning from his style and manner of conversation some notion of his

disposition and nature.

But Craik Mansell was at no time a talkative man, and at this especial

period of his career was less inclined than ever to enter into the

trivial debates or good-natured repartee that was the staple of

conversation at Mrs. Hart's table.

So Mr. Byrd's wishes in this regard were foiled. He succeeded, however,

in assuring himself by a square look, into the other's face, that to

whatever temptation this man may have succumbed, or of whatever crime he

may have been guilty, he was by nature neither cold, cruel, nor

treacherous, and that the deadly blow, if dealt by him, was the

offspring of some sudden impulse or violent ebullition of temper, and

was being repented of with every breath he drew.

But this discovery, though it modified Mr. Byrd's own sense of personal

revolt against the man, could not influence him in the discharge of his

duty, which was to save another of less interesting and perhaps less

valuable traits of character from the consequences of a crime he had

never committed. It was, therefore, no more than just, that, upon

withdrawing from the table, he should endeavor to put himself in the way

of settling that second question, upon whose answer in the affirmative

depended the rightful establishment of his secret suspicions.

That was, whether this young man was at or near the house of his aunt at

the time when she was assaulted.

Mrs. Hart's parlors were always thrown open to her boarders in the

evening.

There, at any time from seven to ten, you might meet a merry crowd of

young people intent upon enjoying themselves, and usually highly

successful in their endeavors to do so. Into this throng Mr. Byrd

accordingly insinuated himself, and being of the sort to win instant

social recognition, soon found he had but to make his choice in order to

win for himself that _tete-a-tete_ conversation from which he hoped so

much. He consequently surveyed the company with a critical eye, and soon

made up his mind as to which lady was the most affable in her manners

and the least likely to meet his advances with haughty reserve, and

having won an introduction to her, sat down at her side with the stern

determination of making her talk about Mr. Mansell.

"You have a very charming company here," he remarked; "the house seems

to be filled with a most cheerful class of people."

"Yes," was the not-unlooked-for reply. "We are all merry enough if we

except Mr. Mansell. But, of course, there is excuse for him. No one

expects him to join in our sports."

"Mr. Mansell? the gentleman who came in late to supper?" repeated Mr.

Byrd, with no suggestion of the secret satisfaction he felt at the

immediate success of his scheme.

"Yes, he is in great trouble, you know; is the nephew of the woman who

was killed a few days ago at Sibley, don't you remember? The widow lady

who was struck on the head by a man of the name of Hildreth, and who

died after uttering something about a ring, supposed by many to be an

attempt on her part to describe the murderer?"

"Yes," was the slow, almost languid, response; "and a dreadful thing,

too; quite horrifying in its nature. And so this Mr. Mansell is her

nephew?" he suggestively repeated. "Odd! I suppose he has told you all

about the affair?"

"He? Mercy! I don't suppose you could get him to say anything about it

to save your life. He isn't of the talking sort. Besides, I don't

believe he knows any more about it than you or I. He hasn't been to

Sibley."

"Didn't he go to the funeral?"

"No; he said he was too ill; and indeed he was shut up one whole day

with a terrible sore throat. He is the heir, too, of all her savings,

they say; but he won't go to Sibley. Some folks think it is queer, but

I----"

Here her eyes wandered and her almost serious look vanished in a

somewhat coquettish smile. Following her gaze with his own, Mr. Byrd

perceived a gentleman approaching. It was the one he had first taken for

Mr. Mansell.

"Beg pardon," was the somewhat abrupt salutation with which this person

advanced. "But they are proposing a game in the next room, and Miss

Clayton's assistance is considered absolutely indispensable."

"Mr. Brown, first allow me to make you acquainted with Mr. Byrd," said

the light-hearted damsel, with a gracious inclination. "As you are both

strangers, it is well for you to know each other, especially as I expect

you to join in our games."

"Thank you," protested Mr. Brown, "but I don't play games." Then seeing

the deep bow of acquiescence which Mr. Byrd was making, added, with what

appeared to be a touch of jealousy, "Except under strong provocation,"

and holding out his arm, offered to escort the young lady into the next

room.

With an apologetic glance at Mr. Byrd, she accepted the attention

proffered her, and speedily vanished into the midst of the laughing

group that awaited her.

Mr. Byrd found himself alone.

"Check number one," thought he; and he bestowed any thing but an amiable

benediction upon the man who had interrupted him in the midst of so

promising a conversation.

His next move was in the direction of the landlady's daughter, who,

being somewhat shy, favored a retired nook behind the piano. They had

been neighbors at table, and he could at once address her without fear

of seeming obtrusive.

"I do not see here the dark young gentleman whom you call Mr. Mansell?"

he remarked, inquiringly.

"Oh, no; he is in trouble. A near relative of his was murdered in cold

blood the other day, and under the most aggravating circumstances.

Haven't you heard about it? She was a Mrs. Clemmens, and lived in

Sibley. It was in all the papers."

"Ah, yes; I remember about it very well. And so he is her nephew," he

went on, recklessly repeating himself in his determination to elicit all

he could from these young and thoughtless misses. "A peculiar-looking

young man; has the air of thoroughly understanding himself."

"Yes, he is very smart, they say."

"Does he never talk?"

"Oh, yes; that is, he used to; but, since his aunt's death, we don't

expect it. He is very much interested in machinery, and has invented

something----"

"Oh, Clara, you are not going to sit here," interposed the reproachful

voice of a saucy-eyed maiden, who at this moment peeped around the

corner of the piano. "We want all the recruits we can get," she cried,

with a sudden blush, as she encountered the glance of Mr. Byrd. "Do

come, and bring the gentleman too." And she slipped away to join that

very Mr. Brown who, by his importunities, had been the occasion of the

former interruption from which Mr. Byrd had suffered.

"That man and I will quarrel yet," was the mental exclamation with which

the detective rose. "Shall we join your friends?" asked he, assuming an

unconcern he was far from feeling.

"Yes, if you please," was the somewhat timid, though evidently pleased,

reply.

And Mr. Byrd noted down in his own mind check number two.

The game was a protracted one. Twice did he think to escape from the

merry crowd he had entered, and twice did he fail to do so. The

indefatigable Brown would not let him slip, and it was only by a

positive exertion of his will that he finally succeeded in withdrawing

himself.

"I wish to have a word with your mother," he explained, in reply to the

look of protest with which Miss Hart honored his departure. "I hear she

retires early; so you will excuse me if I leave somewhat abruptly."

And to Mrs. Hart's apartment he at once proceeded, and, by dint of his

easy assurance, soon succeeded in leading her, as he had already done

the rest, into a discussion of the one topic for which he had an

interest. He had not time, however, to glean much from her, for, just as

she was making the admission that Mr. Mansell had not been home at the

time of the murder, a knock was heard at the door, and, with an affable

bow and a short, quick stare of surprise at Mr. Byrd, the ubiquitous Mr.

Brown stepped in and took a seat on the sofa, with every appearance of

intending to make a call.

At this third check, Mr. Byrd was more than annoyed. Rising, however,

with the most amiable courtesy, he bowed his acknowledgments to the

landlady, and, without heeding her pressing invitation to remain and

make the acquaintance of Mr. Brown, left the room and betook himself

back to the parlors.

He was just one minute too late. The last of the boarders had gone

up-stairs, and only an empty room met his eyes.

He at once ascended to his own apartment. It was on the fourth floor.

There were many other rooms on this floor, and for a moment he could not

remember which was his own door. At last, however, he felt sure it was

the third one from the stairs, and, going to it, gave a short knock in

case of mistake, and, hearing no reply, opened it and went in.

The first glance assured him that his recollection had played him false,

and that he was in the wrong room. The second, that he was in that of

Mr. Mansell. The sight of the small model of a delicate and intricate

machine that stood in full view on a table before him would have been

sufficient assurance of this fact, even if the inventor himself had been

absent. But he was there. Seated at a table, with his back to the door,

and his head bowed forward on his arms, he presented such a picture of

misery or despair, that Mr. Byrd felt his sympathies touched in spite of

himself, and hastily stumbling backward, was about to confusedly

withdraw, when a doubt struck him as to the condition of the deathly,

still, and somewhat pallid figure before him, and, stepping hurriedly

forward, he spoke the young man's name, and, failing to elicit a

response, laid his hand on his shoulder, with an apology for disturbing

him, and an inquiry as to how he felt.

The touch acted where the voice had failed. Leaping from his partly

recumbent position, Craik Mansell faced the intruder with indignant

inquiry written in every line of his white and determined face.

"To what do I owe this intrusion?" he cried, his nostrils expanding and

contracting with an anger that proved the violence of his nature when

aroused.

"First, to my carelessness," responded Mr. Byrd; "and, secondly----" But

there he paused, for the first time in his life, perhaps, absolutely

robbed of speech. His eye had fallen upon a picture that the other held

clutched in his vigorous right hand. It was a photograph of Imogene

Dare, and it was made conspicuous by two heavy black lines which had

been relentlessy drawn across the face in the form of a cross.

"Secondly," he went on, after a moment, resolutely tearing his gaze away

from this startling and suggestive object, "to my fears. I thought you

looked ill, and could not forbear making an effort to reassure myself

that all was right."

"Thank you," ejaculated the other, in a heavy weariful tone. "I am

perfectly well." And with a short bow he partially turned his back, with

a distinct intimation that he desired to be left alone.

Mr. Byrd could not resist this appeal. Glad as he would have been for

even a moment's conversation with this man, he was, perhaps

unfortunately, too much of a gentleman to press himself forward against

the expressed wishes even of a suspected criminal. He accordingly

withdrew to the door, and was about to open it and go out, when it was

flung violently forward, and the ever-obtrusive Brown stepped in.

This second intrusion was more than unhappy Mr. Mansell could stand.

Striding passionately forward, he met the unblushing Brown at full tilt,

and angrily pointing to the door, asked if it was not the custom of

gentlemen to knock before entering the room of strangers.

"I beg pardon," said the other, backing across the threshold, with a

profuse display of confusion. "I had no idea of its being a stranger's

room. I thought it was my own. I--I was sure that my door was the third

from the stairs. Excuse me, excuse me." And he bustled noisily out.

This precise reproduction of his own train of thought and action

confounded Mr. Byrd.

Turning with a deprecatory glance to the perplexed and angry occupant of

the room, he said something about not knowing the person who had just

left them; and then, conscious that a further contemplation of the stern

and suffering countenance before him would unnerve him for the duty he

had to perform, hurriedly withdrew.

XIV.

A LAST ATTEMPT.

When Fortune means to men most good,

She looks upon them with a threatening eye.--KING JOHN.

THE sleep of Horace Byrd that night was any thing but refreshing. In the

first place, he was troubled about this fellow Brown, whose last

impertinence showed he was a man to be watched, and, if possible,

understood. Secondly, he was haunted by a vision of the unhappy youth he

had just left; seeing, again and again, both in his dreams and in the

rush of heated fancies which followed his awaking, that picture of utter

despair which the opening of his neighbor's door had revealed. He could

not think of that poor mortal as sleeping. Whether it was the result of

his own sympathetic admiration for Miss Dare, or of some subtle

clairvoyance bestowed upon him by the darkness and stillness of the

hour, he felt assured that the quiet watch he had interrupted by his

careless importunity, had been again established, and that if he could

tear down the partition separating their two rooms, he should see that

bowed form and buried face crouched despairingly above the disfigured

picture. The depths of human misery and the maddening passions that

underlie all crime had been revealed to him for the first time,

perhaps, in all their terrible suggestiveness, and he asked himself over

and over as he tossed on his uneasy pillow, if he possessed the needful

determination to carry on the scheme he had undertaken, in face of the

unreasoning sympathies which the fathomless misery of this young man had

aroused. Under the softening influences of the night, he answered, No;

but when the sunlight came and the full flush of life with its restless

duties and common necessities awoke within him, he decided, Yes.

Mr. Mansell was not at the breakfast-table when Mr. Byrd came down. His

duties at the mill were peremptory, and he had already taken his coffee

and gone. But Mr. Brown was there, and at sight of him Mr. Byrd's

caution took alarm, and he bestowed upon this intrusive busybody a close

and searching scrutiny. It, however, elicited nothing in the way of his

own enlightenment beyond the fact that this fellow, total stranger

though he seemed, was for some inexplicable reason an enemy to himself

or his plans.

Not that Mr. Brown manifested this by any offensive token of dislike or

even of mistrust. On the contrary, he was excessively polite, and let

slip no opportunity of dragging Mr. Byrd into the conversation. Yet, for

all that, a secret influence was already at work against the detective,

and he could not attribute it to any other source than the jealous

efforts of this man. Miss Hart was actually curt to him, and in the

attitude of the various persons about the board he detected a certain

reserve which had been entirely absent from their manner the evening

before.

But while placing, as he thought, due weight upon this fellow's

animosity, he had no idea to what it would lead, till he went up-stairs.

Mrs. Hart, who had hitherto treated him with the utmost cordiality, now

called him into the parlor, and told him frankly that she would be

obliged to him if he would let her have his room. To be sure, she

qualified the seeming harshness of her request by an intimation that a

permanent occupant had applied for it, and offered to pay his board at

the hotel till he could find a room to suit him in another house; but

the fact remained that she was really in a flutter to rid herself of

him, and no subterfuge could hide it, and Mr. Byrd, to whose plans the

full confidence of those around him was essential, found himself obliged

to acquiesce in her desires, and announce at once his willingness to

depart.

Instantly she was all smiles, and overwhelmed him with overtures of

assistance; but he courteously declined her help, and, flying from her

apologies with what speed he could, went immediately to his room. Here

he sat down to deliberate.

The facts he had gleaned, despite the interference of his unknown enemy,

were three:

First, that Craik Mansell had found excuses for not attending the

inquest, or even the funeral, of his murdered aunt.

Secondly, that he had a strong passion for invention, and had even now

the model of a machine on hand.

And third, that he was not at home, wherever else he may have been, on

the morning of the murder in Sibley.

"A poor and meagre collection of insignificant facts," thought Mr. Byrd.

"Too poor and meagre to avail much in stemming the tide threatening to

overwhelm Gouverneur Hildreth."

But what opportunity remained for making them weightier? He was turned

from the house that held the few persons from whom he could hope to

glean more complete and satisfactory information, and he did not know

where else to seek it unless he went to the mill. And this was an

alternative from which he shrank, as it would, in the first place,

necessitate a revelation of his real character; and, secondly, make

known the fact that Mr. Mansell was under the surveillance of the

police, if not in the actual attitude of a suspected man.

A quick and hearty, "Shure, you are very good, sir!" uttered in the hall

without roused him from his meditations and turned his thoughts in a new

direction. What if he could learn something from the servants? He had

not thought of them. This girl, now, whose work constantly carried her

into the various rooms on this floor, would, of course, know whether Mr.

Mansell had been away on the day of the murder, even if she could not

tell the precise time of his return. At all events, it was worth while

to test her with a question or two before he left, even if he had to

resort to the means of spurring her memory with money. His failure in

other directions did not necessitate a failure here.

He accordingly called her in, and showing her a bright silver dollar,

asked her if she thought it good enough pay for a short answer to a

simple question.

To his great surprise she blushed and drew back, shaking her head and

muttering that her mistress didn't like to have the girls talk to the

young men about the house, and finally going off with a determined toss

of her frowsy head, that struck Mr. Byrd aghast, and made him believe

more than ever that his evil star hung in the ascendant, and that the

sooner he quit the house the better.

In ten minutes he was in the street.

But one thing now remained for him to do. He must make the acquaintance

of one of the mill-owners, or possibly of an overseer or accountant, and

from him learn where Mr. Mansell had been at the time of his aunt's

murder. To this duty he devoted the day; but here also he was met by

unexpected difficulties. Though he took pains to disguise himself before

proceeding to the mill, all the endeavors which he made to obtain an

interview there with any responsible person were utterly fruitless.

Whether his ill-luck at the house had followed him to this place he

could not tell, but, for some reason or other, there was not one of the

gentlemen for whom he inquired but had some excuse for not seeing him;

and, worn out at last with repeated disappointments, if not oppressed

by the doubtful looks he received from the various subordinates who

carried his messages, he left the building, and proceeded to make use of

the only means now left him of compassing his end.

This was to visit Mr. Goodman, the one member of the firm who was not at

his post that day, and see if from him he could gather the single fact

he was in search of.

"Perhaps the atmosphere of distrust with which I am surrounded in this

quarter has not reached this gentleman's house," thought he. And having

learned from the directory where that house was, he proceeded

immediately to it.

His reception was by no means cordial. Mr. Goodman had been ill the

night before, and was in no mood to see strangers.

"Mansell?" he coolly repeated, in acknowledgment of the other's inquiry

as to whether he had a person of that name in his employ. "Yes, our

book-keeper's name is Mansell. May I ask"--and here Mr. Byrd felt

himself subjected to a thorough, if not severe, scrutiny--"why you come

to me with inquiries concerning him?"

"Because," the determined detective responded, adopting at once the bold

course, "you can put me in possession of a fact which it eminently

befits the cause of justice to know. I am an emissary, sir, from the

District Attorney at Sibley, and the point I want settled is, where Mr.

Mansell was on the morning of the twenty-sixth of September?"

This was business, and the look that involuntarily leaped into Mr.

Goodman's eye proved that he considered it so. He did not otherwise

betray this feeling, however, but turned quite calmly toward a chair,

into which he slowly settled himself before replying:

"And why do you not ask the gentleman himself where he was? He probably

would be quite ready to tell you."

The inflection he gave to these words warned Mr. Byrd to be careful. The

truth was, Mr. Goodman was Mr. Mansell's best friend, and as such had

his own reasons for not being especially communicative in his regard, to

this stranger. The detective vaguely felt this, and immediately changed

his manner.

"I have no doubt of that, sir," he ingenuously answered. "But Mr.

Mansell has had so much to distress him lately, that I was desirous of

saving him from the unpleasantness which such a question would

necessarily cause. It is only a small matter, sir. A person--it is not

essential to state whom--has presumed to raise the question among the

authorities in Sibley as to whether Mr. Mansell, as heir of poor Mrs.

Clemmens' small property, might not have had some hand in her dreadful

death. There was no proof to sustain the assumption, and Mr. Mansell was

not even known to have been in the town on or after the day of her

murder; but justice, having listened to the aspersion, felt bound to

satisfy itself of its falsity; and I was sent here to learn where Mr.

Mansell was upon that fatal day. I find he was not in Buffalo. But this

does not mean he was in Sibley, and I am sure that, if you will, you can

supply me with facts that will lead to a complete and satisfactory

_alibi_ for him."

But the hard caution of the other was not to be moved.

"I am sorry," said he, "but I can give you no information in regard to

Mr. Mansell's travels. You will have to ask the gentleman himself."

"You did not send him out on business of your own, then?"

"No."

"But you knew he was going?"

"Yes."

"And can tell when he came back?"

"He was in his place on Wednesday."

The cold, dry nature of these replies convinced Mr. Byrd that something

more than the sullen obstinacy of an uncommunicative man lay behind this

determined reticence. Looking at Mr. Goodman inquiringly, he calmly

remarked:

"You are a friend of Mr. Mansell?"

The answer came quick and coldly:

"He is a constant visitor at my house."

Mr. Byrd made a respectful bow.

"You can, then, have no doubts of his ability to prove an _alibi_?"

"I have no doubts concerning Mr. Mansell," was the stern and

uncompromising reply.

Mr. Byrd at once felt he had received his dismissal. But before making

up his mind to go, he resolved upon one further effort. Calling to his

aid his full power of acting, he slowly shook his head with a thoughtful

air, and presently murmured half aloud and half, as it were, to himself:

"I thought, possibly, he might have gone to Washington." Then, with a

casual glance at Mr. Goodman, added: "He is an inventor, I believe?"

"Yes," was again the laconic response.

"Has he not a machine at present which he desires to bring to the notice

of some capitalist?"

"I believe he has," was the forced and none too amiable answer.

Mr. Byrd at once leaned confidingly forward.

"Don't you think," he asked, "that he may have gone to New York to

consult with some one about this pet hobby of his? It would certainly be

a natural thing for him to do, and if I only knew it was so, I could go

back to Sibley with an easy conscience."

His disinterested air, and the tone of kindly concern which he had

adopted, seemed at last to produce its effect on his companion. Relaxing

a trifle of his austerity, Mr. Goodman went so far as to admit that Mr.

Mansell had told him that business connected with his patent had called

him out of town; but beyond this he would allow nothing; and Mr. Byrd,

baffled in his attempts to elicit from this man any distinct

acknowledgment of Mr. Mansell's whereabouts at the critical time of Mrs.

Clemmens' death, made a final bow and turned toward the door.

It was only at this moment he discovered that Mr. Goodman and himself

had not been alone in the room; that curled up in one of the

window-seats was a little girl of some ten or twelve years of age, who

at the first tokens of his taking his departure slipped shyly down to

the floor and ran before him out into the hall. He found her by the

front door when he arrived there. She was standing with her hand on the

knob, and presented such a picture of childish eagerness, tempered by

childish timidity, that he involuntarily paused before her with a smile.

She needed no further encouragement.

"Oh, sir, I know about Mr. Mansell!" she cried. "He wasn't in that place

you talk about, for he wrote a letter to papa just the day before he

came back, and the postmark on the envelope was Monteith. I remember,

because it was the name of the man who made our big map." And, looking

up with that eager zeal which marks the liking of very little folks for

some one favorite person among their grown acquaintances, she added,

earnestly: "I do hope you won't let them say any thing bad about Mr.

Mansell, he is so good."

And without waiting for a reply, she ran off, her curls dancing, her

eyes sparkling, all her little innocent form alive with the joy of

having done a kindness, as she thought, for her favorite, Mr. Mansell.

Mr. Byrd, on the contrary, felt a strange pang that the information he

had sought for so long and vainly should come at last from the lips of

an innocent child.

Monteith, as you remember, was the next station to Sibley.

XV.

THE END OF A TORTUOUS PATH.

Thus bad begins and worse remains behind.--HAMLET.

THE arrest of Mr. Hildreth had naturally quieted public suspicion by

fixing attention upon a definite point, so that when Mr. Byrd returned

to Sibley he found that he could pursue whatever inquiries he chose

without awakening the least mistrust that he was on the look-out for the

murderer of Mrs. Clemmens.

The first use he made of his time was to find out if Mr. Mansell, or any

man answering to his description, had been seen to take the train from

the Sibley station on the afternoon or evening of the fatal Tuesday. The

result was unequivocal. No such person had been seen there, and no such

person was believed to have been at the station at any time during that

day. This was his first disappointment.

He next made the acquaintance of the conductors on that line of

street-cars by means of which he believed Mr. Mansell to have made his

escape. But with no better result. Not one of them remembered having

taken up, of late, any passenger from the terminus, of the appearance

described by Mr. Byrd.

And this was his second disappointment.

His next duty was obviously to change his plan of action and make the

town of Monteith the centre of his inquiries. But he hesitated to do

this till he had made one other visit to the woods in whose recesses he

still believed the murderer to have plunged immediately upon dealing the

fatal blow.

He went by the way of the street railroad, not wishing to be again seen

crossing the bog, and arrived at the hut in the centre of the glade

without meeting any one or experiencing the least adventure.

This time he went in, but nothing was to be seen save bare logs, a rough

hearth where a fire had once been built, and the rudest sort of bench

and table; and hurrying forth again, he looked doubtfully up and down

the glade in pursuit of some hint to guide him in his future researches.

Suddenly he received one. The thick wall of foliage which at first

glance revealed but the two outlets already traversed by him, showed

upon close inspection a third path, opening well behind the hut, and

leading, as he soon discovered, in an entirely opposite direction from

that which had taken him to West Side. Merely stopping to cast one

glance at the sun, which was still well overhead, he set out on this new

path. It was longer and much more intricate than the other. It led

through hollows and up steeps, and finally out into an open blackberry

patch, where it seemed to terminate. But a close study of the

surrounding bushes, soon disclosed signs of a narrow and thread-like

passage curving about a rocky steep. Entering this he presently found

himself drawn again into the woods, which he continued to traverse till

he came to a road cut through the heart of the forest, for the use of

the lumbermen. Here he paused. Should he turn to the right or left? He

decided to turn to the right. Keeping in the road, which was rough with

stones where it was not marked with the hoofs of both horses and cattle,

he walked for some distance. Then he emerged into open space again, and

discovered that he was on the hillside overlooking Monteith, and that by

a mile or two's further walk over the highway that was dimly to be

descried at the foot of the hill, he would reach the small station

devoted to the uses of the quarrymen that worked in this place.

There was no longer any further doubt that this route, and not the

other, had been the one taken by Mr. Mansell on that fatal afternoon.

But he was determined not to trust any further to mere surmises; so

hastening down the hill, he made his way in the direction of the

highway, meaning to take the walk alluded to, and learn for himself what

passengers had taken the train at this point on the Tuesday afternoon so

often mentioned.

But a barrier rose in his way. A stream which he had barely noticed in

the quick glance he threw over the landscape from the brow of the hill,

separated with quite a formidable width of water the hillside from the

road, and it was not till he wandered back for some distance along its

banks, that he found a bridge. The time thus lost was considerable, but

he did not think of it; and when, after a long and weary tramp, he

stepped upon the platform of the small station, he was so eager to learn

if he had correctly followed the scent, that he forgot to remark that

the road he had taken was any thing but an easy or feasible one for a

hasty escape.

The accommodation-trains, which alone stop at this point, had both

passed, and he found the station-master at leisure. A single glance into

his honest and intelligent face convinced the detective that he had a

reliable man to deal with. He at once commenced his questions.

"Do many persons besides the quarrymen take the train at this place?"

asked he.

"Not many," was the short but sufficiently good-natured rejoinder. "I

guess I could easily count them on the fingers of one hand," he laughed.

"You would be apt to notice, then, if a strange gentleman got on board

here at any time, would you not?"

"Guess so; not often troubled that way, but sometimes--sometimes."

"Can you tell me whether a young man of very dark complexion, heavy

mustache, and a determined, if not excited, expression, took the cars

here for Monteith, say, any day last week?"

"I don't know," mused the man. "Dark complexion, you say, large

mustache; let me see."

"No dandy," Mr. Byrd carefully explained, "but a strong man, who

believes in work. He was possibly in a state of somewhat nervous hurry,"

he went on, suggestively, "and if he wore an overcoat at all, it was a

gray one."

The face of the man lighted up.

"I seem to remember," said he. "Did he have a very bright blue eye and a

high color?"

Mr. Byrd nodded.

"And did he carry a peculiarly shaped bag, of which he was very

careful?"

"I don't know," said Mr. Byrd, but remembering the model, added with

quick assurance, "I have no doubt he did"; which seemed to satisfy the

other, for he at once cried:

"I recollect such a person very well. I noticed him before he got to the

station; as soon in fact as he came in sight. He was walking down the

highway, and seemed to be thinking about something. He's of the kind to

attract attention. What about him, sir?"

"Nothing. He was in trouble of some kind, and he went from home without

saying where he was going; and his friends are anxious about him, that

is all. Do you think you could swear to his face if you saw it?"

"I think I could. He was the only stranger that got on to the cars that

afternoon."

"Do you remember, then, the day?"

"Well, no, now, I don't."

"But can't you, if you try? Wasn't there something done by you that day

which will assist your memory?"

Again that slow "Let me see" showed that the man was pondering. Suddenly

he slapped his thigh and exclaimed:

"You might be a lawyer's clerk now, mightn't you; or, perhaps, a lawyer

himself? I do remember that a large load of stone was sent off that day,

and a minute's look at my book---- It was Tuesday," he presently

affirmed.

Mr. Byrd drew a deep breath. There is sadness mixed with the

satisfaction of such a triumph.

"I am much obliged to you," he said, in acknowledgment of the other's

trouble. "The friends of this gentleman will now have little difficulty

in tracing him. There is but one thing further I should like to make

sure of."

And taking from his memorandum-book the picture he kept concealed there,

he showed him the face of Mr. Mansell, now altered to a perfect

likeness, and asked him if he recognized it.

The decided Yes which he received made further questions unnecessary.

XVI.

STORM.

Oh, my offence is rank, it smells to heav'n:

It hath the primal eldest curse upon 't!--HAMLET.

A DAY had passed. Mr. Byrd, who no longer had any reason to doubt that

he was upon the trail of the real assailant of the Widow Clemmens, had

resolved upon a third visit to the woods, this time with the definite

object of picking up any clew, however trifling, in support of the fact

that Craik Mansell had passed through the glade behind his aunt's house.

The sky, when he left the hotel, was one vast field of blue; but by the

time he reached the terminus of the car-route, and stepped out upon the

road leading to the woods, dark clouds had overcast the sun, and a cool

wind replaced the quiet zephyrs which had all day fanned the brilliant

autumn foliage.

He did not realize the condition of the atmosphere, however, and

proceeded on his way, thinking more of the person he had just perceived

issuing from the door-way of Professor Darling's lofty mansion, than of

the low mutterings of distant thunder that now and then disturbed the

silence of the woods, or of the ominous, brazen tint which was slowly

settling over the huge bank of cloud that filled the northern sky. For

that person was Miss Dare, and her presence here, or anywhere near him,

at this time, must of necessity, awaken a most painful train of thought.

But, though unmindful of the storm, he was dimly conscious of the

darkness that was settling about him. Quicker and quicker grew his pace,

and at last he almost broke into a run as the heavy pall of a large

black cloud swept up over the zenith, and wiped from the heavens the

last remnant of blue sky. One drop fell, then another, then a slow,

heavy patter, that bent double the leaves they fell upon, as if a shower

of lead had descended upon the heavily writhing forest. The wind had

risen, too, and the vast aisles of that clear and beautiful wood

thundered with the swaying of boughs, and the crash here and there of an

old and falling limb. But the lightning delayed.

The blindest or most abstracted man could be ignorant no longer of what

all this turmoil meant. Stopping in the path along which he had been

speeding, Mr. Byrd glanced before him and behind, in a momentary

calculation of distances, and deciding he could not regain the terminus

before the storm burst, pushed on toward the hut.

He reached it just as the first flash of lightning darted down through

the heavy darkness, and was about to fling himself against the door,

when something--was it the touch of an invisible hand, or the crash of

awful thunder which at this instant plowed up the silence of the forest

and woke a pandemonium of echoes about his head?--stopped him.

He never knew. He only realized that he shuddered and drew back, with a

feeling of great disinclination to enter the low building before him,

alone; and that presently taking advantage of another loud crash of

falling boughs, he crept around the corner of the hut, and satisfied his

doubts by looking into the small, square window opening to the west.

He found there was ample reason for all the hesitation he had felt. A

man was sitting there, who, at the first glimpse, appeared to him to be

none other than Craik Mansell. But reason soon assured him this could

not be, though the shape, the attitude--that old attitude of despair

which he remembered so well--was so startlingly like that of the man

whose name was uppermost in his thoughts, that he recoiled in spite of

himself.

A second flash swept blinding through the wood. Mr. Byrd advanced his

head and took another glance at the stranger. It _was_ Mr. Mansell. No

other man would sit so quiet and unmoved during the rush and clatter of

a terrible storm.

Look! not a hair of his head has stirred, not a movement has taken place

in the hands clasped so convulsively beneath his brow. He is an image, a

stone, and would not hear though the roof fell in.

Mr. Byrd himself forgot the storm, and only queried what his duty was

in this strange and surprising emergency.

But before he could come to any definite conclusion, he was subjected to

a new sensation. A stir that was not the result of the wind or the rain

had taken place in the forest before him. A something--he could not tell

what--was advancing upon him from the path he had himself travelled so

short a time before, and its step, if step it were, shook him with a

vague apprehension that made him dread to lift his eyes. But he

conquered the unmanly instinct, and merely taking the precaution to step

somewhat further back from view, looked in the direction of his fears,

and saw a tall, firmly-built woman, whose grandly poised head, held

high, in defiance of the gale, the lightning, and the rain, proclaimed

her to be none other than Imogene Dare.

It was a juxtaposition of mental, moral, and physical forces that almost

took Mr. Byrd's breath away. He had no doubt whom she had come to see,

or to what sort of a tryst he was about to be made an unwilling witness.

But he could not have moved if the blast then surging through the trees

had uprooted the huge pine behind which he had involuntarily drawn at

the first impression he had received of her approach. He must watch that

white face of hers slowly evolve itself from the surrounding darkness,

and he must be present when the dreadful bolt swept down from heaven, if

only to see her eyes in the flare of its ghostly flame.

It came while she was crossing the glade. Fierce, blinding, more vivid

and searching than at any time before, it flashed down through the

cringing boughs, and, like a mantle of fire, enveloped her form,

throwing out its every outline, and making of the strong and beautiful

face an electric vision which Mr. Byrd was never able to forget.

A sudden swoop of wind followed, flinging her almost to the ground, but

Mr. Byrd knew from that moment that neither wind nor lightning, not even

the fear of death, would stop this woman if once she was determined upon

any course.

Dreading the next few moments inexpressibly, yet forcing himself, as a

detective, to remain at his post, though every instinct of his nature

rebelled, Mr. Byrd drew himself up against the side of the low hut and

listened. Her voice, rising between the mutterings of thunder and the

roar of the ceaseless gale, was plainly to be heard.

"Craik Mansell," said she, in a strained tone, that was not without its

severity, "you sent for me, and I am here."

Ah, this was her mode of greeting, was it? Mr. Byrd felt his breath come

easier, and listened for the reply with intensest interest.

But it did not come. The low rumbling of the thunder went on, and the

wind howled through the gruesome forest, but the man she had addressed

did not speak.

"Craik!" Her voice still came from the door-way, where she had seemingly

taken her stand. "Do you not hear me?"

A stifled groan was the sole reply.

She appeared to take one step forward, but no more.

"I can understand," said she, and Mr. Byrd had no difficulty in hearing

her words, though the turmoil overhead was almost deafening, "why the

restlessness of despair should drive you into seeking this interview. I

have longed to see you too, if only to tell you that I wish heaven's

thunderbolts had fallen upon us both on that day when we sat and talked

of our future prospects and----"

A lurid flash cut short her words. Strange and awesome sounds awoke in

the air above, and the next moment a great branch fell crashing down

upon the roof of the hut, beating in one corner, and sliding thence

heavily to the ground, where it lay with all its quivering leaves

uppermost, not two feet from the door-way where this woman stood.

A shriek like that of a lost spirit went up from her lips.

"I thought the vengeance of heaven had fallen!" she gasped. And for a

moment not a sound was heard within or without the hut, save that low

flutter of the disturbed leaves. "It is not to be," she then whispered,

with a return of her old calmness, that was worse than any shriek.

"Murder is not to be avenged thus." Then, shortly: "A dark and hideous

line of blood is drawn between you and me, Craik Mansell. _I_ cannot

pass it, and you must not, forever and forever and forever. But that

does not hinder me from wishing to help you, and so I ask, in all

sincerity, What is it you want me to do for you to-day?"

A response came this time.

"Show me how to escape the consequences of my act," were his words,

uttered in a low and muffled voice.

She did not answer at once.

"Are you threatened?" she inquired at last, in a tone that proved she

had drawn one step nearer to the bowed form and hidden face of the

person she addressed.

"My conscience threatens me," was the almost stifled reply.

Again that heavy silence, all the more impressive that the moments

before had been so prolific of heaven's most terrible noises.

"You suffer because another man is forced to endure suspicion for a

crime he never committed," she whisperingly exclaimed.

Only a groan answered her; and the moments grew heavier and heavier,

more and more oppressive, though the hitherto accompanying outcries of

the forest had ceased, and a faint lightening of the heavy darkness was

taking place overhead. Mr. Byrd felt the pressure of the situation so

powerfully, he drew near to the window he had hitherto avoided, and

looked in. She was standing a foot behind the crouched figure of the

man, between whom and herself she had avowed a line of blood to be

drawn. As he looked she spoke.

"Craik," said she, and the deathless yearning of love spoke in her voice

at last, "there is but one thing to do. Expiate your guilt by

acknowledging it. Save the innocent from unmerited suspicion, and trust

to the mercy of God. It is the only advice I can give you. I know no

other road to peace. If I did----" She stopped, choked by the terror of

her own thoughts. "Craik," she murmured, at last, "on the day I hear of

your having made this confession, I vow to take an oath of celibacy for

life. It is the only recompense I can offer for the misery and sin into

which our mutual mad ambitions have plunged you."

And subduing with a look of inexpressible anguish an evident longing to

lay her hand in final caress upon that bended head, she gave him one

parting look, and then, with a quick shudder, hurried away, and buried

herself amid the darkness of the wet and shivering woods.

XVII.

A SURPRISE.

Season your admiration for awhile.--HAMLET.

WHEN all was still again, Mr. Byrd advanced from his place of

concealment, and softly entered the hut. Its solitary occupant sat as

before, with his head bent down upon his clasped hands. But at the first

sound of Mr. Byrd's approach he rose and turned. The shock of the

discovery which followed sent the detective reeling back against the

door. The person who faced him with such quiet assurance was _not_ Craik

Mansell.

XVIII.

A BRACE OF DETECTIVES.

Hath this fellow no feeling of his business?--HAMLET.

No action, whether foul or fair,

Is ever done, but it leaves somewhere

A record. --LONGFELLOW.

"SO there are two of us! I thought as much when I first set eyes upon

your face in Buffalo!"

This exclamation, uttered in a dry and musing tone, woke Mr. Byrd from

the stupor into which this astonishing discovery had thrown him.

Advancing upon the stranger, who in size, shape, and coloring was almost

the _fac-simile_ of the person he had so successfully represented, Mr.

Byrd looked him scrutinizingly over.

The man bore the ordeal with equanimity; he even smiled.

"You don't recognize me, I see."

Mr. Byrd at once recoiled.

"Ah!" cried he, "you are that Jack-in-the-box, Brown!"

"_Alias_ Frank Hickory, at your service."

This name, so unexpected, called up a flush of mingled surprise and

indignation to Mr. Byrd's cheek.

"I thought----" he began.

"Don't think," interrupted the other, who, when excited, affected

laconicism, "know." Then, with affability, proceeded, "You are the

gentleman----" he paid that much deference to Mr. Byrd's air and manner,

"who I was told might lend me a helping hand in this Clemmens affair. I

didn't recognize you before, sir. Wouldn't have stood in your way if I

had. Though, to be sure, I did want to see this matter through myself. I

thought I had the right. And I've done it, too, as you must acknowledge,

if you have been present in this terrible place very long."

This self-satisfied, if not boastful, allusion to a scene in which this

strange being had played so unworthy, if not unjustifiable, a part, sent

a thrill of revulsion through Mr. Byrd. Drawing hastily back with an

instinct of dislike he could not conceal, he cast a glance through the

thicket of trees that spread beyond the open door, and pointedly asked:

"Was there no way of satisfying yourself of the guilt of Craik Mansell,

except by enacting a farce that may lead to the life-long remorse of the

woman out of whose love you have made a trap?"

A slow flush, the first, possibly, that had visited the hardy cheek of

this thick-skinned detective for years, crept over the face of Frank

Hickory.

"I don't mean she shall ever know," he sullenly protested, kicking at

the block upon which he had been sitting. "But it _was_ a mean trick,"

he frankly enough admitted the next moment. "If I hadn't been the tough

old hickory knot that I am, I couldn't have done it, I suppose. The

storm, too, made it seem a bit trifling. But---- Well, well!" he

suddenly interjected, in a more cheerful tone, "'tis too late now for

tears and repentance. The thing is done, and can't be undone. And, at

all events, I reckon we are both satisfied _now_ as to who killed Widow

Clemmens!"

Mr. Byrd could not resist a slight sarcasm. "I thought you were

satisfied in that regard before?" said he. "At least, I understood that

at a certain time you were very positive it was Mr. Hildreth."

"So I was," the fellow good-naturedly allowed; "so I was. The byways of

a crime like this are dreadful dark and uncertain. It isn't strange that

a fellow gets lost sometimes. But I got a jog on my elbow that sent me

into the right path," said he, "as, perhaps, you did too, sir, eh?"

Not replying to this latter insinuation, Mr. Byrd quietly repeated:

"You got a jog on your elbow? When, may I ask?"

"Three days ago, _just_!" was the emphatic reply.

"And from whom?"

Instead of replying, the man leaned back against the wall of the hut and

looked at his interlocutor in silence.

"Are we going to join hands over this business?" he cried, at last, "or

are you thinking of pushing your way on alone after you have got from me

all that I know?"

The question took Mr. Byrd by surprise.

He had not thought of the future. He was as yet too much disturbed by

his memories of the past. To hide his discomfiture, he began to pace the

floor, an operation which his thoroughly wet condition certainly made

advisable.

"I have no wish to rob you of any glory you may hope to reap from the

success of the plot you have carried on here to-day," he presently

declared, with some bitterness; "but if this Craik Mansell _is_ guilty,

I suppose it is my duty to help you in the collection of all suitable

and proper evidence against him."

"Then," said the other, who had been watching him with rather an anxious

eye, "let us to work." And, sitting down on the table, he motioned to

Mr. Byrd to take a seat upon the block at his side.

But the latter kept up his walk.

Hickory surveyed him for a moment in silence, then he said:

"You must have something against this young man, or you wouldn't be

here. What is it? What first set you thinking about Craik Mansell?"

Now, this was a question Mr. Byrd could not and would not answer. After

what had just passed in the hut, he felt it impossible to mention to

this man the name of Imogene Dare in connection with that of the nephew

of Mrs. Clemmens. He therefore waived the other's interrogation and

remarked:

"My knowledge was rather the fruit of surmise than fact. I did not

believe in the guilt of Gouverneur Hildreth, and so was forced to look

about me for some one whom I could conscientiously suspect. I fixed upon

this unhappy man in Buffalo; how truly, your own suspicions,

unfortunately, reveal."

"And I had to have my wits started by a horrid old woman," murmured the

evidently abashed Hickory.

"Horrid old woman!" repeated Mr. Byrd. "Not Sally Perkins?"

"Yes. A sweet one, isn't she?"

Mr. Byrd shuddered.

"Tell me about it," said he, coming and sitting down in the seat the

other had previously indicated to him.

"I will, sir; I will: but first let's look at the weather. Some folks

would think it just as well for you to change that toggery of yours.

What do you say to going home first, and talking afterward?"

"I suppose it would be wise," admitted Mr. Byrd, looking down at his

garments, whose decidedly damp condition he had scarcely noticed in his

excitement. "And yet I hate to leave this spot till I learn how you came

to choose it as the scene of the tragi-comedy you have enacted here

to-day, and what position it is likely to occupy in the testimony which

you have collected against this young man."

"Wait, then," said the bustling fellow, "till I build you the least bit

of a fire to warm you. It won't take but a minute," he averred, piling

together some old sticks that cumbered the hearth, and straightway

setting a match to them. "See! isn't that pleasant? And now, just cast

your eye at this!" he continued, drawing a comfortable-looking flask out

of his pocket and handing it over to the other with a dry laugh. "Isn't

_this_ pleasant?" And he threw himself down on the floor and stretched

out his hands to the blaze, with a gusto which the dreary hour he had

undoubtedly passed made perfectly natural, if not excusable.

"I thank you," said Mr. Byrd; "I didn't know I was so chilled," and he,

too, enjoyed the warmth. "And, now," he pursued, after a moment, "go on;

let us have the thing out at once."

But the other was in no hurry. "Very good, sir," he cried; "but, first,

if you don't mind, suppose you tell me what brought _you_ to this hut

to-day?"

"I was on the look-out for clues. In my study of the situation, I

decided that the murderer of Mrs. Clemmens escaped, not from the front,

but from the back, of the house. Taking the path I imagined him to have

trod, I came upon this hut. It naturally attracted my attention, and

to-day I came back to examine it more closely in the hope of picking up

some signs of his having been here, or at least of having passed through

the glade on his way to the deeper woods."

"And what, if you had succeeded in this, sir? What, if some token of his

presence had rewarded your search?"

"I should have completed a chain of proof of which only this one link is

lacking. I could have shown how Craik Mansell fled from this place on

last Tuesday afternoon, making his way through the woods to the highway,

and thence to the Quarry Station at Monteith, where he took the train

which carried him back to Buffalo."

"You could!--show me how?"

Mr. Byrd explained himself more definitely.

Hickory at once rose.

"I guess we can give you the link," he dryly remarked. "At all events,

suppose you just step here and tell me what conclusion you draw from the

appearance of this pile of brush."

Mr. Byrd advanced and looked at a small heap of hemlock that lay in a

compact mass in one corner.

"I have not disturbed it," pursued the other. "It is just as it was when

I found it."

"Looks like a pillow," declared Mr. Byrd. "Has been used for such, I am

sure; for see, the dust in this portion of the floor lies lighter than

elsewhere. You can almost detect the outline of a man's recumbent form,"

he went on, slowly, leaning down to examine the floor more closely. "As

for the boughs, they have been cut from the tree with a knife, and----"

Lifting up a sprig, he looked at it, then passed it over to Hickory,

with a meaning glance that directed attention to one or two short hairs

of a dark brown color, that were caught in the rough bark. "He did not

even throw his pocket-handkerchief over the heap before lying down," he

observed.

Mr. Hickory smiled. "You're up in your business, I see." And drawing his

new colleague to the table, he asked him what he saw there.

At first sight Mr. Byrd exclaimed: "Nothing," but in another moment he

picked up an infinitesimal chip from between the rough logs that formed

the top of this somewhat rustic piece of furniture, and turning it over

in his hand, pronounced it to be a piece of wood from a lead-pencil.

"Here are several of them," remarked Mr. Hickory, "and what is more, it

is easy to tell just the color of the pencil from which they were cut.

It was blue."

"That is so," assented Mr. Byrd.

"Quarrymen, charcoal-burners, and the like are not much in the habit of

sharpening pencils," suggested Hickory.

"Is the pencil now to be found in the pocket of Mr. Mansell a blue one?"

"It is."

"Have you any thing more to show me?" asked Mr. Byrd.

"Only this," responded the other, taking out of his pocket the torn-off

corner of a newspaper. "I found this blowing about under the bushes out

there," said he. "Look at it and tell me from what paper it was torn."

"I don't know," said Mr. Byrd; "none that I am acquainted with."

"You don't read the Buffalo _Courier_?"

"Oh, is this----"

"A corner from the Buffalo _Courier_? I don't know, but I mean to find

out. If it is, and the date proves to be correct, we won't have much

trouble about the little link, will we?"

Mr. Byrd shook his head and they again crouched down over the fire.

"And, now, what did you learn in Buffalo?" inquired the persistent

Hickory.

"Not much," acknowledged Mr. Byrd. "The man Brown was entirely too

ubiquitous to give me my full chance. Neither at the house nor at the

mill was I able to glean any thing beyond an admission from the landlady

that Mr. Mansell was not at home at the time of his aunt's murder. I

couldn't even learn where he was on that day, or where he had ostensibly

gone? If it had not been for the little girl of Mr. Goodman----"

"Ah, I had not time to go to that house," interjected the other,

suggestively.

"I should have come home as wise as I went," continued Mr. Byrd. "She

told me that on the day before Mr. Mansell returned, he wrote to her

father from Monteith, and _that_ settled my mind in regard to him. It

was pure luck, however."

The other laughed long and loud.

"I didn't know I did it up so well," he cried. "I told the landlady you

were a detective, or acted like one, and she was very ready to take the

alarm, having, as I judge, a motherly liking for her young boarder. Then

I took Messrs. Chamberlin and Harrison into my confidence, and having

got from them all the information they could give me, told them there

was evidently another man on the track of this Mansell, and warned them

to keep silence till they heard from the prosecuting attorney in Sibley.

But I didn't know who you were, or, at least, I wasn't sure; or, as I

said before, I shouldn't have presumed."

The short, dry laugh with which he ended this explanation had not

ceased, when Mr. Byrd observed:

"You have not told me what _you_ gathered in Buffalo."

"Much," quoth Hickory, reverting to his favorite laconic mode of speech.

"First, that Mansell went from home on Monday, the day before the

murder, for the purpose, as he said, of seeing a man in New York about

his wonderful invention. Secondly, that he never went to New York, but

came back the next evening, bringing his model with him, and looking

terribly used up and worried. Thirdly, that to get this invention before

the public had been his pet aim and effort for a whole year. That he

believed in it as you do in your Bible, and would have given his heart's

blood, if it would have done any good, to start the thing, and prove

himself right in his estimate of its value. That the money to do this

was all that was lacking, no one believing in him sufficiently to

advance him the five thousand dollars considered necessary to build the

machine and get it in working order. That, in short, he was a fanatic on

the subject, and often said he would be willing to die within the year

if he could first prove to the unbelieving capitalists whom he had

vainly importuned for assistance, the worth of the discovery he believed

himself to have made. Fourthly--but what is it you wish to say, sir?"

"Five thousand dollars is just the amount Widow Clemmens is supposed to

leave him," remarked Mr. Byrd.

"Precisely," was the short reply.

"And fourthly?" suggested the former.

"Fourthly, he was in the mill on Wednesday morning, where he went about

his work as usual, until some one who knew his relation to Mrs. Clemmens

looked up from the paper he was reading, and, in pure thoughtlessness,

cried, 'So they have killed your aunt for you, have they?' A barbarous

jest, that caused everybody near him to start in indignation, but which

made him recoil as if one of these thunderbolts we have been listening

to this afternoon had fallen at his feet. And he didn't get over it,"

Hickory went on. "He had to beg permission to go home. He said the

terrible news had made him ill, and indeed he looked sick enough, and

continued to look sick enough for days. He had letters from Sibley, and

an invitation to attend the inquest and be present at the funeral

services, but he refused to go. He was threatened with diphtheria, he

declared, and remained away from the mill until the day before

yesterday. Some one, I don't remember who, says he went out of town the

very Wednesday he first heard the news; but if so, he could not have

been gone long, for he was at home Wednesday night, sick in bed, and

threatened, as I have said, with the diphtheria. Fifthly----"

"Well, fifthly?"

"I am afraid of your criticisms," laughed the rough detective. "Fifthly

is the result of my poking about among Mr. Mansell's traps."

"Ah!" frowned the other, with a vivid remembrance of that picture of

Miss Dare, with its beauty blotted out by the ominous black lines.

"You are too squeamish for a detective," the other declared. "Guess

you're kept for the fancy business, eh?"

The look Mr. Byrd gave him was eloquent. "Go on," said he; "let us hear

what lies behind your fifthly."

"Love," returned the man. "Locked in the drawer of this young

gentleman's table, I found some half-dozen letters tied with a black

ribbon. I knew they were written by a lady, but squeamishness is not a

fault of mine, and so I just allowed myself to glance over them. They

were from Miss Dare, of course, and they revealed the fact that love, as

well as ambition, had been a motive power in determining this Mansell to

make a success out of his invention."

Leaning back, the now self-satisfied detective looked at Mr. Byrd.

"The name of Miss Dare," he went on, "brings me to the point from which

we started. I haven't yet told you what old Sally Perkins had to say to

me."

"No," rejoined Mr. Byrd.

"Well," continued the other, poking with his foot the dying embers of

the fire, till it started up into a fresh blaze, "the case against this

young fellow wouldn't be worth very much without that old crone's

testimony, I reckon; but with it I guess we can get along."

"Let us hear," said Mr. Byrd.

"The old woman is a wretch," Hickory suddenly broke out. "She seems to

gloat over the fact that a young and beautiful woman is in trouble. She

actually trembled with eagerness as she told her story. If I hadn't been

rather anxious myself to hear what she had to say, I could have thrown

her out of the window. As it was, I let her go on; duty before pleasure,

you see--duty before pleasure."

"But her story," persisted Mr. Byrd, letting some of his secret

irritation betray itself.

"Well, her story was this: Monday afternoon, the day before the murder,

you know, she was up in these very woods hunting for witch-hazel. She

had got her arms full and was going home across the bog when she

suddenly heard voices. Being of a curious disposition, like myself, I

suppose, she stopped, and seeing just before her a young gentleman and

lady sitting on an old stump, crouched down in the shadow of a tree,

with the harmless intent, no doubt, of amusing herself with their

conversation. It was more interesting than she expected, and she really

became quite tragic as she related her story to me. I cannot do justice

to it myself, and I sha'n't try. It is enough that the man whom she did

not know, and the woman whom she immediately recognized as Miss Dare,

were both in a state of great indignation. That he spoke of selfishness

and obstinacy on the part of his aunt, and that she, in the place of

rebuking him, replied in a way to increase his bitterness, and lead him

finally to exclaim: 'I cannot bear it! To think that with just the

advance of the very sum she proposes to give me some day, I could make

her fortune and my own, and win _you_ all in one breath! It is enough to

drive a man mad to see all that he craves in this world so near his

grasp, and yet have nothing, not even hope, to comfort him.' And at

that, it seems, they both rose, and she, who had not answered any thing

to this, struck the tree before which they stood, with her bare fist,

and murmured a word or so which the old woman couldn't catch, but which

was evidently something to the effect that she wished she knew Mrs.

Clemmens; for Mansell--of course it was he--said, in almost the same

breath, 'And if you did know her, what then?' A question which elicited

no reply at first, but which finally led her to say: 'Oh! I think that,

possibly, I might be able to persuade her.' All this," the detective

went on, "old Sally related with the greatest force; but in regard to

what followed, she was not so clear. Probably they interrupted their

conversation with some lovers' by-play, for they stood very near

together, and he seemed to be earnestly pleading with her. 'Do take it,'

old Sally heard him say. 'I shall feel as if life held some outlook for

me, if you only will gratify me in this respect.' But she answered: 'No;

it is of no use. I am as ambitious as you are, and fate is evidently

against us,' and put his hand back when he endeavored to take hers, but

finally yielded so far as to give it to him for a moment, though she

immediately snatched it away again, crying: 'I cannot; you must wait

till to-morrow.' And when he asked: 'Why to-morrow?' she answered: 'A

night has been known to change the whole current of a person's affairs.'

To which he replied: 'True,' and looked thoughtful, very thoughtful, as

he met her eyes and saw her raise that white hand of hers and strike the

tree again with a passionate force that made her fingers bleed. And she

was right," concluded the speaker. "The night, or if not the night, the

next twenty-four hours, _did_ make a change, as even old Sally Perkins

observed. Widow Clemmens was struck down and Craik Mansell became the

possessor of the five thousand dollars he so much wanted in order to win

for himself a fortune and a bride."

Mr. Byrd, who had been sitting with his face turned aside during this

long recital, slowly rose to his feet. "Hickory," said he, and his tone

had an edge of suppressed feeling in it that made the other start,

"don't let me ever hear you say, in my presence, that you think this

young and beautiful woman was the one to suggest murder to this man, for

I won't hear it. And now," he continued, more calmly, "tell me why this

babbling old wretch did not enliven the inquest with her wonderful tale.

It would have been a fine offset to the testimony of Miss Firman."

"She said she wasn't fond of coroners and had no wish to draw the

attention of twelve of her own townsfolk upon herself. She didn't mean

to commit herself with me," pursued Hickory, rising also. "She was going

to give me a hint of the real state of affairs; or, rather, set me

working in the right direction, as this little note which she tucked

under the door of my room at the hotel will show. But I was too quick

for her, and had her by the arm before she could shuffle down the

stairs. It was partly to prove her story was true and not a romance made

up for the occasion, that I lured this woman here this afternoon."

"You are not as bad a fellow as I thought," Mr. Byrd admitted, after a

momentary contemplation of the other's face. "If I might only know how

you managed to effect this interview."

"Nothing easier. I found in looking over the scraps of paper which

Mansell had thrown into the waste-paper basket in Buffalo, the draft of

a note which he had written to Miss Dare, under an impulse which he

afterward probably regretted. It was a summons to their usual place of

tryst at or near this hut, and though unsigned, was of a character, as I

thought, to effect its purpose. I just sent it to her, that's all."

The nonchalance with which this was said completed Mr. Byrd's

astonishment.

"You are a worthy disciple of Gryce," he asserted, leading the way to

the door.

"Think so?" exclaimed the man, evidently flattered at what he considered

a great compliment. "Then shake hands," he cried, with a frank appeal

Mr. Byrd found it hard to resist. "Ah, you don't want to," he somewhat

ruefully declared. "Will it change your feelings any if I promise to

ignore what happened here to-day--my trick with Miss Dare and what she

revealed and all that? If it will, I swear I won't even think of it any

more if I can help it. At all events, I won't tattle about it even to

the superintendent. It shall be a secret between you and me, and she

won't know but what it was her lover she talked to, after all."

"You are willing to do all this?" inquired Mr. Byrd.

"Willing and ready," cried the man. "I believe in duty to one's

superiors, but duty doesn't always demand of one to tell every thing he

knows. Besides, it won't be necessary, I imagine. There is enough

against this poor fellow without that."

"I fear so," ejaculated Mr. Byrd.

"Then it is a bargain?" said Hickory.

"Yes."

And Mr. Byrd held out his hand.

The rain had now ceased and they prepared to return home. Before leaving

the glade, however, Mr. Byrd ran his eye over the other's person and

apparel, and in some wonder inquired:

"How do you fellows ever manage to get up such complete disguises? I

declare you look enough like Mr. Mansell in the back to make me doubt

even now who I am talking to."

"Oh," laughed the other, "it is easy enough. It's my specialty, you see,

and one in which I _am_ thought to excel. But, to tell the truth, I

hadn't much to contend with in this case. In build I am famously like

this man, as you must have noticed when you saw us together in Buffalo.

Indeed, it was our similarity in this respect that first put the idea of

personifying him into my head. My complexion had been darkened already,

and, as for such accessories as hair, voice, manner, dress, etc., a

five-minutes' study of my model was sufficient to prime me up in all

that--enough, at least, to satisfy the conditions of an interview which

did not require me to show my face."

"But you did not know when you came here that you would not have to show

your face," persisted Mr. Byrd, anxious to understand how this man dared

risk his reputation on an undertaking of this kind.

"No, and I did not know that the biggest thunderstorm of the season was

going to spring up and lend me its darkness to complete the illusion I

had attempted. I only trusted my good fortune--and my wits," he added,

with a droll demureness. "Both had served me before, and both were

likely to serve me again. And, say she had detected me in my little

game, what then? Women like her don't babble."

There was no reply to make to this, and Mr. Byrd's thoughts being thus

carried back to Imogene Dare and the unhappy revelations she had been

led to make, he walked on in a dreary silence his companion had

sufficient discretion not to break.

XIX.

MR. FERRIS.

Which of you have done this?--MACBETH.

What have we here?--TEMPEST.

MR. FERRIS sat in his office in a somewhat gloomy frame of mind. There

had been bad news from the jail that morning. Mr. Hildreth had attempted

suicide the night before, and was now lying in a critical condition at

the hospital.

Mr. Ferris himself had never doubted this man's guilt. From Hildreth's

first appearance at the inquest, the District Attorney had fixed upon

him as the murderer of Mrs. Clemmens, and up to this time he had seen no

good and substantial reason for altering his opinion.

Even the doubts expressed by Mr. Byrd had moved him but little. Mr. Byrd

was an enthusiast, and, naturally enough, shrank from believing a

gentleman capable of such a crime. But the other detective's judgment

was unswayed, and he considered Hildreth guilty. It was not astonishing,

then, that the opinion of Mr. Ferris should coincide with that of the

older and more experienced man.

But the depth of despair or remorse which had led Mr. Hildreth to this

desperate attempt upon his own life had struck the District Attorney

with dismay. Though not over-sensitive by nature, he could not help

feeling sympathy for the misery that had prompted such a deed, and while

secretly regarding this unsuccessful attempt at suicide as an additional

proof of guilt, he could not forbear satisfying himself by a review of

the evidence elicited at the inquest, that the action of the authorities

in arresting this man had been both warrantable and necessary.

The result was satisfactory in all but one point. When he came to the

widow's written accusation against one by the name of Gouverneur

Hildreth, he was impressed by a fact that had hitherto escaped his

notice. This was the yellowness of the paper upon which the words were

written. If they had been transcribed a dozen years before, they would

not have looked older, nor would the ink have presented a more faded

appearance. Now, as the suspected man was under twenty-five years of

age, and must, therefore, have been a mere child when the paper was

drawn up, the probability was that the Gouverneur intended was the

prisoner's father, their names being identical.

But this discovery, while it robbed the affair of its most dramatic

feature, could not affect in any serious way the extreme significance of

the remaining real and compromising facts which told so heavily against

this unfortunate man. Indeed, the well-known baseness of the father made

it easier to distrust the son, and Mr. Ferris had just come to the

conclusion that his duty compelled him to draw up an indictment of the

would-be suicide, when the door opened, and Mr. Byrd and Mr. Hickory

came in.

To see these two men in conjunction was a surprise to the District

Attorney. He, however, had no time to express himself on the subject,

for Mr. Byrd, stepping forward, immediately remarked:

"Mr. Hickory and I have been in consultation, sir; and we have a few

facts to give you that we think will alter your opinion as to the person

who murdered Mrs. Clemmens."

"Is this so?" cried Mr. Ferris, looking at Hickory with a glance

indicative of doubt.

"Yes, _sir_," exclaimed that not easily abashed individual, with an

emphasis decided enough to show the state of his feelings on the

subject. "After I last saw you a woman came in my way and put into my

hands so fresh and promising a clue, that I dropped the old scent at

once and made instanter for the new game. But I soon found I was not the

only sportsman on this trail. Before I had taken a dozen steps I ran

upon this gentleman, and, finding him true grit, struck up a partnership

with him that has led to our bringing down the quarry together."

"Humph!" quoth the District Attorney. "Some very remarkable discoveries

must have come to light to influence the judgment of two such men as

yourselves."

"You are right," rejoined Mr. Byrd. "In fact, I should not be surprised

if this case proved to be one of the most remarkable on record. It is

not often that equally convincing evidence of guilt is found against two

men having no apparent connection."

"And have you collected such evidence?"

"We have."

"And who is the person you consider equally open to suspicion with Mr.

Hildreth?"

"Craik Mansell, Mrs. Clemmens' nephew."

The surprise of the District-Attorney was, as Mr. Hickory in later days

remarked, nuts to him. The solemn nature of the business he was engaged

upon never disturbed this hardy detective's sense of the ludicrous, and

he indulged in one of his deepest chuckles as he met the eye of Mr.

Ferris.

"One never knows what they are going to run upon in a chase of this

kind, do they, sir?" he remarked, with the greatest cheerfulness. "Mr.

Mansell is no more of a gentleman than Mr. Hildreth; yet, because he is

the second one of his caste who has attracted our attention, you are

naturally very much surprised. But wait till you hear what we have to

tell you. I am confident you will be satisfied with our reasons for

suspecting this new party." And he glanced at Mr. Byrd, who, seeing no

cause for delay, proceeded to unfold before the District Attorney the

evidence they had collected against Mr. Mansell.

It was strong, telling, and seemingly conclusive, as we already know;

and awoke in the mind of Mr. Ferris the greatest perplexity of his

life. It was not simply that the facts urged against Mr. Mansell were of

the same circumstantial character and of almost the same significance as

those already urged against Mr. Hildreth, but that the association of

Miss Dare's name with this new theory of suspicion presented

difficulties, if it did not involve consequences, calculated to make any

friend of Mr. Orcutt quail. And Mr. Ferris was such a friend, and knew

very well the violent nature of the shock which this eminent lawyer

would experience at discovering the relations held by this trusted woman

toward a man suspected of crime.

Then Miss Dare herself! Was this beautiful and cherished woman, hitherto

believed by all who knew her to be set high above the reach of reproach,

to be dragged down from her pedestal and submitted to the curiosity of

the rabble, if not to its insinuations and reproach? It seemed hard;

even to this stern, dry searcher among dead men's bones, it seemed both

hard and bitter. And yet, because he was an honest man, he had no

thought of paltering with his duty. He could only take time to make sure

what that duty was. He accordingly refrained from expressing any opinion

in regard to Mr. Mansell's culpability to the two detectives, and

finally dismissed them without any special orders.

But a day or two after this he sent for them again, and said:

"Since I have seen you I have considered, with due carefulness, the

various facts presented me in support of your belief that Craik Mansell

is the man who assailed the Widow Clemmens, and have weighed them

against the equally significant facts pointing toward Mr. Hildreth as

the guilty party, and find but one link lacking in the former chain of

evidence which is not lacking in the latter; and that is this: Mrs.

Clemmens, in the one or two lucid moments which returned to her after

the assault, gave utterance to an exclamation which many think was meant

to serve as a guide in determining the person of her murderer. She said,

'Ring,' as Mr. Byrd here will doubtless remember, and then 'Hand,' as if

she wished to fix upon the minds of those about her that the hand

uplifted against her wore a ring. At all events, such a conclusion is

plausible enough, and led to my making an experiment yesterday, which

has, for ever, set the matter at rest in my own mind. I took my stand at

the huge clock in her house, just in the attitude she was supposed to

occupy when struck, and, while in this position, ordered my clerk to

advance upon me from behind with his hands clasped about a stick of

wood, which he was to bring down within an inch of my head. This was

done, and while his arm was in the act of descending, I looked to see if

by a quick glance from the corner of my eye I could detect the broad

seal ring I had previously pushed upon his little finger. I discovered

that I could; that indeed it was all of the man which I could distinctly

see without turning my head completely around. The ring, then, is an

important feature in this case, a link without which any chain of

evidence forged for the express purpose of connecting a man with this

murder must necessarily remain incomplete and consequently useless. But

amongst the suspicious circumstances brought to bear against Mr.

Mansell, I discern no token of a connection between him and any such

article, while we all know that Mr. Hildreth not only wore a ring on the

day of the murder, but considered the circumstance so much in his own

disfavor, that he slipped it off his finger when he began to see the

shadow of suspicion falling upon him."

"You have, then, forgotten the diamond I picked up from the floor of

Mrs. Clemmens' dining-room on the morning of the murder?" suggested Mr.

Byrd with great reluctance.

"No," answered the District Attorney, shortly. "But Miss Dare distinctly

avowed that ring to be hers, and you have brought me no evidence as yet

to prove her statement false. If you can supply such proof, or if you

can show that Mr. Mansell had that ring on his hand when he entered Mrs.

Clemmens' house on the fatal morning--another fact, which, by-the-way,

rests as yet upon inference only--I shall consider the case against him

as strong as that against Mr. Hildreth; otherwise, not."

Mr. Byrd, with the vivid remembrance before him of Miss Dare's looks and

actions in the scene he had witnessed between her and the supposed

Mansell in the hut, smiled with secret bitterness over this attempt of

the District Attorney to shut his eyes to the evident guiltiness of this

man.

Mr. Ferris saw this smile and instantly became irritated.

"I do not doubt any more than yourself," he resumed, in a changed voice,

"that this young man allowed his mind to dwell upon the possible

advantages which might accrue to himself if his aunt should die. He may

even have gone so far as to meditate the commission of a crime to insure

these advantages. But whether the crime which did indeed take place the

next day in his aunt's house was the result of his meditations, or

whether he found his own purpose forestalled by an attack made by

another person possessing no less interest than himself in seeing this

woman dead, is not determined by the evidence you bring."

"Then you do not favor his arrest?" inquired Mr. Byrd.

"No. The vigorous measures which were taken in Mr. Hildreth's case, and

the unfortunate event to which they have led, are terrible enough to

satisfy the public craving after excitement for a week at least. I am

not fond of driving men to madness myself, and unless I can be made to

see that my duty demands a complete transferal of my suspicions from

Hildreth to Mansell, I can advise nothing more than a close but secret

surveillance of the latter's movements until the action of the Grand

Jury determines whether the evidence against Mr. Hildreth is sufficient

to hold him for trial."

Mr. Byrd, who had such solid, if private and uncommunicable, reasons for

believing in the guilt of Craik Mansell, was somewhat taken aback at

this unlooked-for decision of Mr. Ferris, and, remembering the

temptation which a man like Hickory must feel to make his cause good at

all hazards, cast a sharp look toward that blunt-spoken detective, in

some doubt as to whether he could be relied upon to keep his promise in

the face of this manifest disappointment.

But Hickory had given his word, and Hickory remained firm; and Mr. Byrd,

somewhat relieved in his own mind, was about to utter his acquiescence

in the District Attorney's views, when a momentary interruption

occurred, which gave him an opportunity to exchange a few words aside

with his colleague.

"Hickory," he whispered, "what do you think of this objection which Mr.

Ferris makes?"

"I?" was the hurried reply. "Oh, I think there is something in it."

"Something in it?"

"Yes. Mr. Mansell is the last man to wear a ring, I must acknowledge.

Indeed, I took some pains while in Buffalo to find out if he ever

indulged in any such vanity, and was told decidedly No. As to the

diamond you mentioned, that is certainly entirely too rich a jewel for a

man like him to possess. I--I am a afraid the absence of this link in

our chain of evidence is fatal. I shouldn't wonder if the old scent was

the best, after all."

"But Miss Dare--her feelings and her convictions, as manifested by the

words she made use of in the hut?" objected Mr. Byrd.

"Oh! _she_ thinks he is guilty, of course!"

_She_ thinks! Mr. Byrd stared at his companion for a minute in silence.

_She_ thinks! Then there was a possibility, it seems, that it was only

her thought, and that Mr. Mansell was not really the culpable man he had

been brought to consider him.

But here an exclamation, uttered by Mr. Ferris, called their attention

back to that gentleman. He was reading a letter which had evidently been

just brought in, and his expression was one of amazement, mixed with

doubt. As they looked toward him they met his eye, that had a troubled

and somewhat abashed expression, which convinced them that the

communication he held in his hand was in some way connected with the

matter under consideration.

Surprised themselves, they unconsciously started forward, when, in a dry

and not altogether pleased tone, the District Attorney observed:

"This affair seems to be full of coincidences. You talk of a missing

link, and it is immediately thrust under your nose. Read that!"

And he pushed toward them the following epistle, roughly scrawled on a

sheet of common writing-paper:

If Mr. Ferris is anxious for justice, and can

believe that suspicion does not always attach

itself to the guilty, let him, or some one whose

business it is, inquire of Miss Imogene Dare, of

this town, how she came to claim as her own the

ring that was picked up on the floor of Mrs.

Clemmens' house.

"Well!" cried Mr. Byrd, glancing at Hickory, "what are we to think of

this?"

"Looks like the work of old Sally Perkins," observed the other, pointing

out the lack of date and signature.

"So it does," acquiesced Mr. Byrd, in a relieved tone. "The miserable

old wretch is growing impatient."

But Mr. Ferris, with a gloomy frown, shortly said:

"The language is not that of an ignorant old creature like Sally

Perkins, whatever the writing may be. Besides, how could she have known

about the ring? The persons who were present at the time it was picked

up are not of the gossiping order."

"Who, then, do you think wrote this?" inquired Mr. Byrd.

"That is what I wish you to find out," declared the District Attorney.

Mr. Hickory at once took it in his hand.

"Wait," said he, "I have an idea." And he carried the letter to one

side, where he stood examining it for several minutes. When he came back

he looked tolerably excited and somewhat pleased. "I believe I can tell

you who wrote it," said he.

"Who?" inquired the District Attorney.

For reply the detective placed his finger upon a name that was written

in the letter.

"Imogene Dare?" exclaimed Mr. Ferris, astonished.

"She herself," proclaimed the self-satisfied detective.

"What makes you think that?" the District Attorney slowly asked.