"And, perhaps, if it had really fallen to the lot of Mansell to confront

her in the hut and listen to her words of adjuration and appeal, he

might have been induced to consent to her wishes. But a detective sat

there instead of her lover, and the poor woman lived to see the days go

by without any movement being made to save Mr. Hildreth. At last--was it

the result of the attempt made by this man upon his life?--she put an

end to the struggle by acting for herself. Moved by a sense of duty,

despite her love, she sent the letter which drew attention to her lover,

and paved the way for that trial which has occupied our attention for so

many days. But--mark this, for I think it is the only explanation of her

whole conduct--the sense of justice that upheld her in this duty was

mingled with the hope that her lover would escape conviction if he did

not trial. The one fact which told the most against him--I allude to his

flight from his aunt's door on the morning of the murder, as observed by

her through the telescope--was as yet a secret in her own breast, and

there she meant it to remain unless it was drawn forth by actual

question. But it was not a fact likely to be made the subject of

question, and drawing hope from that consideration, she prepared herself

for the ordeal before her, determined, as I actually believe, to answer

with truth all the inquiries that were put to her.

"But in an unexpected hour she learned that the detectives were anxious

to know where she was during the time of the murder. She heard Hickory

question Professor Darling's servant-girl, as to whether she was still

in the observatory, and at once feared that her secret was discovered.

Feared, I say--I conjecture this,--but what I do not conjecture is that

with the fear, or doubt, or whatever emotion it was she cherished, a

revelation came of the story she might tell if worst came to worst, and

she found herself forced to declare what she saw when the clock stood at

five minutes to twelve on that fatal day. Think of your conversation

with the girl Roxana," he went on to Hickory, "and then think of that

woman crouching behind the rack, listening to your words, and see if you

can draw any other conclusion from the expression of her face than that

of triumph at seeing a way to deliver her lover at the sacrifice of

herself."

As Byrd waited for a reply, Hickory reluctantly acknowledged:

"Her look was a puzzler, that I will allow. She seemed glad----"

"There," cried Byrd, "you say she seemed glad; that is enough. Had she

had the weight of this crime upon her conscience, she would have

betrayed a different emotion from that. I pray you to consider the

situation," he proceeded, turning to the District Attorney, "for on it

hangs your conviction of her innocence. First, imagine her guilty. What

would her feelings be, as, hiding unseen in that secret corner, she

hears a detective's voice inquiring where she was when the fatal blow

was struck, and hears the answer given that she was not where she was

supposed to be, but in the woods--the woods which she and every one know

lead so directly to Mrs. Clemmens' house, she could without the least

difficulty hasten there and back in the hour she was observed to be

missing? Would she show gladness or triumph even of a wild or delirious

order? No, even Hickory cannot say she would. Now, on the contrary, see

her as I do, crouched there in the very place before the telescope which

she occupied when the girl came to the observatory before, but unseen

now as she was unseen then, and watch the change that takes place in her

countenance as she hears question and answer and realizes what

confirmation she would receive from this girl if she ever thought fit to

declare that she was not in the observatory when the girl sought her

there on the day of the murder. That by this act she would bring

execration if not death upon herself, she does not stop to consider. Her

mind is full of what she can do for her lover, and she does not think of

herself.

"But an enthusiasm like this is too frenzied to last. As time passes by

and Craik Mansell is brought to trial, she begins to hope she may be

spared this sacrifice. She therefore responds with perfect truth when

summoned to the stand to give evidence, and does not waver, though

question after question is asked her, whose answers cannot fail to show

the state of her mind in regard to the prisoner's guilt. Life and honor

are sweet even to one in her condition; and if her lover could be saved

without falsehood it was her natural instinct to avoid it.

"And it looked as if he would be saved. A defence both skilful and

ingenious had been advanced for him by his counsel--a defence which only

the one fact so securely locked in her bosom could controvert. You can

imagine, then, the horror and alarm which must have seized her when, in

the very hour of hope, you approached her with the demand which proved

that her confidence in her power to keep silence had been premature, and

that the alternative was yet to be submitted to her of destroying her

lover or sacrificing herself. Yet, because a great nature does not

succumb without a struggle, she tried even now the effect of the truth

upon you, and told you the one fact she considered so detrimental to the

safety of her lover.

"The result was fatal. Though I cannot presume to say what passed

between you, I can imagine how the change in your countenance warned her

of the doom she would bring upon Mansell if she went into court with the

same story she told you. Nor do I find it difficult to imagine how, in

one of her history and temperament, a night of continuous brooding over

this one topic should have culminated in the act which startled us so

profoundly in the court-room this morning. Love, misery, devotion are

not mere names to her, and the greatness which sustained her through the

ordeal of denouncing her lover in order that an innocent man might be

relieved from suspicion, was the same that made it possible for her to

denounce herself that she might redeem the life she had thus

deliberately jeopardized.

"That she did this with a certain calmness and dignity proves it to have

been the result of design. A murderess forced by conscience into

confession would not have gone into the details of her crime, but

blurted out her guilt, and left the details to be drawn from her by

question. Only the woman anxious to tell her story with the plausibility

necessary to insure its belief would have planned and carried on her

confession as she did.

"The action of the prisoner, in face of this proof of devotion, though

it might have been foreseen by a man, was evidently not foreseen by her.

To me, who watched her closely at the time, her face wore a strange look

of mingled satisfaction and despair,--satisfaction in having awakened

his manhood, despair at having failed in saving him. But it is not

necessary for me to dilate on this point. If I have been successful in

presenting before you the true condition of her mind during this

struggle, you will see for yourself what her feelings must be now that

her lover has himself confessed to a fact, to hide which she made the

greatest sacrifice of which mortal is capable."

Mr. Ferris, who, during this lengthy and exhaustive harangue, had sat

with brooding countenance and an anxious mien, roused himself as the

other ceased, and glanced with a smile at Hickory.

"Well," said he, "that's good reasoning; now let us hear how you will go

to work to demolish it."

The cleared brow, the playful tone of the District Attorney showed the

relieved state of his mind. Byrd's arguments had evidently convinced him

of the innocence of Imogene Dare.

Hickory, seeing it, shook his head with a gloomy air.

"Sir," said he, "I can't demolish it. If I could tell why Mansell fled

from Widow Clemmens' house at five minutes to twelve I might be able to

do so, but that fact stumps me. It is an act consistent with guilt. It

may be consistent with innocence, but, as we don't know all the facts,

we can't say so. But this I do know, that my convictions with regard to

that man have undergone a change. I now as firmly believe in his

innocence as I once did in his guilt."

"What has produced the change?" asked Mr. Ferris.

"Well," said Hickory, "it all lies in this. From the day I heard Miss

Dare accuse him so confidently in the hut, I believed him guilty; from

the moment he withdrew his defence, I believed him innocent."

Mr. Ferris and Mr. Byrd looked at him astonished. He at once brought

down his fist in vigorous assertion on the table.

"I tell you," said he, "that Craik Mansell is innocent. The truth is, he

believes Miss Dare guilty, and so stands his trial, hoping to save her."

"And be hung for her crime?" asked Mr. Ferris.

"No; he thinks his innocence will save him, in spite of the evidence on

which we got him indicted."

But the District Attorney protested at this.

"That can't be," said he; "Mansell has withdrawn the only defence he

had."

"On the contrary," asserted Hickory, "that very thing only proves my

theory true. He is still determined to save Miss Dare by every thing

short of a confession of his own guilt. He won't lie. That man is

innocent."

"And Miss Dare is guilty?" said Byrd.

"Shall I make it clear to you in the way it has become clear to Mr.

Mansell?"

As Byrd only answered by a toss of his head, Hickory put his elbows on

the table, and checking off every sentence with the forefinger of his

right hand, which he pointed at Mr. Ferris' shirt-stud, as if to instil

from its point conviction into that gentleman's bosom, he proceeded with

the utmost composure as follows:

"To commence, then, with the scene in the woods. He meets her. She is as

angry at his aunt as he is. What does she do? She strikes the tree with

her hand, and tells him to wait till to-morrow, since a night has been

known to change the whole current of a person's affairs. Now tell me

what does that mean? Murder? If so, she was the one to originate it. He

can't forget that. It has stamped itself upon Mansell's memory, and

when, after the assassination of Mrs. Clemmens, he recalls those words,

he is convinced that she has slain Mrs. Clemmens to help him."

"But, Mr. Hickory," objected Mr. Ferris, "this assumes that Mr. Mansell

is innocent, whereas we have exceedingly cogent proof that he is the

guilty party. There is the circumstance of his leaving Widow Clemmens'

house at five minutes to twelve."

To which Hickory, with a twinkle in his eye, replied:

"I won't discuss that; it hasn't been proved, you know. Miss Dare told

you she saw him do this, but she wouldn't swear to it. Nothing is to be

taken for granted against my man."

"Then you think Miss Dare spoke falsely?"

"I don't say that. I believe that whatever he did could be explained if

we knew as much about it as he does. But I'm not called upon to explain

any thing which has not appeared in the evidence against him."

"Well, then, we'll take the evidence. There is his ring, found on the

scene of murder."

"Exactly," rejoined Hickory. "Dropped there, as he must suppose, by Miss

Dare, because he didn't know she had secretly restored it to his

pocket."

Mr. Ferris smiled.

"You don't see the force of the evidence," said he. "As she _had_

restored it to his pocket, he must have been the one to drop it there."

"I am willing to admit he dropped it there, not that he killed Mrs.

Clemmens. I am now speaking of his suspicions as to the assassin. When

the betrothal ring was found there, he suspects Miss Dare of the crime,

and nothing has occurred to change his suspicions."

"But," said the District Attorney, "how does your client, Mr. Mansell,

get over this difficulty; that Miss Dare, who has committed a murder to

put five thousand dollars into his pocket, immediately afterward turns

round and accuses him of the crime--nay more, furnishes evidence against

him!"

"You can't expect the same consistency from a woman as from a man. They

can nerve themselves up one moment to any deed of desperation, and take

every pains the next to conceal it by a lie."

"Men will do the same; then why not Mansell?"

"I am showing you why I know that Mansell believes Miss Dare guilty of a

murder. To continue, then. What does he do when he hears that his aunt

has been murdered? He scratches out the face of Miss Dare in a

photograph; he ties up her letters with a black ribbon as if she were

dead and gone to him. Then the scene in the Syracuse depot! The rule of

three works both ways, Mr. Byrd, and if she left her home to solve _her_

doubts, what shall be said of him? The recoil, too--was it less on his

part than hers? And, if she had cause to gather guilt from his manner,

had he not as much cause to gather it from hers? If his mind was full of

suspicion when he met her, it became conviction before he left; and,

bearing that fact in your mind, watch how he henceforth conducted

himself. He does not come to Sibley; the woman he fears to encounter is

there. He hears of Mr. Hildreth's arrest, reads of the discoveries which

led to it, and keeps silent. So would any other man have done in his

place, at least till he saw whether this arrest was likely to end in

trial. But he cannot forget he had been in Sibley on the fatal day, or

that there may be some one who saw his interview with Miss Dare. When

Byrd comes to him, therefore, and tells him he is wanted in Sibley, his

first question is, 'Am I wanted as a witness?' and, even you have

acknowledged, Mr. Ferris, that he seemed surprised to find himself

accused of the crime. But, accused, he takes his course and keeps to it.

Brought to trial, he remembers the curious way in which he crossed the

river, and thus cut short the road to the station; and, seeing in it

great opportunities for a successful defence, chooses Mr. Orcutt for his

counsel, and trusts the secret to him. The trial goes on; acquittal

seems certain, when suddenly she is recalled to the stand, and he hears

words which make him think she is going to betray him by some falsehood,

when, instead of following the lead of the prosecution, she launches

into a personal confession. What does he do? Why, rise and hold up his

hand in a command for her to stop. But she does not heed, and the rest

follows as a matter of course. The life she throws away he will not

accept. He is innocent, but his defence is false! He says so, and leaves

the jury to decide on the verdict. There can be no doubt," Hickory

finally concluded, "that some of these circumstances are consistent

only with his belief that Miss Dare is a murderess: such, for instance,

as his scratching out her face in the picture. Others favor the theory

in a less degree, but this is what I want to impress upon both your

minds," he declared, turning first to Mr. Ferris and then to Mr. Byrd:

"_If any fact, no matter how slight, leads us to the conviction that

Craik Mansell, at any time after the murder, entertained the belief that

Miss Dare committed it, his innocence follows as a matter of course. For

the guilty could never entertain a belief in the guilt of any other

person._"

"Yes," said Mr. Ferris, "I admit that, but we have got to see into Mr.

Mansell's mind before we can tell what his belief really was."

"No," was Hickory's reply; "let us look at his actions. I say that that

defaced picture is conclusive. One day he loves that woman and wants her

to marry him; the next, he defaces her picture. Why? She had not

offended him. Not a word, not a line, passes between them to cause him

to commit this act. But he does hear of his aunt's murder, and he does

recall her sinister promise: 'Wait; there is no telling what a day will

bring forth.' I say that no other cause for his act is shown except his

conviction that she is a murderess."

"But," persisted Mr. Ferris, "his leaving the house, as he acknowledges

he did, by this unfrequented and circuitous road?"

"I have said before that I cannot explain his presence there, or his

flight. All I am now called upon to show is, some fact inconsistent with

any thing except a belief in this young woman's guilt. I claim I have

shown it, and, as you admit, Mr. Ferris, if I show _that_, he is

innocent."

"Yes," said Byrd, speaking for the first time; "but we have heard of

people manufacturing evidence in their own behalf."

"Come, Byrd," replied Hickory, "you don't seriously mean to attack my

position with that suggestion. How could a man dream of manufacturing

evidence of such a character? A murderer manufactures evidence to throw

suspicion on other people. No fool could suppose that scratching out the

face of a girl in a photograph and locking it up in his own desk, would

tend to bring her to the scaffold, or save him from it."

"And, yet," rejoined Byrd, "that very act acquits him in your eyes. All

that is necessary is to give him credit for being smart enough to

foresee that it would have such a tendency in the eyes of any person who

discovered the picture."

"Then," said Hickory, "he would also have to foresee that she would

accuse herself of murder when he was on trial for it, and that he would

thereupon withdraw his defence. Byrd, you are foreseeing too much. My

friend Mansell possesses no such power of looking into the future as

that."

"Your friend Mansell!" repeated Mr. Ferris, with a smile. "If you were

on his jury, I suppose your bias in his favor would lead you to acquit

him of this crime?"

"I should declare him 'Not guilty,' and stick to it, if I had to be

locked up for a year."

Mr. Ferris sank into an attitude of profound thought. Horace Byrd,

impressed by this, looked at him anxiously.

"Have your convictions been shaken by Hickory's ingenious theory?" he

ventured to inquire at last.

Mr. Ferris abstractedly replied:

"This is no time for me to state my convictions. It is enough that you

comprehend my perplexity." And, relapsing into his former condition, he

remained for a moment wrapped in silence, then he said: "Byrd, how comes

it that the humpback who excited so much attention on the day of the

murder was never found?"

Byrd, astonished, surveyed the District Attorney with a doubtful look

that gradually changed into one of quiet satisfaction as he realized the

significance of this recurrence to old theories and suspicions. His

answer, however, was slightly embarrassed in tone, though frank enough

to remind one of Hickory's blunt-spoken admissions.

"Well," said he, "I suppose the main reason is that I made no attempt to

find him."

"Do you think that you were wise in that, Mr. Byrd?" inquired Mr.

Ferris, with some severity.

Horace laughed.

"I can find him for you to-day, if you want him," he declared.

"You can? You know him, then?"

"Very well. Mr. Ferris," he courteously remarked, "I perhaps should have

explained to you at the time, that I recognized this person and knew him

to be an honest man; but the habits of secrecy in our profession are so

fostered by the lives we lead, that we sometimes hold our tongue when it

would be better for us to speak. The humpback who talked with us on the

court-house steps the morning Mrs. Clemmens was murdered, was not what

he seemed, sir. He was a detective; a detective in disguise; a man with

whom I never presume to meddle--in other words, our famous Mr. Gryce."

"Gryce!--that man!" exclaimed Mr. Ferris, astounded.

"Yes, sir. He was in disguise, probably for some purpose of his own, but

I knew his eye. Gryce's eye isn't to be mistaken by any one who has much

to do with him."

"And that famous detective was actually on the spot at the time this

murder was discovered, and you let him go without warning me of his

presence?"

"Sir," returned Mr. Byrd, "neither you nor I nor any one at that time

could foresee what a serious and complicated case this was going to be.

Besides, he did not linger in this vicinity, but took the cars only a

few minutes after he parted from us. I did not think he wanted to be

dragged into this affair unless it was necessary. He had important

matters of his own to look after. However, if suspicion had continued to

follow him, I should have notified him of the fact, and let him speak

for himself. But it vanished so quickly in the light of other

developments, I just let the matter drop."

The impatient frown with which Mr. Ferris received this acknowledgment

showed he was not pleased.

"I think you made a mistake," said he. Then, after a minute's thought,

added: "You have seen Gryce since?"

"Yes, sir; several times."

"And he acknowledged himself to have been the humpback?"

"Yes, sir."

"You must have had some conversation with him, then, about this murder?

He was too nearly concerned in it not to take some interest in the

affair?"

"Yes, sir; Gryce takes an interest in all murder cases."

"Well, then, what did he have to say about this one? He gave an opinion,

I suppose?"

"No, sir. Gryce never gives an opinion without study, and we detectives

have no time to study up an affair not our own. If you want to know what

Gryce thinks about a crime, you have got to put the case into his

hands."

Mr. Ferris paused and seemed to ruminate. Seeing this, Mr. Byrd flushed

and cast a side glance at Hickory, who returned him an expressive shrug.

"Mr. Ferris," ventured the former, "if you wish to consult with Mr.

Gryce on this matter, do not hesitate because of us. Both Hickory and

myself acknowledge we are more or less baffled by this case, and Gryce's

judgment is a good thing to have in a perplexity."

"You think so?" queried the District Attorney.

"I do," said Byrd.

Mr. Ferris glanced at Hickory.

"Oh, have the old man here if you want him," was that detective's blunt

reply. "I have nothing to say against your getting all the light you can

on this affair."

"Very good," returned Mr. Ferris. "You may give me his address before

you go."

"His address for to-night is Utica," observed Byrd. "He could be here

before morning, if you wanted him."

"I am in no such hurry as that," returned Mr. Ferris, and he sank again

into thought.

The detectives took advantage of his abstraction to utter a few private

condolences in each other's ears.

"So it seems we are to be laid on the shelf," whispered Hickory.

"Yes, for which let us be thankful," answered Byrd.

"Why? Are you getting tired of the affair?"

"Yes."

A humorous twinkle shone for a minute in Hickory's eye.

"Pooh!" said he, "it's just getting interesting."

"Opinions differ," quoth Byrd.

"Not much," retorted Hickory.

Something in the way he said this made Byrd look at him more intently.

He instantly changed his tone.

"Old fellow," said he, "you don't believe Miss Dare committed this crime

any more than I do."

A sly twinkle answered him from the detective's half-shut eye.

"All that talk of having seen through your disguise in the hut is just

nonsense on your part to cover up your real notion about it. What is

that notion, Hickory? Come, out with it; let us understand each other

thoroughly at last."

"Do I understand you?"

"You shall, when you tell me just what your convictions are in this

matter."

"Well, then," replied Hickory, with a short glance at Mr. Ferris, "I

believe (it's hard as pulling teeth to own it) that neither of them did

it: that she thought him guilty and he thought her so, but that in

reality the crime lies at the door of some third party totally

disconnected with either of them."

"Such as Gouverneur Hildreth?" whispered Byrd.

"Such--as--Gouverneur Hildreth," drawled Hickory.

The two detectives eyed each other, smiled, and turned with relieved

countenances toward the District Attorney. He was looking at them with

great earnestness.

"That is your joint opinion?" he remarked.

"It is mine," cried Hickory, bringing his fist down on the table with a

vim that made every individual article on it jump.

"It is and it is not mine," acquiesced Byrd, as the eye of Mr. Ferris

turned in his direction. "Mr. Mansell may be innocent--indeed, after

hearing Hickory's explanation of his conduct, I am ready to believe he

is--but to say that Gouverneur Hildreth is guilty comes hard to me after

the long struggle I have maintained in favor of his innocence. Yet, what

other conclusion remains after an impartial view of the subject? None.

Then why should I shrink from acknowledging I was at fault, or hesitate

to admit a defeat where so many causes combined to mislead me?"

"Which means you agree with Hickory?" ventured the District Attorney.

Mr. Byrd slowly bowed.

Mr. Ferris continued for a moment looking alternately from one to the

other; then he observed:

"When two such men unite in an opinion, it is at least worthy of

consideration." And, rising, he took on an aspect of sudden

determination. "Whatever may be the truth in regard to this matter,"

said he, "one duty is clear. Miss Dare, as you inform me, has been--with

but little idea of the consequences, I am sure--allowed to remain under

the impression that the interview which she held in the hut was with her

lover. As her belief in the prisoner's guilt doubtless rests upon the

admissions which were at that time made in her hearing, it is palpable

that a grave injustice has been done both to her and to him by leaving

this mistake of hers uncorrected. I therefore consider it due to Miss

Dare, as well as to the prisoner, to undeceive her on this score before

another hour has passed over our heads. I must therefore request you,

Mr. Byrd, to bring the lady here. You will find her still in the

court-house, I think, as she requested leave to remain in the room below

till the crowd had left the streets."

Mr. Byrd, who, in the new light which had been thrown on the affair by

his own and Hickory's suppositions, could not but see the justice of

this, rose with alacrity to obey.

"I will bring her if she is in the building," he declared, hurriedly

leaving the room.

"And if she is not," Mr. Ferris remarked, with a glance at the

consciously rebuked Hickory, "we shall have to follow her to her home,

that is all. I am determined to see this woman's mind cleared of all

misapprehensions before I take another step in the way of my duty."

XXXVI.

A MISTAKE RECTIFIED.

If circumstances lead me, I will find

Where truth is hid, though it were hid, indeed,

Within the centre. --HAMLET.

IF Mr. Ferris, in seeking this interview with Miss Dare, had been

influenced by any hope of finding her in an unsettled and hesitating

state of mind, he was effectually undeceived, when, after a few minutes'

absence, Mr. Byrd returned with her to his presence. Though her physical

strength was nearly exhausted, and she looked quite pale and worn, there

was a steady gleam in her eye, which spoke of an unshaken purpose.

Seeing it, and noting the forced humility with which she awaited his

bidding at the threshold, the District Attorney, for the first time

perhaps, realized the power of this great, if perverted, nature, and

advancing with real kindness to the door, he greeted her with as much

deference as he ever showed to ladies, and gravely pushed toward her a

chair.

She did not take it. On the contrary, she drew back a step, and looked

at him in some doubt, but a sudden glimpse of Hickory's sturdy figure in

the corner seemed to reassure her, and merely stopping to acknowledge

Mr. Ferris' courtesy by a bow, she glided forward and took her stand by

the chair he had provided.

A short and, on his part, somewhat embarrassing pause followed. It was

broken by her.

"You sent for me," she suggested. "You perhaps want some explanation of

my conduct, or some assurance that the confession I made before the

court to-day was true?"

If Mr. Ferris had needed any further proof than he had already received

that Imogene Dare, in presenting herself before the world as a criminal,

had been actuated by a spirit of devotion to the prisoner, he would have

found it in the fervor and unconscious dignity with which she uttered

these few words. But he needed no such proof. Giving her, therefore, a

look full of grave significance, he replied:

"No, Miss Dare. After my experience of the ease with which you can

contradict yourself in matters of the most serious import, you will

pardon me if I say that the truth or falsehood of your words must be

arrived at by some other means than any you yourself can offer. My

business with you at this time is of an entirely different nature.

Instead of listening to further confessions from you, it has become my

duty to offer one myself. Not on my own behalf," he made haste to

explain, as she looked up, startled, "but on account of these men, who,

in their anxiety to find out who murdered Mrs. Clemmens, made use of

means and resorted to deceptions which, if their superiors had been

consulted, would not have been countenanced for a moment."

"I do not understand," she murmured, looking at the two detectives with

a wonder that suddenly merged into alarm as she noticed the

embarrassment of the one and the decided discomfiture of the other.

Mr. Ferris at once resumed:

"In the weeks that have elapsed since the commission of this crime, it

has been my lot to subject you to much mental misery, Miss Dare.

Provided by yourself with a possible clue to the murder, I have probed

the matter with an unsparing hand. Heedless of the pain I was

inflicting, or the desperation to which I was driving you, I asked you

questions and pressed you for facts as long as there seemed questions to

ask or facts to be gained. My duty and the claims of my position

demanded this, and for it I can make no excuse, notwithstanding the

unhappy results that have ensued. But, Miss Dare, whatever anxiety I may

have shown in procuring the conviction of a man I believed to be a

criminal, I have never wished to win my case at the expense of justice

and right; and had I been told before you came to the stand that you had

been made the victim of a deception calculated to influence your

judgment, I should have hastened to set you right with the same anxiety

as I do now."

"Sir--sir----" she began.

But Mr. Ferris would not listen.

"Miss Dare," he proceeded with all the gravity of conviction, "you have

uttered a deliberate perjury in the court-room to-day. You said that you

alone were responsible for the murder of Mrs. Clemmens, whereas you not

only did not commit the crime yourself but were not even an accessory to

it. Wait!" he commanded, as she flashed upon him a look full of denial,

"I would rather you did not speak. The motive for this calumny you

uttered upon yourself lies in a fact which may be modified by what I

have to reveal. Hear me, then, before you stain yourself still further

by a falsehood you will not only be unable to maintain, but which you

may no longer see reason for insisting upon. Hickory, turn around so

Miss Dare can see your face. Miss Dare, when you saw fit to call upon

this man to upbear you in the extraordinary statements you made to-day,

did you realize that in doing this you appealed to the one person best

qualified to prove the falsehood of what you had said? I see you did

not; yet it is so. He if no other can testify that a few weeks ago, no

idea of taking this crime upon your own shoulders had ever crossed your

mind; that, on the contrary, your whole heart was filled with sorrow for

the supposed guilt of another, and plans for inducing that other to make

a confession of his guilt before the world."

"This man!" was her startled exclamation. "It is not possible; I do not

know him; he does not know me. I never talked with him but once in my

life, and that was to say words I am not only willing but anxious for

him to repeat."

"Miss Dare," the District Attorney pursued, "when you say this you show

how completely you have been deceived. The conversation to which you

allude is not the only one which has passed between you two. Though you

did not know it, you held a talk with this man at a time in which you so

completely discovered the secrets of your heart, you can never hope to

deceive us or the world by any story of personal guilt which you may see

fit to manufacture."

"I reveal my heart to this man!" she repeated, in a maze of doubt and

terror that left her almost unable to stand. "You are playing with my

misery, Mr. Ferris."

The District Attorney took a different tone.

"Miss Dare," he asked, "do you remember a certain interview you held

with a gentleman in the hut back of Mrs. Clemmens' house, a short time

after the murder?"

"Did this man overhear my words that day?" she murmured, reaching out

her hand to steady herself by the back of the chair near which she was

standing.

"Your words that day were addressed to this man."

"To him!" she repeated, staggering back.

"Yes, to him, disguised as Craik Mansell. With an unjustifiable zeal to

know the truth, he had taken this plan for surprising your secret

thoughts, and he succeeded, Miss Dare, remember that, even if he did you

and your lover the cruel wrong of leaving you undisturbed in the

impression that Mr. Mansell had admitted his guilt in your presence."

But Imogene, throwing out her hands, cried impetuously:

"It is not so; you are mocking me. This man never could deceive me like

that!"

But even as she spoke she recoiled, for Hickory, with ready art, had

thrown his arms and head forward on the table before which he sat, in

the attitude and with much the same appearance he had preserved on the

day she had come upon him in the hut. Though he had no assistance from

disguise and all the accessories were lacking which had helped forward

the illusion on the former occasion, there was still a sufficient

resemblance between this bowed figure and the one that had so impressed

itself upon her memory as that of her wretched and remorseful lover,

that she stood rooted to the ground in her surprise and dismay.

"You see how it was done, do you not?" inquired Mr. Ferris. Then, as he

saw she did not heed, added: "I hope you remember what passed between

you two on that day?"

As if struck by a thought which altered the whole atmosphere of her

hopes and feelings, she took a step forward with a power and vigor that

recalled to mind the Imogene of old.

"Sir," she exclaimed, "let that man turn around and face me!"

Hickory at once rose.

"Tell me," she demanded, surveying him with a look it took all his

well-known hardihood to sustain unmoved, "was it all false--all a trick

from the beginning to the end? I received a letter--was that written by

your hand too? Are you capable of forgery as well as of other

deceptions?"

The detective, who knew no other way to escape from his embarrassment,

uttered a short laugh. But finding a reply was expected of him, answered

with well-simulated indifference:

"No, only the address on the envelope was mine; the letter was one which

Mr. Mansell had written but never sent. I found it in his waste-paper

basket in Buffalo."

"Ah! and you could make use of that?"

"I know it was a mean trick," he acknowledged, dropping his eyes from

her face. "But things do look different when you are in the thick of 'em

than when you take a stand and observe them from the outside. I--I was

ashamed of it long ago, Miss Dare"--this was a lie; Hickory never was

really ashamed of it--"and would have told you about it, but I thought

'mum' was the word after a scene like that."

She did not seem to hear him.

"Then Mr. Mansell did not send me the letter inviting me to meet him in

the hut on a certain day, some few weeks after Mrs. Clemmens was

murdered?"

"No."

"Nor know that such a letter had been sent?"

"No."

"Nor come, as I supposed he did, to Sibley? nor admit what I supposed he

admitted in my hearing? nor listen, as I supposed he did, to the

insinuations I made use of in the hut?"

"No."

Imbued with sudden purpose and energy, she turned upon the District

Attorney.

"Oh, what a revelation to come to me now!" she murmured.

Mr. Ferris bowed.

"You are right," he assented; "it should have come to you before. But I

can only repeat what I have previously said, that if I had known of this

deception myself, you would have been notified of it previous to going

upon the stand. For your belief in the prisoner's guilt has necessarily

had its effect upon the jury, and I cannot but see how much that belief

must have been strengthened, if it was not actually induced, by the

interview which we have just been considering."

Her eyes took on fresh light; she looked at Mr. Ferris as if she would

read his soul.

"Can it be possible----" she breathed, but stopped as suddenly as she

began. The District Attorney was not the man from whom she could hope to

obtain any opinion in reference to the prisoner's innocence.

Mr. Ferris, noting her hesitation and understanding it too, perhaps,

moved toward her with a certain kindly dignity, saying:

"I should be glad to utter words that would give you some comfort, Miss

Dare, but in the present state of affairs I do not feel as if I could go

farther than bid you trust in the justice and wisdom of those who have

this matter in charge. As for your own wretched and uncalled-for action

in court to-day, it was a madness which I hope will be speedily

forgotten, or, if not forgotten, laid to a despair almost too heavy for

mortal strength to endure."

"Thank you," she murmured; but her look, the poise of her head, the

color that quivered through the pallor of her cheek, showed she was not

thinking of herself. Doubt, the first which had visited her since she

became convinced that Craik Mansell was the destroyer of his aunt's

life, had cast a momentary gleam over her thoughts, and she was

conscious of but one wish, and that was to understand the feelings of

the men before her.

But she soon saw the hopelessness of this, and, sinking back again into

her old distress as she realized how much reason she still had for

believing Craik Mansell guilty, she threw a hurried look toward the door

as if anxious to escape from the eyes and ears of men interested, as she

knew, in gleaning her every thought and sounding her every impulse.

Mr. Ferris at once comprehended her intention, and courteously advanced.

"Do you wish to return home?" he asked.

"If a carriage can be obtained."

"There can be no difficulty about that," he answered; and he gave

Hickory a look, and whispered a word to Mr. Byrd, that sent them both

speedily from the room.

When he was left alone with her, he said:

"Before you leave my presence, Miss Dare, I wish to urge upon you the

necessity of patience. Any sudden or violent act on your part now would

result in no good, and lead to much evil. Let me, then, pray you to

remain quiet in your home, confident that Mr. Orcutt and myself will do

all in our power to insure justice and make the truth evident."

She bowed, but did not speak; while her impatient eye, resting

feverishly on the door, told of her anxiety to depart.

"She will need watching," commented Mr. Ferris to himself, and he, too,

waited impatiently for the detectives' return. When they came in he gave

Imogene to their charge, but the look he cast Byrd contained a hint

which led that gentleman to take his hat when he went below to put Miss

Dare into her carriage.

XXXVII.

UNDER THE GREAT TREE.

We but teach

Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return

To plague the inventor. This even-handed justice

Commends the ingredients of our poisoned chalice

To our own lips. --MACBETH.

IMOGENE went to her home. Confused, disordered, the prey of a thousand

hopes and a thousand fears, she sought for solitude and found it within

the four walls of the small room which was now her only refuge.

The two detectives who had followed her to the house--the one in the

carriage, the other on foot--met, as the street-door closed upon her

retreating form, and consulted together as to their future course.

"Mr. Ferris thinks we ought to keep watch over the house, to make sure

she does not leave it again," announced Mr. Byrd.

"Does he? Well, then, I am the man for that job," quoth Hickory. "I was

on this very same beat last night."

"Good reason why you should rest and give me a turn at the business,"

declared the other.

"Do you want it?"

"I am willing to take it," said Byrd.

"Well, then, after nine o'clock you shall."

"Why after nine?"

"Because if she's bent on skylarking, she'll leave the house before

then," laughed the other.

"And you want to be here if she goes out?"

"Well, yes, _rather_!"

They compromised matters by both remaining, Byrd within view of the

house and Hickory on a corner within hail. Neither expected much from

this effort at surveillance, there seeming to be no good reason why she

should venture forth into the streets again that night. But the

watchfulness of the true detective mind is unceasing.

Several hours passed. The peace of evening had come at last to the

troubled town. In the streets, especially, its gentle influence was

felt, and regions which had seethed all day with a restless and

impatient throng were fast settling into their usual quiet and solitary

condition. A new moon hung in the west, and to Mr. Byrd, pacing the walk

in front of Imogene's door, it seemed as if he had never seen the town

look more lovely or less like the abode of violence and crime. All was

so quiet, especially in the house opposite him, he was fast becoming

convinced that further precautions were needless, and that Imogene had

no intention of stirring abroad again, when the window where her light

burned suddenly became dark, and he perceived the street door cautiously

open, and her tall, vailed figure emerge and pass rapidly up the street.

Merely stopping to give the signal to Hickory, he hastened after her

with rapid but cautious steps.

She went like one bound on no uncertain errand. Though many of the walks

were heavily shaded, and the light of the lamps was not brilliant, she

speeded on from corner to corner, threading the business streets with

rapidity, and emerging upon the large and handsome avenue that led up

toward the eastern district of the town before Hickory could overtake

Byrd, and find sufficient breath to ask:

"Where is she bound for? Who lives up this way?"

"I don't know," answered Byrd, lowering his voice in the fear of

startling her into a knowledge of their presence. "It may be she is

going to Miss Tremaine's; the High School is somewhere in this

direction."

But even as they spoke, the gliding figure before them turned into

another street, and before they knew it, they were on the car-track

leading out to Somerset Park.

"Ha! I know now," whispered Hickory. "It is Orcutt she is after." And

pressing the arm of Byrd in his enthusiasm, he speeded after her with

renewed zeal.

Byrd, seeing no reason to dispute a fact that was every moment becoming

more evident, hurried forward also, and after a long and breathless

walk--for she seemed to be urged onward by flying feet--they found

themselves within sight of the grand old trees that guarded the entrance

to the lawyer's somewhat spacious grounds.

"What are we going to do now?" asked Byrd, stopping, as they heard the

gate click behind her.

"Wait and watch," said Hickory. "She has not led us this wild-goose

chase for nothing." And leaping the hedge, he began creeping up toward

the house, leaving his companion to follow or not, as he saw fit.

Meantime Imogene had passed up the walk and paused before the front

door. But a single look at it seemed to satisfy her, for, moving

hurriedly away, she flitted around the corner of the house and stopped

just before the long windows whose brightly illumined sashes proclaimed

that the master of the house was still in his library.

She seemed to feel relieved at this sight. Pausing, she leaned against

the frame of a trellis-work near by to gather up her courage or regain

her breath before proceeding to make her presence known to the lawyer.

As she thus leaned, the peal of the church clock was heard, striking the

hour of nine. She started, possibly at finding it so late, and bending

forward, looked at the windows before her with an anxious eye that soon

caught sight of a small opening left by the curtains having been drawn

together by a too hasty or a too careless hand, and recognizing the

opportunity it afforded for a glimpse into the room before her, stepped

with a light tread upon the piazza and quietly peered within.

The sight she saw never left her memory.

Seated before a deadened fire, she beheld Mr. Orcutt. He was neither

writing nor reading, nor, in the true sense of the word, thinking. The

papers he had evidently taken from his desk, lay at his side

undisturbed, and from one end of the room to the other, solitude,

suffering, and despair seemed to fill the atmosphere and weigh upon its

dreary occupant, till the single lamp which shone beside him burned

dimmer and dimmer, like a life going out or a purpose vanishing in the

gloom of a stealthily approaching destiny.

Imogene, who had come to this place thus secretly and at this late hour

of the day with the sole intent of procuring the advice of this man

concerning the deception which had been practised upon her before the

trial, felt her heart die within her as she surveyed this rigid figure

and realized all it implied. Though his position was such she could not

see his face, there was that in his attitude which bespoke hopelessness

and an utter weariness of life, and as ash after ash fell from the

grate, she imagined how the gloom deepened on the brow which till this

hour had confronted the world with such undeviating courage and

confidence.

It was therefore a powerful shock to her when, in another moment, he

looked up, and, without moving his body, turned his head slowly around

in such a way as to afford her a glimpse of his face. For, in all her

memory of it--and she had seen it distorted by many and various emotions

during the last few weeks--she had never beheld it wear such a look as

now. It gave her a new idea of the man; it filled her with dismay, and

sent the life-blood from her cheeks. It fascinated her, as the glimpse

of any evil thing fascinates, and held her spell-bound long after he

had turned back again to his silent contemplation of the fire and its

ever-drifting ashes. It was as if a vail had been rent before her eyes,

disclosing to her a living soul writhing in secret struggle with its own

worst passions; and horrified at the revelation, more than horrified at

the remembrance that it was her own action of the morning which had

occasioned this change in one she had long reverenced, if not loved, she

sank helplessly upon her knees and pressed her face to the window in a

prayer for courage to sustain this new woe and latest, if not heaviest,

disappointment.

It came while she was kneeling--came in the breath of the cold night

wind, perhaps; for, rising up, she turned her forehead gratefully to the

breeze, and drew in long draughts of it before she lifted her hand and

knocked upon the window.

The sharp, shrill sound made by her fingers on the pane reassured her as

much as it startled him. Gathering up her long cloak, which had fallen

apart in her last hurried movement, she waited with growing

self-possession for his appearance at the window.

He came almost immediately--came with his usual hasty step and with much

of his usual expression on his well-disciplined features. Flinging aside

the curtains, he cried impatiently: "Who is there?" But at sight of the

tall figure of Imogene standing upright and firm on the piazza without,

he drew back with a gesture of dismay, which was almost forbidding in

its character.

She saw it, but did not pause. Pushing up the window, she stepped into

the room; then, as he did not offer to help her, turned and shut the

window behind her and carefully arranged the curtains. He meantime stood

watching her with eyes in whose fierce light burned equal love and equal

anger.

When all was completed, she faced him. Instantly a cry broke from his

lips:

"You here!" he exclaimed, as if her presence were more than he could

meet or stand. But in another moment the forlornness of her position

seemed to strike him, and he advanced toward her, saying in a voice

husky with passion: "Wretched woman, what have you done? Was it not

enough that for weeks, months now, you have played with my love and

misery as with toys, that you should rise up at the last minute and

crush me before the whole world with a story, mad as it is false, of

yourself being a criminal and the destroyer of the woman for whose death

your miserable lover is being tried? Had you no consideration, no pity,

if not for yourself, ruined by this day's work, for me, who have

sacrificed every thing, done every thing the most devoted man or lawyer

could do to save this fellow and win you for my wife?"

"Sir," said she, meeting the burning anger of his look with the coldness

of a set despair, as if in the doubt awakened by his changed demeanor

she sought to probe his mind for its hidden secret, "I did what any

other woman would have done in my place. When we are pushed to the wall

we tell the truth."

"The truth!" Was that his laugh that rang startlingly through the room?

"The truth! You told the truth! Imogene, Imogene, is any such farce

necessary with me?"

Her lips, which had opened, closed again, and she did not answer for a

moment; then she asked:

"How do you know that what I said was not the truth?"

"How do I know?" He paused as if to get his breath. "How do I know?" he

repeated, calling up all his self-control to sustain her gaze unmoved.

"Do you think I have lost my reason, Imogene, that you put me such a

question as that? How do I know you are innocent? Recall your own words

and acts since the day we met at Mrs. Clemmens' house, and tell me how

it would be possible for me to think any thing else of you?"

But her purpose did not relax, neither did she falter as she returned:

"Mr. Orcutt, will you tell me what has ever been said by me or what you

have ever known me to do that would make it certain I did not commit

this crime myself?"

His indignation was too much for his courtesy.

"Imogene," he commanded, "be silent! I will not listen to any further

arguments of this sort. Isn't it enough that you have destroyed my

happiness, that you should seek to sport with my good-sense? I say you

are innocent as a babe unborn, not only of the crime itself but of any

complicity in it. Every word you have spoken, every action you have

taken, since the day of Mrs. Clemmens' death, proves you to be the

victim of a fixed conviction totally at war with the statement you were

pleased to make to-day. Only your belief in the guilt of another and

your--your----"

He stopped, choked. The thought of his rival maddened him.

She immediately seized the opportunity to say:

"Mr. Orcutt, I cannot argue about what I have done. It is over and

cannot be remedied. It is true I have destroyed myself, but this is no

time to think of that. All I can think of or mourn over now is that, by

destroying myself, I have not succeeded in saving Craik Mansell."

If her purpose was to probe the lawyer's soul for the deadly wound that

had turned all his sympathies to gall, she was successful at last.

Turning upon her with a look in which despair and anger were strangely

mingled, he cried:

"And me, Imogene--have you no thought for me?"

"Sir," said she, "any thought from one disgraced as I am now, would be

an insult to one of your character and position."

It was true. In the eyes of the world Tremont Orcutt and Imogene Dare

henceforth stood as far apart as the poles. Realizing it only too well,

he uttered a half-inarticulate exclamation, and trod restlessly to the

other end of the room. When he came back, it was with more of the

lawyer's aspect and less of the baffled lover's.

"Imogene," he said, "what could have induced you to resort to an

expedient so dreadful? Had you lost confidence in me? Had I not told you

I would save this man from his threatened fate?"

"You cannot do every thing," she replied. "There are limits even to a

power like yours. I knew that Craik was lost if I gave to the court the

testimony which Mr. Ferris expected from me."

"Ah, then," he cried, seizing with his usual quickness at the admission

which had thus unconsciously, perhaps, slipped from her, "you

acknowledge you uttered a perjury to save yourself from making

declarations you believed to be hurtful to the prisoner?"

A faint smile crossed her lips, and her whole aspect suddenly changed.

"Yes," she said; "I have no motive for hiding it from you now. I

perjured myself to escape destroying Craik Mansell. I was scarcely the

mistress of my own actions. I had suffered so much I was ready to do any

thing to save the man I had so relentlessly pushed to his doom. I forgot

that God does not prosper a lie."

The jealous gleam which answered her from the lawyer's eyes was a

revelation.

"You regret, then," he said, "that you tossed my happiness away with a

breath of your perjured lips?"

"I regret I did not tell the truth and trust God."

At this answer, uttered with the simplicity of a penitent spirit, Mr.

Orcutt unconsciously drew back.

"And, may I ask, what has caused this sudden regret?" he inquired, in a

tone not far removed from mockery; "the generous action of the prisoner

in relieving you from your self-imposed burden of guilt by an

acknowledgment that struck at the foundation of the defence I had so

carefully prepared?"

"No," was her short reply; "that could but afford me joy. Of whatever

sin he may be guilty, he is at least free from the reproach of accepting

deliverance at the expense of a woman. I am sorry I said what I did

to-day, because a revelation has since been made to me, which proves I

could never have sustained myself in the position I took, and that it

was mere suicidal folly in me to attempt to save Craik Mansell by such

means."

"A revelation?"

"Yes." And, forgetting all else in the purpose which had actuated her in

seeking this interview, Imogene drew nearer to the lawyer and earnestly

said: "There have been some persons--I have perceived it--who have

wondered at my deep conviction of Craik Mansell's guilt. But the reasons

I had justified it. They were great, greater than any one knew, greater

even than _you_ knew. His mother--were she living--must have thought as

I did, had she been placed beside me and seen what I have seen, and

heard what I have heard from the time of Mrs. Clemmens' death. Not only

were all the facts brought against him in the trial known to me, but I

saw him--saw him with my own eyes, running from Mrs. Clemmens'

dining-room door at the very time we suppose the murder to have been

committed; that is, at five minutes before noon on the fatal day."

"Impossible!" exclaimed Mr. Orcutt, in his astonishment. "You are

playing with my credulity, Imogene."

But she went on, letting her voice fall in awe of the lawyer's startled

look.

"No," she persisted; "I was in Professor Darling's observatory. I was

looking through a telescope, which had been pointed toward the town.

Mrs. Clemmens was much in my mind at the time, and I took the notion to

glance at her house, when I saw what I have described to you. I could

not help remembering the time," she added, "for I had looked at the

clock but a moment before."

"And it was five minutes before noon?" broke again from the lawyer's

lips, in what was almost an awe-struck tone.

Troubled at an astonishment which seemed to partake of the nature of

alarm, she silently bowed her head.

"And you were looking at him--actually looking at him--that very moment

through a telescope perched a mile or so away?"

"Yes," she bowed again.

Turning his face aside, Mr. Orcutt walked to the hearth and began

kicking the burnt-out logs with his restless foot. As he did so, Imogene

heard him mutter between his set teeth:

"It is almost enough to make one believe in a God!"

Struck, horrified, she glided anxiously to his side.

"Do not you believe in a God?" she asked.

He was silent.

Amazed, almost frightened, for she had never heard him breathe a word of

scepticism before,--though, to be sure, he had never mentioned the name

of the Deity in her presence,--she stood looking at him like one who had

received a blow; then she said:

"I believe in God. It is my punishment that I do. It is He who wills

blood for blood; who dooms the guilty to a merited death. Oh, if He only

would accept the sacrifice I so willingly offer!--take the life I so

little value, and give me in return----"

"Mansell's?" completed the lawyer, turning upon her in a burst of fury

he no longer had power to suppress. "Is that your cry--always and

forever your cry? You drive me too far, Imogene. This mad and senseless

passion for a man who no longer loves you----"

"Spare me!" rose from her trembling lips. "Let me forget that."

But the great lawyer only laughed.

"You make it worth my while to save you the bitterness of such a

remembrance," he cried. Then, as she remained silent, he changed his

tone to one of careless inquiry, and asked:

"Was it to tell this story of the prisoner having fled from his aunt's

house that you came here to-night?"

Recalled to the purpose of the hour, she answered, hurriedly:

"Not entirely; that story was what Mr. Ferris expected me to testify to

in court this morning. You see for yourself in what a position it would

have put the prisoner."

"And the revelation you have received?" the lawyer coldly urged.

"Was of a deception that has been practised upon me--a base deception by

which I was led to think long ago that Craik Mansell had admitted his

guilt and only trusted to the excellence of his defence to escape

punishment."

"I do not understand," said Mr. Orcutt. "Who could have practised such

deception upon you?"

"The detectives," she murmured; "that rough, heartless fellow they call

Hickory." And, in a burst of indignation, she told how she had been

practised upon, and what the results had been upon her belief, if not

upon the testimony which grew out of that belief.

The lawyer listened with a strange apathy. What would once have aroused

his fiercest indignation and fired him to an exertion of his keenest

powers, fell on him now like the tedious repetition of an old and

worn-out tale. He scarcely looked up when she was done; and despair--the

first, perhaps, she had ever really felt--began to close in around her

as she saw how deep a gulf she had dug between this man and herself by

the inconsiderate act which had robbed him of all hope of ever making

her his wife. Moved by this feeling, she suddenly asked:

"Have you lost all interest in your client, Mr. Orcutt? Have you no wish

or hope remaining of seeing him acquitted of this crime?"

"My client," responded the lawyer, with bitter emphasis, "has taken his

case into his own hands. It would be presumptuous in me to attempt any

thing further in his favor."

"Mr. Orcutt!"

"Ah!" he scornfully laughed, with a quick yielding to his passion as

startling as it was unexpected, "you thought you could play with me as

you would; use my skill and ignore the love that prompted it. You are a

clever woman, Imogene, but you went too far when you considered my

forbearance unlimited."

"And you forsake Craik Mansell, in the hour of his extremity?"

"Craik Mansell has forsaken me."

This was true; for her sake her lover had thrown his defence to the

winds and rendered the assistance of his counsel unavailable. Seeing her

droop her head abashed, Mr. Orcutt dryly proceeded.

"I do not know what may take place in court to-morrow," said he. "It is

difficult to determine what will be the outcome of so complicated a

case. The District Attorney, in consideration of the deception which has

been practised upon you, may refuse to prosecute any further; or, if the

case goes on and the jury is called upon for a verdict, they may or may

not be moved by its peculiar aspects to acquit a man of such generous

dispositions. If they are, I shall do nothing to hinder an acquittal;

but ask for no more active measures on my part. I cannot plead for the

lover of the woman who has disgraced me."

This decision, from one she had trusted so implicitly, seemed to crush

her.

"Ah," she murmured, "if you did not believe him guilty you would not

leave him thus to his fate."

He gave her a short, side-long glance, half-mocking, half-pitiful.

"If," she pursued, "you had felt even a passing gleam of doubt, such as

came to me when I discovered that he had never really admitted his

guilt, you would let no mere mistake on the part of a woman turn you

from your duty as counsellor for a man on trial for his life."

His glance lost its pity and became wholly mocking.

"And do _you_ cherish but passing gleams?" he sarcastically asked.

She started back.

"I laugh at the inconsistency of women," he cried. "You have sacrificed

every thing, even risked your life for a man you really believe guilty

of crime; yet if another man similarly stained asked you for your

compassion only, you would fly from him as from a pestilence."

But no words he could utter of this sort were able to raise any emotion

in her now.

"Mr. Orcutt," she demanded, "do _you_ believe Craik Mansell innocent?"

His old mocking smile came back.

"Have I conducted his case as if I believed him guilty?" he asked.

"No, no; but you are his lawyer; you are bound not to let your real

thoughts appear. But in your secret heart you did not, could not,

believe he was free from a crime to which he is linked by so many

criminating circumstances?"

But his strange smile remaining unchanged, she seemed to waken to a

sudden doubt, and leaping impetuously to his side, laid her hand on his

arm and exclaimed:

"Oh, sir, if you have ever cherished one hope of his innocence, no

matter how faint or small, tell me of it, even if this last disclosure

has convinced you of its folly!"

Giving her an icy look, he drew his arm slowly from her grasp and

replied:

"Mr. Mansell has never been considered guilty by me."

"Never?"

"Never."

"Not even now?"

"Not even now."

It seemed as if she could not believe his words.

"And yet you know all there is against him; all that I do now!"

"I know he visited his aunt's house at or after the time she was

murdered, but that is no proof he killed her, Miss Dare."

"No," she admitted with slow conviction, "no. But why did he fly in that

wild way when he left it? Why did he go straight to Buffalo and not wait

to give me the interview he promised?"

"Shall I tell you?" Mr. Orcutt inquired, with a dangerous sneer on his

lips. "Do you wish to know why this man--the man you have so loved--the

man for whom you would die this moment, has conducted himself with such

marked discretion?"

"Yes," came like a breath from between Imogene's parted lips.

"Well," said the lawyer, dropping his words with cruel clearness, "Mr.

Mansell has a great faith in women. He has such faith in you, Imogene

Dare, he thinks you are all you declare yourself to be; that in the hour

you stood up before the court and called yourself a murderer, you spoke

but the truth; that----" He stopped; even his scornful _aplomb_ would

not allow him to go on in the face of the look she wore.

"Say--say those words again!" she gasped. "Let me hear them once more.

He thinks what?"

"That you are what you proclaimed yourself to be this day, the actual

assailant and murderer of Mrs. Clemmens. He has thought so all along,

Miss Dare, why, I do not know. Whether he saw any thing or heard any

thing in that house from which you saw him fly so abruptly, or whether

he relied solely upon the testimony of the ring, which you must remember

he never acknowledged having received back from you, I only know that

from the minute he heard of his aunt's death, his suspicions flew to

you, and that, in despite of such suggestions as I felt it judicious to

make, they have never suffered shock or been turned from their course

from that day to this. _Such_ honor," concluded Mr. Orcutt, with dry

sarcasm, "does the man you love show to the woman who has sacrificed for

his sake all that the world holds dear."

"I--I cannot believe it. You are mocking me," came inarticulately from

her lips, while she drew back, step by step, till half the room lay

between them.

"Mocking you? Miss Dare, he has shown his feelings so palpably, I have

often trembled lest the whole court should see and understand them."

"You have trembled"--she could scarcely speak, the rush of her emotion

was so great--"_you_ have trembled lest the whole court should see he

suspected me of this crime?"

"Yes."

"Then," she cried, "you must have been convinced,--Ah!" she hurriedly

interposed, with a sudden look of distrust, "you are not amusing

yourself with me, are you, Mr. Orcutt? So many traps have been laid for

me from time to time, I dare not trust the truth of my best friend.

Swear you believe Craik Mansell to have thought this of me! Swear you

have seen this dark thing lying in his soul, or I----"

"What?"

"Will confront him myself with the question, if I have to tear down the

walls of the prison to reach him. His mind I must and will know."

"Very well, then, you do. I have told you," declared Mr. Orcutt.

"Swearing would not make it any more true."

Lifting her face to heaven, she suddenly fell on her knees.

"O God!" she murmured, "help me to bear this great joy!"

"_Joy!_"

The icy tone, the fierce surprise it expressed, started her at once to

her feet.

"Yes," she murmured, "joy! Don't you see that if he thinks me guilty, he

_must_ be innocent? I am willing to perish and fall from the ranks of

good men and honorable women to be sure of a fact like this!"

"Imogene, Imogene, would you drive me mad?"

She did not seem to hear.

"Craik, are you guiltless, then?" she was saying. "Is the past all a

dream! Are we two nothing but victims of dread and awful circumstances?

Oh, we will see; life is not ended yet!" And with a burst of hope that

seemed to transfigure her into another woman, she turned toward the

lawyer with the cry: "If he is innocent, he can be saved. Nothing that

has been done by him or me can hurt him if this be so. God who watches

over this crime has His eye on the guilty one. Though his sin be hidden

under a mountain of deceit, it will yet come forth. Guilt like his

cannot remain hidden."

"You did not think this when you faced the court this morning with

perjury on your lips," came in slow, ironical tones from her companion.

"Heaven sometimes accepts a sacrifice," she returned. "But who will

sacrifice himself for a man who could let the trial of one he knew to be

innocent go on unhindered?"

"Who, indeed!" came in almost stifled tones from the lawyer's lips.

"If a stranger and not Craik Mansell slew Mrs. Clemmens," she went on,

"and nothing but an incomprehensible train of coincidences unites him

and me to this act of violence, then may God remember the words of the

widow, and in His almighty power call down such a doom----"

She ended with a gasp. Mr. Orcutt, with a sudden movement, had laid his

hand upon her lips.

"Hush!" he said, "let no curses issue from _your_ mouth. The guilty can

perish without that."

Releasing herself from him in alarm, she drew back, her eyes slowly

dilating as she noted the dead whiteness that had settled over his face,

and taken even the hue of life from his nervously trembling lip.

"Mr. Orcutt," she whispered, with a solemnity which made them heedless

that the lamp which had been burning lower and lower in its socket was

giving out its last fitful rays, "if Craik Mansell did not kill the

Widow Clemmens who then did?"

Her question--or was it her look and tone?--seemed to transfix Mr.

Orcutt. But it was only for a moment. Turning with a slight gesture to

the table at his side, he fumbled with his papers, still oblivious of

the flaring lamp, saying slowly:

"I have always supposed Gouverneur Hildreth to be the true author of

this crime."

"Gouverneur Hildreth?"

Mr. Orcutt bowed.

"I do not agree with you," she returned, moving slowly toward the

window. "I am no reader of human hearts, as all my past history shows,

but something--is it the voice of God in my breast?--tells me that

Gouverneur Hildreth is as innocent as Craik Mansell, and that the true

murderer of Mrs. Clemmens----" Her words ended in a shriek. The light,

which for so long a time had been flickering to its end, had given one

startling flare in which the face of the man before her had flashed on

her view in a ghastly flame that seemed to separate it from all

surrounding objects, then as suddenly gone out, leaving the room in

total darkness.

In the silence that followed, a quick sound as of rushing feet was

heard, then the window was pushed up and the night air came moaning in.

Imogene had fled.

* * * * *

Horace Byrd had not followed Hickory in his rush toward the house. He

had preferred to await results under the great tree which, standing just

inside the gate, cast its mysterious and far-reaching shadow widely over

the wintry lawn. He was, therefore, alone during most of the interview

which Miss Dare held with Mr. Orcutt in the library, and, being alone,

felt himself a prey to his sensations and the weirdness of the situation

in which he found himself.

Though no longer a victim to the passion with which Miss Dare had at

first inspired him, he was by no means without feeling for this grand if

somewhat misguided woman, and his emotions, as he stood there awaiting

the issue of her last desperate attempt to aid the prisoner, were strong

enough to make any solitude welcome, though this solitude for some

reason held an influence which was any thing but enlivening, if it was

not actually depressing, to one of his ready sensibilities.

The tree under which he had taken his stand was, as I have intimated, an

old one. It had stood there from time immemorial, and was, as I have

heard it since said, at once the pride of Mr. Orcutt's heart and the

chief ornament of his grounds. Though devoid of foliage at the time,

its vast and symmetrical canopy of interlacing branches had caught Mr.

Byrd's attention from the first moment of his entrance beneath it, and,

preoccupied as he was, he could not prevent his thoughts from reverting

now and then with a curious sensation of awe to the immensity of those

great limbs which branched above him. His imagination was so powerfully

affected at last, he had a notion of leaving the spot and seeking a

nearer look-out in the belt of evergreens that hid the crouching form of

Hickory; but a spell seemed to emanate from the huge trunk against which

he leaned that restrained him when he sought to go, and noticing almost

at the same moment that the path which Miss Dare would have to take in

her departure ran directly under this tree, he yielded to the apathy of

the moment and remained where he was.

Soon after he was visited by Hickory.

"I can see nothing and hear nothing," was that individual's hurried

salutation. "She and Mr. Orcutt are evidently still in the library, but

I cannot get a clue to what is going on. I shall keep up my watch,

however, for I want to catch a glimpse of her face as she steps from the

window." And he was off again before Byrd could reply.

But the next instant he was back, panting and breathless.

"The light is out in the library," he cried; "we shall see her no more

to-night."

But scarcely had the words left his lips when a faint sound was heard

from the region of the piazza, and looking eagerly up the path, they saw

the form of Miss Dare coming hurriedly toward them.

To slip around into the deepest shadow cast by the tree was but the work

of a moment. Meantime, the moon shone brightly on the walk down which

she was speeding, and as, in the agitation of her departure, she had

forgotten to draw down her veil, they succeeded in obtaining a view of

her face. It was pale, and wore an expression of fear, while her feet

hasted as though she were only filled with thoughts of escape.

Seeing this, the two detectives held their breaths, preparing to follow

her as soon as she had passed the tree. But she did not pass the tree.

Just as she got within reach of its shadow, a commanding voice was heard

calling upon her to stop, and Mr. Orcutt came hurrying, in his turn,

down the path.

"I cannot let you go thus," he cried, pausing beside her on the walk

directly under the tree. "If you command me to save Craik Mansell I must

do it. What you wish must be done, Imogene."

"My wishes should not be needed to lead you to do your duty by the man

you believe to be innocent of the charge for which he is being tried,"

was her earnest and strangely cold reply.

"Perhaps not," he muttered, bitterly; "but--ah, Imogene," he suddenly

broke forth, in a way to startle these two detectives, who, however

suspicious they had been of his passion, had never before had the

opportunity of seeing him under its control, "what have you made of me

with your bewildering graces and indomitable soul? Before I knew you,

life was a round of honorable duties and serene pleasures. I lived in my

profession, and found my greatest delight in its exercise. But now----"

"What now?" she asked.

"I seem"--he said, and the hard, cold selfishness that underlay all his

actions, however generous they may have been in appearance, was apparent

in his words and tones,--"I seem to forget every thing, even my standing

and fame as a lawyer, in the one fear that, although lost to me, you

will yet live to give yourself to another."

"If you fear that I shall ever be so weak as to give myself to Craik

Mansell," was her steady reply, "you have only to recall the promise I

made you when you undertook his case."

"Yes," said he, "but that was when you yourself believed him guilty."

"I know," she returned; "but if he were not good enough for me then, I

am not good enough for him now. Do you forget that I am blotted with a

stain that can never be effaced? When I stood up in court to-day and

denounced myself as guilty of crime, I signed away all my chances of

future happiness."

There was a pause; Mr. Orcutt seemed to be thinking. From the position

occupied by the two detectives his shadow could be seen oscillating to

and fro on the lawn, then, amid the hush of night--a deathly

hush--undisturbed, as Mr. Byrd afterward remarked, by so much as the

cracking of a twig, his voice rose quiet, yet vaguely sinister, in the

words:

"You have conquered. If any man suffers for this crime it shall not be

Craik Mansell, but----"

The sentence was never finished. Before the words could leave his mouth

a sudden strange and splitting sound was heard above their heads, then a

terrifying rush took place, and a great limb lay upon the walk where but

a moment before the beautiful form of Imogene Dare lifted itself by the

side of the eminent lawyer.

When a full sense of the terrible nature of the calamity which had just

occurred swept across the minds of the benumbed detectives, Mr. Byrd,

recalling the words and attitude of Imogene in face of a similar, if

less fatal, catastrophe at the hut, exclaimed under his breath:

"It is the vengeance of Heaven! Imogene Dare must have been more guilty

than we believed."

But when, after a superhuman exertion of strength, and the assistance of

many hands, the limb was at length raised, it was found that, although

both had been prostrated by its weight, only one remained stretched and

senseless upon the ground, and that was not Imogene Dare, but the great

lawyer, Mr. Orcutt.

XXXVIII.

UNEXPECTED WORDS.

It will have blood: they say, blood will have blood.

Stones have been known to move, and trees to speak;

Augurs and understood relations have,

By magot-pies and choughs and rooks, brought forth

The secret'st man of blood.

* * * * *

Foul whisperings are abroad; unnatural deeds

Do breed unnatural troubles; infected minds

To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets. --MACBETH.

"MR. ORCUTT dead?"

"Dying, sir."

"How, when, where?"

"In his own house, sir. He has been struck down by a falling limb."

The District Attorney, who had been roused from his bed to hear these

evil tidings, looked at the perturbed face of the messenger before

him--who was none other than Mr. Byrd--and with difficulty restrained

his emotion.

"I sympathize with your horror and surprise," exclaimed the detective,

respectfully. Then, with a strange mixture of embarrassment and

agitation, added: "It is considered absolutely necessary that you come

to the house. He may yet speak--and--and--you will find Miss Dare

there," he concluded, with a peculiarly hesitating glance and a rapid

movement toward the door.

Mr. Ferris, who, as we know, cherished a strong feeling of friendship

for Mr. Orcutt, stared uneasily at the departing form of the detective.

"What do you say?" he repeated. "Miss Dare there, in Mr. Orcutt's

house?"

The short "Yes," and the celerity with which Mr. Byrd vanished, gave him

the appearance of one anxious to escape further inquiries.

Astonished, as well as greatly distressed, the District Attorney made

speedy preparations for following him, and soon was in the street. He

found it all alive with eager citizens, who, notwithstanding the

lateness of the hour, were rushing hither and thither in search of

particulars concerning this sudden calamity; and upon reaching the house

itself, found it wellnigh surrounded by an agitated throng of neighbors

and friends.

Simply pausing at the gate to cast one glance at the tree and its fallen

limb, he made his way to the front door. It was immediately opened. Dr.

Tredwell, whose face it was a shock to encounter in this place, stood

before him, and farther back a group of such favored friends as had been

allowed to enter the house. Something in the look of the coroner, as he

silently reached forth his hand in salutation, added to the mysterious

impression which had been made upon Mr. Ferris by the manner, if not

words, of Mr. Byrd. Feeling that he was losing his self-command, the

District Attorney grasped the hand that was held out to him, and huskily

inquired if Mr. Orcutt was still alive.

The coroner, who had been standing before him with a troubled brow and

lowered eyes, gravely bowed, and quietly leading the way, ushered him

forward to Mr. Orcutt's bedroom door. There he paused and looked as if

he would like to speak, but hastily changing his mind, opened the door

and motioned the District Attorney in. As he did so, he cast a meaning

and solemn look toward the bed, then drew back, watching with evident

anxiety what the effect of the scene before him would have upon this new

witness.

A stupefying one it seemed, for Mr. Ferris, pausing in his approach,

looked at the cluster of persons about the bed, and then drew his hand

across his eyes like a man in a maze. Suddenly he turned upon Dr.

Tredwell with the same strange look he had himself seen in the eyes of

Byrd, and said, almost as if the words were forced from his lips:

"This is no new sight to us, doctor; we have been spectators of a scene

like this before."

That was it. As nearly as the alteration in circumstances and

surroundings would allow, the spectacle before him was the same as that

which he had encountered months before in a small cottage at the other

end of the town. On the bed a pallid, senseless, but slowly breathing

form, whose features, stamped with the approach of death, stared at

them with marble-like rigidity from beneath the heavy bandages which

proclaimed the injury to be one to the head. At his side the doctor--the

same one who had been called in to attend Mrs. Clemmens--wearing, as he

did then, a look of sombre anticipation which Mr. Ferris expected every

instant to see culminate in the solemn gesture which he had used at the

widow's bedside before she spoke. Even the group of women who clustered

about the foot of the couch wore much the same expression as those who

waited for movement on the part of Mrs. Clemmens; and had it not been

for the sight of Imogene Dare sitting immovable and watchful on the

farther side of the bed, he might almost have imagined he was

transported back to the old scene, and that all this new horror under

which he was laboring was a dream from which he would speedily be

awakened.

But Imogene's face, her look, her air of patient waiting, were not to be

mistaken. Attention once really attracted to her, it was not possible

for it to wander elsewhere. Even the face of the dying man and the

countenance of the watchful physician paled in interest before that

fixed look which, never wavering, never altering, studied the marble

visage before her, for the first faint signs of reawakening

consciousness. Even his sister, who, if weak of mind, was most certainly

of a loving disposition, seemed to feel the force of the tie that bound

Imogene to that pillow; and, though she hovered nearer and nearer the

beloved form as the weariful moments sped by, did not presume to

interpose her grief or her assistance between the burning eye of Imogene

and the immovable form of her stricken brother.

The hush that lay upon the room was unbroken save by the agitated

breaths of all present.

"Is there no hope?" whispered Mr. Ferris to Dr. Tredwell, as, seeing no

immediate prospect of change, they sought for seats at the other side of

the room.

"No; the wound is strangely like that which Mrs. Clemmens received. He

will rouse, probably, but he will not live. Our only comfort is that in

this case it is not a murder."

The District Attorney made a gesture in the direction of Imogene.

"How came she to be here?" he asked.

Dr. Tredwell rose and drew him from the room.

"It needs some explanation," he said; and began to relate to him how Mr.

Orcutt was escorting Miss Dare to the gate when the bough fell which

seemed likely to rob him of his life.

Mr. Ferris, through whose mind those old words of the widow were running

in a way that could only be accounted for by the memories which the

scene within had awakened--"May the vengeance of Heaven light upon the

head of him who has brought me to this pass! May the fate that has come

upon me be visited upon him, measure for measure, blow for blow, death

for death!"--turned with impressive gravity and asked if Miss Dare had

not been hurt.

But Dr. Tredwell shook his head.

"She is not even bruised," said he.

"And yet was on his arm?"

"Possibly, though I very much doubt it."

"She was standing at his side," uttered the quiet voice of Mr. Byrd in

their ear; "and disappeared when he did, under the falling branch. She

must have been bruised, though she says not. I do not think she is in a

condition to feel her injuries."

"You were present, then," observed Mr. Ferris, with a meaning glance at

the detective.

"I was present," he returned, with a look the District Attorney did not

find it difficult to understand.

"Is there any thing you ought to tell me?" Mr. Ferris inquired, when a

moment or so later the coroner had been drawn away by a friend.

"I do not know," said Byrd. "Of the conversation that passed between

Miss Dare and Mr. Orcutt, but a short portion came to our ears. It is

her manner, her actions, that have astonished us, and made us anxious to

have you upon the spot." And he told with what an expression of fear she

had fled from her interview with Mr. Orcutt in the library, and then

gave, as nearly as he could, an account of what had passed between them

before the falling of the fatal limb. Finally he said: "Hickory and I

expected to find her lying crushed and bleeding beneath, but instead of

that, no sooner was the bough lifted than she sprang to her knees, and

seeing Mr. Orcutt lying before her insensible, bent over him with that

same expression of breathless awe and expectation which you see in her

now. It looks as if she were waiting for him to rouse and finish the

sentence that was cut short by this catastrophe."

"And what was that sentence?"

"As near as I can recollect, it was this: 'If any man suffers for this

crime it shall not be Craik Mansell, but----' He did not have time to

say whom."

"My poor friend!" ejaculated Mr. Ferris, "cut down in the exercise of

his duties! It is a mysterious providence--a very mysterious

providence!" And crossing again to the sick-room, he went sadly in.

He found the aspect unchanged. On the pillow the same white, immovable

face; at the bedside the same constant and expectant watchers. Imogene

especially seemed scarcely to have made a move in all the time of his

absence. Like a marble image watching over a form of clay she sat

silent, breathless, intent--a sight to draw all eyes and satisfy none;

for her look was not one of grief, nor of awe, nor of hope, yet it had

that within it which made her presence there seem a matter of right even

to those who did not know the exact character of the bond which united

her to the unhappy sufferer.

Mr. Ferris, who had been only too ready to accept Mr. Byrd's explanation

of her conduct, allowed himself to gaze at her unhindered.

Overwhelmed, as he was, by the calamity which promised to rob the Bar

of one of its most distinguished advocates, and himself of a long-tried

friend, he could not but feel the throb of those deep interests which,

in the estimation of this woman at least, hung upon a word which those

dying lips might utter. And swayed by this feeling, he unconsciously

became a third watcher, though for what, and in hope of what, he could

scarcely have told, so much was he benumbed by the suddenness of this

great catastrophe, and the extraordinary circumstances by which it was

surrounded.

And so one o'clock came and passed.

It was not the last time the clock struck before a change came. The hour

of two went by, then that of three, and still, to the casual eye, all

remained the same. But ere the stroke of four was heard, Mr. Ferris, who

had relaxed his survey of Imogene to bestow a fuller attention upon his

friend, felt an indefinable sensation of dismay assail him, and rising

to his feet, drew a step or so nearer the bed, and looked at its silent

occupant with the air of a man who would fain shut his eyes to the

meaning of what he sees before him. At the same moment Mr. Byrd, who had

just come in, found himself attracted by the subtle difference he

observed in the expression of Miss Dare. The expectancy in her look was

gone, and its entire expression was that of awe. Advancing to the side

of Mr. Ferris, he glanced down at the dying lawyer. He at once saw what

it was that had so attracted and moved the District Attorney. A change

had come over Mr. Orcutt's face. Though rigid still, and unrelieved by

any signs of returning consciousness, it was no longer that of the man

they knew, but a strange face, owning the same features, but

distinguished now by a look sinister as it was unaccustomed, filling the

breasts of those who saw it with dismay, and making any contemplation of

his countenance more than painful to those who loved him. Nor did it

decrease as they watched him. Like that charmed writing which appears on

a blank paper when it is subjected to the heat, the subtle, unmistakable

lines came out, moment by moment, on the mask of his unconscious face,

till even Imogene trembled, and turned an appealing glance upon Mr.

Ferris, as if to bid him note this involuntary evidence of nature

against the purity and good intentions of the man who had always stood

so high in the world's regard. Then, satisfied, perhaps, with the

expression she encountered on the face of the District Attorney, she

looked back; and the heavy minutes went on, only more drearily, and

perhaps more fearfully, than before.

Suddenly--was it at a gesture of the physician, or a look from

Imogene?--a thrill of expectation passed through the room, and Dr.

Tredwell, Mr. Ferris, and a certain other gentleman who had but just

entered at a remote corner of the apartment, came hurriedly forward and

stood at the foot of the bed. At the same instant Imogene rose, and

motioning them a trifle aside, with an air of mingled entreaty and

command, bent slowly down toward the injured man. A look of recognition

answered her from the face upon the pillow, but she did not wait to meet

it, nor pause for the word that evidently trembled on his momentarily

conscious lip. Shutting out with her form the group of anxious watchers

behind her, she threw all her soul into the regard with which she held

him enchained; then slowly, solemnly, but with unyielding determination,

uttered these words, which no one there could know were but a repetition

of a question made a few eventful hours ago: "If Craik Mansell is not

the man who killed Mrs. Clemmens, do you, Mr. Orcutt, tell us who is!"

and, pausing, remained with her gaze fixed demandingly on that of the

lawyer, undeterred by the smothered exclamations of those who witnessed

this scene and missed its clue or found it only in the supposition that

this last great shock had unsettled her mind.

The panting sufferer just trembling on the verge of life thrilled all

down his once alert and nervous frame, then searching her face for one

sign of relenting, unclosed his rigid lips and said, with emphasis:

"Has not Fate spoken?"

Instantly Imogene sprang erect, and, amid the stifled shrieks of the

women and the muttered exclamations of the men, pointed at the recumbent

figure before them, saying:

"You hear! Tremont Orcutt declares upon his death-bed that it is the

voice of Heaven which has spoken in this dreadful calamity. You who were

present when Mrs. Clemmens breathed her imprecations on the head of her

murderer, must know what that means."

Mr. Ferris, who of all present, perhaps, possessed the greatest regard

for the lawyer, gave an ejaculation of dismay at this, and bounding

forward, lifted her away from the bedside he believed her to have basely

desecrated.

"Madwoman," he cried, "where will your ravings end? He will tell no such

tale to me."

But when he bent above the lawyer with the question forced from him by

Miss Dare's words, he found him already lapsed into that strange

insensibility which was every moment showing itself more and more to be

the precursor of death.

The sight seemed to rob Mr. Ferris of his last grain of self-command.

Rising, he confronted the dazed faces of those about him with a severe

look.

"This charge," said he, "is akin to that which Miss Dare made against

herself in the court yesterday morning. When a woman has become crazed

she no longer knows what she says."

But Imogene, strong in the belief that the hand of Heaven had pointed

out the culprit for whom they had so long been searching, shook her head

in quiet denial, and simply saying, "None of you know this man as I do,"

moved quietly aside to a dim corner, where she sat down in calm

expectation of another awakening on the part of the dying lawyer.

It came soon--came before Mr. Ferris had recovered himself, or Dr.

Tredwell had had a chance to give any utterance to the emotions which

this scene was calculated to awaken.

Rousing as the widow had done, but seeming to see no one, not even the

physician who bent close at his side, Mr. Orcutt lifted his voice again,

this time in the old stentorian tones which he used in court, and

clearly, firmly exclaimed:

"Blood will have blood!" Then in lower and more familiar accents, cried:

"Ah, Imogene, Imogene, it was all for you!" And with her name on his

lips, the great lawyer closed his eyes again, and sank for the last time

into a state of insensibility.

Imogene at once rose.

"I must go," she murmured; "my duty in this place is done." And she

attempted to cross the floor.

But the purpose which had sustained her being at an end, she felt the

full weight of her misery, and looking in the faces about her, and

seeing nothing there but reprobation, she tottered and would have fallen

had not a certain portly gentleman who stood near by put forth his arm

to sustain her. Accepting the support with gratitude, but scarcely

pausing to note from what source it came, she turned for an instant to

Mr. Ferris.

"I realize," said she, "with what surprise you must have heard the

revelation which has just come from Mr. Orcutt's lips. So unexpected is

it that you cannot yet believe it, but the time will come when, of all

the words I have spoken, these alone will be found worthy your full

credit: that not Craik Mansell, not Gouverneur Hildreth, not even

unhappy Imogene Dare herself, could tell you so much of the real cause

and manner of Mrs. Clemmens' death as this man who lies stricken here a

victim of Divine justice."

And merely stopping to cast one final look in the direction of the bed,

she stumbled from the room. A few minutes later and she reached the

front door; but only to fall against the lintel with the moan:

"My words are true, but who will ever believe them?"

"Pardon me," exclaimed a bland and fatherly voice over her shoulder, "I

am a man who can believe in any thing. Put your confidence in me, Miss

Dare, and we will see--we will see."

Startled by her surprise into new life, she gave one glance at the

gentleman who had followed her to the door. It was the same who had

offered her his arm, and whom she supposed to have remained behind her

in Mr. Orcutt's room. She saw before her a large comfortable-looking

personage of middle age, of no great pretensions to elegance or culture,

but bearing that within his face which oddly enough baffled her

understanding while it encouraged her trust. This was the more peculiar

in that he was not looking at her, but stood with his eyes fixed on the

fading light of the hall-lamp, which he surveyed with an expression of

concern that almost amounted to pity.

"Sir, who are you?" she tremblingly asked.

Dropping his eyes from the lamp, he riveted them upon the veil she held

tightly clasped in her right hand.

"If you will allow me the liberty of whispering in your ear, I will soon

tell you," said he.

She bent her weary head downward; he at once leaned toward her and

murmured a half-dozen words that made her instantly start erect with new

light in her eyes.

"And you will help me?" she cried.

"What else am I here for?" he answered.

And turning toward a quiet figure which she now saw for the first time

standing on the threshold of a small room near by, he said with the

calmness of a master:

"Hickory, see that no one enters or leaves the sick-room till I return."

And offering Imogene his arm, he conducted her into the library, the

door of which he shut to behind them.