CHAPTER XL.

IN THE PRISON.

The jury passing on the prisoner's life,

May in the sworn twelve have a thief or two

Guiltier than him they try.

--MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

Such welcome and unwelcome things at once

'Tis hard to reconcile. --MACBETH.

MR. MANSELL sat in his cell, the prey of gloomy and perturbed thought.

He knew Mr. Orcutt was dead; he had been told of it early in the morning

by his jailer, but of the circumstances which attended that death he

knew nothing, save that the lawyer had been struck by a limb falling

from a tree in his own garden.

The few moments during which the court had met for the purpose of

re-adjournment had added but little to his enlightenment. A marked

reserve had characterized the whole proceedings; and though an

indefinable instinct had told him that in some mysterious way his cause

had been helped rather than injured by this calamity to his counsel, he

found no one ready to volunteer those explanations which his great

interest in the matter certainly demanded. The hour, therefore, which he

spent in solitude upon his return to prison was one of great anxiety,

and it was quite a welcome relief when the cell door opened and the

keeper ushered in a strange gentleman. Supposing it to be the new

counsel he had chosen at haphazard from a list of names that had been

offered him, Mr. Mansell rose. But a second glance assured him he had

made a mistake in supposing this person to be a lawyer, and stepping

back he awaited his approach with mingled curiosity and reserve.

The stranger, who seemed to be perfectly at home in the narrow quarters

in which he found himself, advanced with a frank air.

"My name is Gryce," said he, "and I am a detective. The District

Attorney, who, as you know, has been placed in a very embarrassing

situation by the events of the last two days, has accepted my services

in connection with those of the two men already employed by him, in the

hope that my greater experience may assist him in determining which, of

all the persons who have been accused, or who have accused themselves,

of murdering Mrs. Clemmens, is the actual perpetrator of that deed. Do

you require any further assurance of my being in the confidence of Mr.

Ferris than the fact that I am here, and in full liberty to talk with

you?"

"No," returned the other, after a short but close study of his visitor.

"Very well, then," continued the detective, with a comfortable air of

ease, "I will speak to the point; and the first thing I will say is,

that upon looking at the evidence against you, and hearing what I have

heard from various sources since I came to town, I know you are not the

man who killed Mrs. Clemmens. To be sure, you have declined to explain

certain points, but I think you can explain them, and if you will only

inform me----"

"Pardon me," interrupted Mr. Mansell, gravely; "but you say you are a

detective. Now, I have no information to give a detective."

"Are you sure?" was the imperturbable query.

"Quite," was the quick reply.

"You are then determined upon going to the scaffold, whether or no?"

remarked Mr. Gryce, somewhat grimly.

"Yes, if to escape it I must confide in a detective."

"Then you do wrong," declared the other; "as I will immediately proceed

to show you. Mr. Mansell, you are, of course, aware of the manner of Mr.

Orcutt's death?"

"I know he was struck by a falling limb."

"Do you know what he was doing when this occurred?"

"No."

"He was escorting Miss Dare down to the gate."

The prisoner, whose countenance had brightened at the mention of his

lawyer, turned a deadly white at this.

"And--and was Miss Dare hurt?" he asked.

The detective shook his head.

"Then why do you tell me this?"

"Because it has much to do with the occasion of my coming here, Mr.

Mansell," proceeded Mr. Gryce, in that tone of completely understanding

himself which he knew so well how to assume with men of the prisoner's

stamp. "I am going to speak to you without circumlocution or disguise. I

am going to put your position before you just as it is. You are on trial

for a murder of which not only yourself, but another man, was suspected.

Why are you on trial instead of him? Because you were reticent in regard

to certain matters which common-sense would say you ought to be able to

explain. Why were you reticent? There can be but one answer. Because you

feared to implicate another person, for whose happiness and honor you

had more regard than for your own. Who was that other person? The woman

who stood up in court yesterday and declared she had herself committed

this crime. What is the conclusion? You believe, and have always

believed, Miss Dare to be the assassin of Mrs. Clemmens."

The prisoner, whose pallor had increased with every word the detective

uttered, leaped to his feet at this last sentence.

"You have no right to say that!" he vehemently asseverated. "What do you

know of my thoughts or my beliefs? Do I carry my convictions on my

sleeve? I am not the man to betray my ideas or feelings to the world."

Mr. Gryce smiled. To be sure, this expression of silent complacency was

directed to the grating of the window overhead, but it was none the less

effectual on that account. Mr. Mansell, despite his self-command, began

to look uneasy.

"Prove your words!" he cried. "Show that these have been my

convictions!"

"Very well," returned Mr. Gryce. "Why were you so long silent about the

ring? Because you did not wish to compromise Miss Dare by declaring she

did not return it to you, as she had said. Why did you try to stop her

in the midst of her testimony yesterday? Because you saw it was going to

end in confession. Finally, why did you throw aside your defence, and

instead of proclaiming yourself guilty, simply tell how you were able to

reach Monteith Quarry Station in ninety minutes? Because you feared her

guilt would be confirmed if her statements were investigated, and were

willing to sacrifice every thing but the truth in order to save her."

"You give me credit for a great deal of generosity," coldly replied the

prisoner. "After the evidence brought against me by the prosecution, I

should think my guilt would be accepted as proved the moment I showed

that I had not left Mrs. Clemmens' house at the time she was believed to

be murdered."

"And so it would," responded Mr. Gryce, "if the prosecution had not seen

reason to believe that the moment of Mrs. Clemmens' death has been put

too early. We now think she was not struck till some time after twelve,

instead of five minutes before."

"Indeed?" said Mr. Mansell, with stern self-control.

Mr. Gryce, whose carelessly roving eye told little of the close study

with which he was honoring the man before him, nodded with grave

decision.

"You could add very much to our convictions on this point," he observed,

"by telling what it was you saw or heard in Mrs. Clemmens' house at the

moment you fled from it so abruptly."

"How do you know I fled from it abruptly?"

"You were seen. The fact has not appeared in court, but a witness we

might name perceived you flying from your aunt's door to the swamp as if

your life depended upon the speed you made."

"And with that fact added to all the rest you have against me, you say

you believe me innocent?" exclaimed Mr. Mansell.

"Yes; for I have also said I believe Mrs. Clemmens not to have been

assaulted till after the hour of noon. You fled from the door at

precisely five minutes before it."

The uneasiness of Mr. Mansell's face increased, till it amounted to

agitation.

"And may I ask," said he, "what has happened to make you believe she was

not struck at the moment hitherto supposed?"

"Ah, now," replied the detective, "we come down to facts." And leaning

with a confidential air toward the prisoner, he quietly said: "Your

counsel has died, for one thing."

Astonished as much by the tone as the tenor of these words, Mr. Mansell

drew back from his visitor in some distrust. Seeing it, Mr. Gryce edged

still farther forward, and calmly continued:

"If no one has told you the particulars of Mr. Orcutt's death, you

probably do not know why Miss Dare was at his house last evening?"

The look of the prisoner was sufficient reply.

"She went there," resumed Mr. Gryce, with composure, "to tell him that

her whole evidence against you had been given under the belief that you

were guilty of the crime with which you had been charged; that by a

trick of my fellow-detectives, Hickory and Byrd, she had been deceived

into thinking you had actually admitted your guilt to her; and that she

had only been undeceived after she had uttered the perjury with which

she sought to save you yesterday morning."

"Perjury?" escaped involuntarily from Craik Mansell's lips.

"Yes," repeated the detective, "perjury. Miss Dare lied when she said

she had been to Mrs. Clemmens' cottage on the morning of the murder. She

was not there, nor did she lift her hand against the widow's life. That

tale she told to escape telling another which she thought would insure

your doom."

"You have been talking to Miss Dare?" suggested the prisoner, with

subdued sarcasm.

"I have been talking to my two men," was the unmoved retort, "to Hickory

and to Byrd, and they not only confirm this statement of hers in regard

to the deception they played upon her, but say enough to show she could

not have been guilty of the crime, because at that time she honestly

believed you to be so."

"I do not understand you," cried the prisoner, in a voice that, despite

his marked self-control, showed the presence of genuine emotion.

Mr. Gryce at once went into particulars. He was anxious to have Craik

Mansell's mind disabused of the notion that Imogene had committed this

crime, since upon that notion he believed his unfortunate reticence to

rest. He therefore gave him a full relation of the scene in the hut,

together with all its consequences.

Mr. Mansell listened like a man in a dream. Some fact in the past

evidently made this story incredible to him.

Seeing it, Mr. Gryce did not wait to hear his comments, but upon

finishing his account, exclaimed, with a confident air:

"Such testimony is conclusive. It is impossible to consider Miss Dare

guilty, after an insight of this kind into the real state of her mind.

Even she has seen the uselessness of persisting in her self-accusation,

and, as I have already told you, went to Mr. Orcutt's house in order to

explain to him her past conduct, and ask his advice for the future. She

learned something else before her interview with Mr. Orcutt ended,"

continued the detective, impressively. "She learned that she had not

only been mistaken in supposing you had admitted your guilt, but that

you could not have been guilty, because you had always believed her to

be so. It has been a mutual case of suspicion, you see, and argues

innocence on the part of you both. Or so it seems to the prosecution.

How does it seem to you?"

"Would it help my cause to say?"

"It would help your cause to tell what sent you so abruptly from Mrs.

Clemmens' house the morning she was murdered."

"I do not see how," returned the prisoner.

The glance of Mr. Gryce settled confidentially on his right hand where

it lay outspread upon his ample knee.

"Mr. Mansell," he inquired, "have you no curiosity to know any details

of the accident by which you have unexpectedly been deprived of a

counsel?"

Evidently surprised at this sudden change of subject, Craik replied:

"If I had not hoped you would understand my anxiety and presently

relieve it, I could not have shown you as much patience as I have."

"Very well," rejoined Mr. Gryce, altering his manner with a suddenness

that evidently alarmed his listener. "Mr. Orcutt did not die immediately

after he was struck down. He lived some hours; lived to say some words

that have materially changed the suspicions of persons interested in the

case he was defending."

"Mr. Orcutt?"

The tone was one of surprise. Mr. Gryce's little finger seemed to take

note of it, for it tapped the leg beneath it in quite an emphatic manner

as he continued: "It was in answer to a question put to him by Miss

Dare. To the surprise of every one, she had not left him from the moment

they were mutually relieved from the weight of the fallen limb, but had

stood over him for hours, watching for him to rouse from his

insensibility. When he did, she appealed to him in a way that showed she

expected a reply, to tell her who it was that killed the Widow

Clemmens."

"And did Mr. Orcutt know?" was Mansell's half-agitated, half-incredulous

query.

"His answer seemed to show that he did. Mr. Mansell, have you ever had

any doubts of Mr. Orcutt?"

"Doubts?"

"Doubts as to his integrity, good-heartedness, or desire to serve you?"

"No."

"You will, then, be greatly surprised," Mr. Gryce went on, with

increased gravity, "when I tell you that Mr. Orcutt's reply to Miss

Dare's question was such as to draw attention to himself as the assassin

of Widow Clemmens, and that his words and the circumstances under which

they were uttered have so impressed Mr. Ferris, that the question now

agitating his mind is not, 'Is Craik Mansell innocent, but was his

counsel, Tremont Orcutt, guilty?'"

The excited look which had appeared on the face of Mansell at the

beginning of this speech, changed to one of strong disgust.

"This is too much!" he cried. "I am not a fool to be caught by any such

make-believe as this! Mr. Orcutt thought to be an assassin? You might as

well say that people accuse Judge Evans of killing the Widow Clemmens."

Mr. Gryce, who had perhaps stretched a point when he so unequivocally

declared his complete confidence in the innocence of the man before him,

tapped his leg quite affectionately at this burst of natural

indignation, and counted off another point in favor of the prisoner. His

words, however, were dry as sarcasm could make them.

"No," said he, "for people know that Judge Evans was without the

opportunity for committing this murder, while every one remembers how

Mr. Orcutt went to the widow's house and came out again with tidings of

her death."

The prisoner's lip curled disdainfully.

"And do you expect me to believe you regard this as a groundwork for

suspicion? I should have given you credit for more penetration, sir."

"Then you do not think Mr. Orcutt knew what he was saying when, in

answer to Miss Dare's appeal for him to tell who the murderer was, he

answered: 'Blood will have blood!' and drew attention to his own violent

end?"

"Did Mr. Orcutt say that?"

"He did."

"Very well, a man whose whole mind has for some time been engrossed with

defending another man accused of murder, might say any thing while in a

state of delirium."

Mr. Gryce uttered his favorite "Humph!" and gave his leg another pat,

but added, gravely enough: "Miss Dare believes his words to be those of

confession."

"You say Miss Dare once believed me to have confessed."

"But," persisted the detective, "Miss Dare is not alone in her opinion.

Men in whose judgment you must rely, find it difficult to explain the

words of Mr. Orcutt by means of any other theory than that he is himself

the perpetrator of that crime for which you are yourself being tried."

"I find it difficult to believe that possible," quietly returned the

prisoner. "What!" he suddenly exclaimed; "suspect a man of Mr. Orcutt's

abilities and standing of a hideous crime--the very crime, too, with

which his client is charged, and in defence of whom he has brought all

his skill to bear! The idea is preposterous, unheard of!"

"I acknowledge that," dryly assented Mr. Gryce; "but it has been my

experience to find that it is the preposterous things which happen."

For a minute the prisoner stared at the speaker incredulously; then he

cried:

"You really appear to be in earnest."

"I was never more so in my life," was Mr. Gryce's rejoinder.

Drawing back, Craik Mansell looked at the detective with an emotion that

had almost the character of hope. Presently he said:

"If you do distrust Mr. Orcutt, you must have weightier reasons for it

than any you have given me. What are they? You must be willing I should

know, or you would not have gone as far with me as you have."

"You are right," Gryce assured him. "A case so complicated as this calls

for unusual measures. Mr. Ferris, feeling the gravity of his position,

allows me to take you into our confidence, in the hope that you will be

able to help us out of our difficulty."

"I help you! You'd better release me first."

"That will come in time."

"_If_ I help you?"

"Whether you help or not, if we can satisfy ourselves and the world that

Mr. Orcutt's words were a confession. You may hasten that conviction."

"How?"

"By clearing up the mystery of your flight from Mrs. Clemmens' house."

The keen eyes of the prisoner fell; all his old distrust seemed on the

point of returning.

"That would not help you at all," said he.

"_I_ should like to be the judge," said Mr. Gryce.

The prisoner shook his head.

"My word must go for it," said he.

The detective had been the hero of too many such scenes to be easily

discouraged. Bowing as if accepting this conclusion from the prisoner,

he quietly proceeded with the recital he had planned. With a frankness

certainly unusual to him, he gave the prisoner a full account of Mr.

Orcutt's last hours, and the interview which had followed between

himself and Miss Dare. To this he added his own reasons for doubting the

lawyer, and, while admitting he saw no motive for the deed, gave it as

his serious opinion, that the motive would be found if once he could get

at the secret of Mr. Orcutt's real connection with the deceased. He was

so eloquent, and so manifestly in earnest, Mr. Mansell's eye brightened

in spite of himself, and when the detective ceased he looked up with an

expression which convinced Mr. Gryce that half the battle was won. He

accordingly said, in a tone of great confidence:

"A knowledge of what went on in Mrs. Clemmens' house before he went to

it would be of great help to us. With that for a start, all may be

learned. I therefore put it to you for the last time whether it would

not be best for you to explain yourself on this point. I am sure you

will not regret it."

"Sir," said Mansell, with undisturbed composure, "if your purpose is to

fix this crime on Mr. Orcutt, I must insist upon your taking my word

that I have no information to give you that can in any way affect him."

"You could give us information, then, that would affect Miss Dare?" was

the quick retort. "Now, I say," the astute detective declared, as the

prisoner gave an almost imperceptible start, "that whatever your

information is, Miss Dare is not guilty."

"You say it!" exclaimed the prisoner. "What does your opinion amount to

if you haven't heard the evidence against her?"

"There is no evidence against her but what is purely circumstantial."

"How do you know that?"

"Because she is innocent. Circumstantial evidence may exist alike

against the innocent and the guilty; real evidence only against the

guilty. I mean to say that as I am firmly convinced Miss Dare once

regarded you as guilty of this crime, I must be equally convinced she

didn't commit it herself. This is unanswerable."

"You have stated that before."

"I know it; but I want you to see the force of it; because, once

convinced with me that Miss Dare is innocent, you will be willing to

tell all you know, even what apparently implicates her."

Silence answered this remark.

"You didn't _see_ her strike the blow?"

Mansell roused indignantly.

"No, of course not!" he cried.

"You did not see her with your aunt that moment you fled from the house

immediately before the murder!"

"I didn't _see_ her."

That emphasis, unconscious, perhaps, was fatal. Gryce, who never lost

any thing, darted on this small gleam of advantage as a hungry pike

darts upon an innocent minnow.

"But you thought you heard her," he cried; "her voice, or her laugh, or

perhaps merely the rustle of her dress in another room?"

"No," said Mansell, "I didn't _hear_ her."

"Of course not," was the instantaneous reply. "But something said or

done by somebody--a something which amounts to nothing as

evidence--gives you to understand she was there, and so you hold your

tongue for fear of compromising her."

"Amounts to nothing as evidence?" echoed Mansell. "How do you know

that?"

"Because Miss Dare was not in the house with your aunt at that time.

Miss Dare was in Professor Darling's observatory, a mile or so away."

"Does she say that?"

"We will _prove_ that."

Aroused, excited, the prisoner turned his flashing blue eyes on the

detective.

"I should be glad to have you," he said.

"But you must first tell me in what room you were when you received this

intimation of Miss Dare's presence?"

"I was in no room; I was on the stone step outside of the dining-room

door. I did not go into the house at all that morning, as I believe I

have already told Mr. Ferris."

"_Very_ good! It will all be simpler than I thought. You came up to the

house and went away again without coming in; ran away, I may say, taking

the direction of the swamp."

The prisoner did not deny it.

"You remember all the incidents of that short flight?"

The prisoner's lip curled.

"Remember leaping the fence and stumbling a trifle when you came down?"

"Yes."

"Very well; now tell me how could Miss Dare see you do that from Mrs.

Clemmens' house?"

"Did Miss Dare tell you she saw me trip after I jumped the fence?"

"She did."

"And yet was in Professor Darling's observatory, a mile or so away?"

"Yes."

A satirical laugh broke from the prisoner.

"I think," said he, "that instead of my telling you how she could have

seen this from Mrs. Clemmens' house, you should tell me how she could

have seen it from Professor Darling's observatory."

"That is easy enough. She was looking through a telescope."

"What?"

"At the moment you were turning from Mrs. Clemmens' door, Miss Dare,

perched in the top of Professor Darling's house, was looking in that

very direction through a telescope."

"I--I would like to believe that story," said the prisoner, with

suppressed emotion. "It would----"

"What?" urged the detective, calmly.

"Make a new man of me," finished Mansell, with a momentary burst of

feeling.

"Well, then, call up your memories of the way your aunt's house is

situated. Recall the hour, and acknowledge that, if Miss Dare was with

her, she must have been in the dining-room."

"There is no doubt about that."

"Now, how many windows has the dining-room?"

"One."

"How situated?"

"It is on the same side as the door."

"There is none, then, which looks down to that place where you leaped

the fence?"

"No."

"How account for her seeing that little incident, then, of your

stumbling?"

"She might have come to the door, stepped out, and so seen me."

"Humph! I see you have an answer for every thing."

Craik Mansell was silent.

A look of admiration slowly spread itself over the detective's face.

"We must probe the matter a little deeper," said he. "I see I have a

hard head to deal with." And, bringing his glance a little nearer to the

prisoner, he remarked:

"If she had been standing there you could not have turned round without

seeing her?"

"No."

"Now, did you see her standing there?"

"No."

"Yet you turned round?"

"I did?"

"Miss Dare says so."

The prisoner struck his forehead with his hand.

"And it _is_ so," he cried. "I remember now that some vague desire to

know the time made me turn to look at the church clock. Go on. Tell me

more that Miss Dare saw."

His manner was so changed--his eye burned so brightly--the detective

gave himself a tap of decided self-gratulation.

"She saw you hurry over the bog, stop at the entrance of the wood, take

a look at your watch, and plunge with renewed speed into the forest."

"It is so. It is so. And, to have seen that, she must have had the aid

of a telescope."

"Then she describes your appearance. She says you had your pants turned

up at the ankles, and carried your coat on your left arm."

"_Left_ arm?"

"Yes."

"I think I had it on my right."

"It was on the arm toward her, she declares. If she was in the

observatory, it was your left side that she saw."

"Yes, yes; but the coat was over the other arm. I remember using my left

hand in vaulting over the fence when I came up to the house."

"It is a vital point," said Mr. Gryce, with a quietness that concealed

his real anxiety and chagrin. "If the coat was on the arm _toward_ her,

the fact of its being on the right----"

"Wait!" exclaimed Mr. Mansell, with an air of sudden relief. "I

recollect now that I changed it from one arm to the other after I

vaulted the fence. It was just at the moment I turned to come back to

the side door, and, as she does not pretend to have seen me till after I

left the door, of course the coat was, as she says, on my left arm."

"I thought you could explain it," returned Mr. Gryce, with an air of

easy confidence. "But what do you mean when you say that you changed it

at the moment you turned to come back to the side door? Didn't you go at

once to the dining-room door from the swamp?"

"No. I had gone to the front door on my former visit, and was going to

it this time; but when I got to the corner of the house I saw the tramp

coming into the gate, and not wishing to encounter any one, turned round

and came back to the dining-room door."

"I see. And it was then you heard----"

"What I heard," completed the prisoner, grimly.

"Mr. Mansell," said the other, "are you not sufficiently convinced by

this time that Miss Dare was not with Mrs. Clemmens, but in the

observatory of Professor Darling's house, to tell me what that was?"

"Answer me a question and I will reply. Can the entrance of the woods be

seen from the position which she declares herself to have occupied?"

"It can. Not two hours ago I tried the experiment myself, using the same

telescope and kneeling in the same place where she did. I found I could

not only trace the spot where you paused, but could detect quite readily

every movement of my man Hickory, whom I had previously placed there to

go through the motions. I should not have come here if I had not made

myself certain on that point."

Yet the prisoner hesitated.

"I not only made myself sure of that," resumed Mr. Gryce, "but I also

tried if I could see as much with my naked eye from Mrs. Clemmens' side

door. I found I could not, and my sight is very good."

"Enough," said Mansell; "hard as it is to explain, I must believe Miss

Dare was not where I thought her."

"Then you will tell me what you heard?"

"Yes; for in it may lie the key to this mystery, though how, I cannot

see, and doubt if you can. I am all the more ready to do it," he

pursued, "because I can now understand how she came to think me guilty,

and, thinking so, conducted herself as she has done from the beginning

of my trial. All but the fact of her denouncing herself yesterday; that

I cannot comprehend."

"A woman in love can do any thing," quoth Mr. Gryce. Then admonished by

the flush of the prisoner's cheek that he was treading on dangerous

ground, he quickly added: "But she will explain all that herself some

day. Let us hear what you have to tell me."

Craik Mansell drooped his head and his brow became gloomy.

"Sir," said he, "it is unnecessary for me to state that your surmise in

regard to my past convictions is true. If Miss Dare was not with my aunt

just before the murder, I certainly had reasons for thinking she was. To

be sure, I did not see her or hear her voice, but I heard my aunt

address her distinctly and by name."

"You did?" Mr. Gryce's interest in the tattoo he was playing on his knee

became intense.

"Yes. It was just as I pushed the door ajar. The words were these: 'You

think you are going to marry him, Imogene Dare; but I tell you you

_never shall_, not while _I_ live.'"

"Humph!" broke involuntarily from the detective's lips, and, though his

face betrayed nothing of the shock this communication occasioned him,

his fingers stopped an instant in their restless play.

Mr. Mansell saw it and cast him an anxious look. The detective instantly

smiled with great unconcern. "Go on," said he, "what else did you hear?"

"Nothing else. In the mood in which I was this very plain intimation

that Miss Dare had sought my aunt, had pleaded with her for me and

failed, struck me as sufficient. I did not wait to hear more, but

hurried away in a state of passion that was little short of frenzy. To

leave the place and return to my work was now my one wish. When I found,

then, that by running I might catch the train at Monteith, I ran, and so

unconsciously laid myself open to suspicion."

"I see," murmured the detective; "I see."

"Not that I suspected any evil then," pursued Mr. Mansell, earnestly. "I

was only conscious of disappointment and a desire to escape from my own

thoughts. It was not till next day----"

"Yes--yes," interrupted Mr. Gryce, abstractedly, "but your aunt's words!

She said: 'You think you are going to marry him, Imogene Dare; but you

never shall, not while I live.' Yet Imogene Dare was not there. Let us

solve that problem."

"You think you can?"

"I think I must."

"How? how?"

The detective did not answer. He was buried in profound thought.

Suddenly he exclaimed:

"It is, as you say, the key-note to the tragedy. It must be solved." But

the glance he dived deep into space seemed to echo that "How? how?" of

the prisoner, with a gloomy persistence that promised little for an

immediate answer to the enigma before them. It occurred to Mansell to

offer a suggestion.

"There is but one way _I_ can explain it," said he. "My aunt was

speaking to herself. She was deaf and lived alone. Such people often

indulge in soliloquizing."

The slap which Mr. Gryce gave his thigh must have made it tingle for a

good half-hour.

"There," he cried, "who says extraordinary measures are not useful at

times? You've hit the very explanation. Of course she was speaking to

herself. She was just the woman to do it. Imogene Dare was in her

thoughts, so she addressed Imogene Dare. If you had opened the door you

would have seen her standing there alone, venting her thoughts into

empty space."

"I wish I had," said the prisoner.

Mr. Gryce became exceedingly animated. "Well, that's settled," said he.

"Imogene Dare was not there, save in Mrs. Clemmens' imagination. And now

for the conclusion. She said: 'You think you are going to marry him,

Imogene Dare; but you never shall, not while I live.' That shows her

mind was running on you."

"It shows more than that. It shows that, if Miss Dare was not with her

then, she must have been there earlier in the day. For, when I left my

aunt the day before, she was in entire ignorance of my attachment to

Miss Dare, and the hopes it had led to."

"Say that again," cried Gryce.

Mr. Mansell repeated himself, adding: "That would account for the ring

being found on my aunt's dining-room floor----"

But Mr. Gryce waved that question aside.

"What I want to make sure of is that your aunt had not been informed of

your wishes as concerned Miss Dare."

"Unless Miss Dare was there in the early morning and told her herself."

"There were no neighbors to betray you?"

"There wasn't a neighbor who knew any thing about the matter."

The detective's eye brightened till it vied in brilliancy with the stray

gleam of sunshine which had found its way to the cell through the narrow

grating over their heads.

"A clue!" he murmured; "I have received a clue," and rose as if to

leave.

The prisoner, startled, rose also.

"A clue to what?" he cried.

But Mr. Gryce was not the man to answer such a question.

"You shall hear soon. Enough that you have given me an idea that may

eventually lead to the clearing up of this mystery, if not to your own

acquittal from a false charge of murder."

"And Miss Dare?"

"Is under no charge, and never will be."

"And Mr. Orcutt?"

"Wait," said Mr. Gryce--"wait."

XLI.

A LINK SUPPLIED.

Upon his bloody finger he doth wear

A precious ring.

--TITUS ANDRONICUS.

Make me to see it; or at the least so prove it,

That the probation bear no hinge nor loop

To hang a doubt on.

--OTHELLO.

MR. GRYCE did not believe that Imogene Dare had visited Mrs. Clemmens

before the assault, or, indeed, had held any communication with her.

Therefore, when Mansell declared that he had never told his aunt of the

attachment between himself and this young lady, the astute detective at

once drew the conclusion that the widow had never known of that

attachment, and consequently that the words which the prisoner had

overheard must have referred, not to himself, as he supposed, but to

some other man, and, if to some other man--why to the only one with whom

Miss Dare's name was at that time associated; in other words, to Mr.

Orcutt!

Now it was not easy to measure the importance of a conclusion like this.

For whilst there would have been nothing peculiar in this solitary

woman, with the few thousands in the bank, boasting of her power to

separate her nephew from the lady of his choice, there was every thing

that was significant in her using the same language in regard to Miss

Dare and Mr. Orcutt. Nothing but the existence of some unsuspected bond

between herself and the great lawyer could have accounted, first, for

her feeling on the subject of his marriage; and, secondly, for the

threat of interference contained in her very emphatic words,--a bond

which, while evidently not that of love, was still of a nature to give

her control over his destiny, and make her, in spite of her lonely

condition, the selfish and determined arbitrator of his fate.

What was that bond? A secret shared between them? The knowledge on her

part of some fact in Mr. Orcutt's past life, which, if revealed, might

serve as an impediment to his marriage? In consideration that the great

mystery to be solved was what motive Mr. Orcutt could have had for

killing this woman, an answer to this question was manifestly of the

first importance.

But before proceeding to take any measures to insure one, Mr. Gryce sat

down and seriously asked himself whether there was any known fact,

circumstantial or otherwise, which refused to fit into the theory that

Mr. Orcutt actually committed this crime with his own hand, and at the

time he was seen to cross the street and enter Mrs. Clemmens' house.

For, whereas the most complete chain of circumstantial evidence does not

necessarily prove the suspected party to be guilty of a crime, the

least break in it is fatal to his conviction. And Mr. Gryce wished to be

as fair to the memory of Mr. Orcutt as he would have been to the living

man.

Beginning, therefore, with the earliest incidents of the fatal day, he

called up, first, the letter which the widow had commenced but never

lived to finish. It was a suggestive epistle. It was addressed to her

most intimate friend, and showed in the few lines written a certain

foreboding or apprehension of death remarkable under the circumstances.

Mr. Gryce recalled one of its expressions. "There are so many," wrote

she, "to whom my death would be more than welcome." So many! Many is a

strong word; many means more than one, more than two; many means _three_

at least. Now where were the three? Hildreth, of course, was one,

Mansell might very properly be another, but who was the third? To Mr.

Gryce, but one name suggested itself in reply. So far, then, his theory

stood firm. Now what was the next fact known? The milkman stopped with

his milk; that was at half-past eleven. He had to wait a few minutes,

from which it was concluded she was up-stairs when he rapped. Was it at

this time she was interrupted in her letter-writing? If so, she probably

did not go back to it, for when Mr. Hildreth called, some fifteen

minutes later, she was on the spot to open the door. Their interview was

short; it was also stormy. Medicine was the last thing she stood in need

of; besides, her mind was evidently preoccupied. Showing him the door,

she goes back to her work, and, being deaf, does not notice that he does

not leave the house as she expected. Consequently her thoughts go on

unhindered, and, her condition being one of anger, she mutters aloud and

bitterly to herself as she flits from dining-room to kitchen in her

labor of serving up her dinner. The words she made use of have been

overheard, and here another point appears. For, whereas her temper must

have been disturbed by the demand which had been made upon her the day

before by her favorite relative and heir, her expressions of wrath at

this moment were not levelled against him, but against a young lady who

is said to have been a stranger to her, her language being: "You think

you are going to marry him, Imogene Dare; but I tell you you never

shall, not while I live." Her chief grievance, then, and the one thing

uppermost in her thoughts, even at a time when she felt that there were

many who desired her death, lay in this fact that a young and beautiful

woman had manifested, as she supposed, a wish to marry Mr. Orcutt, the

word _him_ which she had used, necessarily referring to the lawyer, as

she knew nothing of Imogene's passion for her nephew.

But this is not the only point into which it is necessary to inquire.

For to believe Mr. Orcutt guilty of this crime one must also believe

that all the other persons who had been accused of it were truthful in

the explanations which they gave of the events which had seemingly

connected them with it. Now, were they? Take the occurrences of that

critical moment when the clock stood at five minutes to twelve. If Mr.

Hildreth is to be believed, he was at that instant in the widow's front

hall musing on his disappointment and arranging his plans for the

future; the tramp, if those who profess to have watched him are to be

believed, was on the kitchen portico; Craik Mansell on the dining-room

door-step; Imogene Dare before her telescope in Professor Darling's

observatory. Mr. Hildreth, with two doors closed between him and the

back of the house, knew nothing of what was said or done there, but the

tramp heard loud talking, and Craik Mansell the actual voice of the

widow raised in words which were calculated to mislead him into thinking

she was engaged in angry altercation with the woman he loved. What do

all three do, then? Mr. Hildreth remains where he is; the tramp skulks

away through the front gate; Craik Mansell rushes back to the woods. And

Imogene Dare? She has turned her telescope toward Mrs. Clemmens'

cottage, and, being on the side of the dining-room door, sees the flying

form of Craik Mansell, and marks it till it disappears from her sight.

Is there any thing contradictory in these various statements? No. Every

thing, on the contrary, that is reconcilable.

Let us proceed then. What happens a few minutes later? Mr. Hildreth,

tired of seclusion and anxious to catch the train, opens the front door

and steps out. The tramp, skulking round some other back door, does not

see him; Imogene, with her eye on Craik Mansell, now vanishing into the

woods, does not see him; nobody sees him. He goes, and the widow for a

short interval is as much alone as she believed herself to be a minute

or two before when three men stood, unseen by each other, at each of the

three doors of her house. What does she do now?

Why, she finishes preparing her dinner, and then, observing that the

clock is slow, proceeds to set it right. Fatal task! Before she has had

an opportunity to finish it, the front door has opened again, Mr. Orcutt

has come in, and, tempted perhaps by her defenceless position, catches

up a stick of wood from the fireplace and, with one blow, strikes her

down at his feet, and rushes forth again with tidings of her death.

Now, is there any thing in all _this_ that is contradictory? No; there

is only something left out. In the whole of this description of what

went on in the widow's house, there has been no mention made of the

ring--the ring which it is conceded was either in Craik Mansell's or

Imogene Dare's possession the evening before the murder, and which was

found on the dining-room floor within ten minutes after the assault took

place. If Mrs. Clemmens' exclamations are to be taken as an attempt to

describe her murderer, then this ring must have been on the hand which

was raised against her, and how could that have been if the hand was

that of Mr. Orcutt? Unimportant as it seemed, the discovery of this

ring on the floor, taken with the exclamations of the widow, make a

break in the chain that is fatal to Mr. Gryce's theory. Yet does it? The

consternation displayed by Mr. Orcutt when Imogene claimed the ring and

put it on her finger may have had a deeper significance than was thought

at the time. Was there any way in which he could have come into

possession of it before she did? and could it have been that he had had

it on his hand when he struck the blow? Mr. Gryce bent all his energies

to inquire.

First, where was the ring when the lovers parted in the wood the day

before the murder? Evidently in Mr. Mansell's coat-pocket. Imogene had

put it there, and Imogene had left it there. But Mansell did not know it

was there, so took no pains to look after its safety. It accordingly

slipped out; but when? Not while he slept, or it would have been found

in the hut. Not while he took the path to his aunt's house, or it would

have been found in the lane, or, at best, on the dining-room door-step.

When, then? Mr. Gryce could think of but one instant, and that was when

the young man threw his coat from one arm to the other at the corner of

the house toward the street. If it rolled out then it would have been

under an impetus, and, as the coat was flung from the right arm to the

left, the ring would have flown in the direction of the gate and fallen,

perhaps, directly on the walk in front of the house. If it had, its

presence in the dining-room seemed to show it had been carried there by

Mr. Orcutt, since he was the next person who went into the house.

But did it fall there? Mr. Gryce took the only available means to find

out.

Sending for Horace Byrd, he said to him:

"You were on the court-house steps when Mr. Orcutt left and crossed over

to the widow's house?"

"Yes, sir."

"Were you watching him? Could you describe his manner as he entered the

house; how he opened the gate; or whether he stopped to look about him

before going in?"

"No, sir," returned Byrd; "my eyes may have been on him, but I don't

remember any thing especial that he did."

Somewhat disappointed, Mr. Gryce went to the District Attorney and put

to him the same question. The answer he received from him was different.

With a gloomy contraction of his brow, Mr. Ferris said:

"Yes, I remember his look and appearance very well. He stepped briskly,

as he always did, and carried his head---- Wait!" he suddenly exclaimed,

giving the detective a look in which excitement and decision were

strangely blended. "You think Mr. Orcutt committed this crime; that he

left us standing on the court-house steps and crossed the street to Mrs.

Clemmens' house with the deliberate intention of killing her, and

leaving the burden of his guilt to be shouldered by the tramp. Now, you

have called up a memory to me that convinces me this could not have

been. Had he had any such infernal design in his breast he would not

have been likely to have stopped as he did to pick up something which he

saw lying on the walk in front of Mrs. Clemmens' house."

"And did Mr. Orcutt do that?" inquired Mr. Gryce, with admirable

self-control.

"Yes, I remember it now distinctly. It was just as he entered the gate.

A man meditating a murder of this sort would not be likely to notice a

pin lying in his path, much less pause to pick it up."

"How if it were a diamond ring?"

"A diamond ring?"

"Mr. Ferris," said the detective, gravely, "you have just supplied a

very important link in the chain of evidence against Mr. Orcutt. The

question is, how could the diamond ring which Miss Dare is believed to

have dropped into Mr. Mansell's coat-pocket have been carried into Mrs.

Clemmens' house without the agency of either herself or Mr. Mansell? I

think you have just shown." And the able detective, in a few brief

sentences, explained the situation to Mr. Ferris, together with the

circumstances of Mansell's flight, as gleaned by him in his conversation

with the prisoner.

The District Attorney was sincerely dismayed. The guilt of the renowned

lawyer was certainly assuming positive proportions. Yet, true to his

friendship for Mr. Orcutt, he made one final effort to controvert the

arguments of the detective, and quietly said:

"You profess to explain how the ring might have been carried into Mrs.

Clemmens' house, but how do you account for the widow having used an

exclamation which seems to signify it was _on_ the hand which she saw

lifted against her life?"

"By the fact that it was on that hand."

"Do you think that probable if the hand was Mr. Orcutt's?"

"Perfectly so. Where else would he be likely to put it in the

preoccupied state of mind in which he was? In his pocket? The tramp

might have done that, but not the gentleman."

Mr. Ferris looked at the detective with almost an expression of fear.

"And how came it to be on the floor if Mr. Orcutt put it on his finger?"

"By the most natural process in the world. The ring made for Miss Dare's

third finger was too large for Mr. Orcutt's little finger, and so

slipped off when he dropped the stick of wood from his hand."

"And he left it lying where it fell?"

"He probably did not notice its loss. If, as I suppose, he had picked it

up and placed it on his finger, mechanically, its absence at such a

moment would not be observed. Besides, what clue could he suppose a

diamond ring he had never seen before, and which he had had on his

finger but an instant, would offer in a case like this?"

"You reason close," said the District Attorney; "too close," he added,

as he recalled, with painful distinctness, the look and attitude of Mr.

Orcutt at the time this ring was first brought into public notice, and

realized that so might a man comport himself who, conscious of this

ring's association with the crime he had just secretly perpetrated, sees

it claimed and put on the finger of the woman he loves.

Mr. Gryce, with his usual intuition, seemed to follow the thoughts of

the District Attorney.

"If our surmises are correct," he remarked, "it was a grim moment for

the lawyer when, secure in his immunity from suspicion, he saw Miss Dare

come upon the scene with eager inquiries concerning this murder. To you,

who had not the clue, it looked as if he feared she was not as innocent

as she should be; but, if you will recall the situation now, I think you

will see that his agitation can only be explained by his apprehension of

her intuitions and an alarm lest her interest sprang from some

mysterious doubt of himself."

Mr. Ferris shook his head with a gloomy air, but did not respond.

"Miss Dare tells me," the detective resumed, "that his first act upon

their meeting again at his house was to offer himself to her in

marriage. Now you, or any one else, would say this was to show he did

not mistrust her, but I say it was to find out if she mistrusted him."

Still Mr. Ferris remained silent.

"The same reasoning will apply to what followed," continued Mr. Gryce.

"You cannot reconcile the thought of his guilt with his taking the case

of Mansell and doing all he could to secure his acquittal. But you will

find it easier to do so when I tell you that, without taking into

consideration any spark of sympathy which he might feel for the man

falsely accused of his crime, he knew from Imogene's lips that she would

not survive the condemnation of her lover, and that, besides this, his

only hope of winning her for his wife lay in the gratitude he might

awaken in her if he succeeded in saving his rival."

"You are making him out a great villain," murmured Mr. Ferris, bitterly.

"And was not that the language of his own countenance as he lay dying?"

inquired the detective.

Mr. Ferris could not say No. He had himself been too deeply impressed by

the sinister look he had observed on the face of his dying friend. He

therefore confined himself to remarking, not without sarcasm:

"And now for the motive of this hideous crime--for I suppose your

ingenuity has discovered one before this."

"It will be found in his love for Miss Dare," returned the detective;

"but just how I am not prepared to-day to say."

"His love for Miss Dare? What had this plain and homespun Mrs. Clemmens

to do with his love for Miss Dare?"

"She was an interference."

"How?"

"Ah, that, sir, is the question."

"So then you do not know?"

Mr. Gryce was obliged to shake his head.

The District Attorney drew himself up. "Mr. Gryce," said he, "the charge

which has been made against this eminent man demands the very strongest

proof in order to substantiate it. The motive, especially, must be shown

to have been such as to offer a complete excuse for suspecting him. No

trivial or imaginary reason for his wishing this woman out of the world

will answer in his case. You must prove that her death was absolutely

necessary to the success of his dearest hopes, or your reasoning will

only awaken distrust in the minds of all who hear it. The fame of a man

like Mr. Orcutt is not to be destroyed by a passing word of delirium, or

a specious display of circumstantial evidence such as you evolve from

the presence of the ring on the scene of murder."

"I know it," allowed Mr. Gryce, "and that is why I have asked for a

week."

"Then you still believe you can find such a motive?"

The smile which Mr. Gryce bestowed upon the favored object then honored

by his gaze haunted the District Attorney for the rest of the week.

XLII.

CONSULTATIONS.

That he should die is worthy policy;

But yet we want a color for his death;

'Tis meet he be condemned by course of law.

--HENRY VI.

MR. GRYCE was perfectly aware that the task before him was a difficult

one. To be himself convinced that Mr. Orcutt had been in possession of a

motive sufficient to account for, if not excuse, this horrible crime was

one thing; to find out that motive and make it apparent to the world was

another. But he was not discouraged. Summoning his two subordinates, he

laid the matter before them.

"I am convinced," said he, "that Mrs. Clemmens was a more important

person to Mr. Orcutt than her plain appearance and humble manner of life

would suggest. Do either of you know whether Mr. Orcutt's name has ever

been associated with any private scandal, the knowledge of which might

have given her power over him?"

"I do not think he was that kind of a man," said Byrd. "Since morning I

have put myself in the way of such persons as I saw disposed to converse

about him, and though I have been astonished to find how many there are

who say they never quite liked or altogether trusted this famous

lawyer, I have heard nothing said in any way derogatory to his private

character. Indeed, I believe, as far as the ladies were concerned, he

was particularly reserved. Though a bachelor, he showed no disposition

to marry, and until Miss Dare appeared on the scene was not known to be

even attentive to one of her sex."

"Some one, however, I forget who, told me that for a short time he was

sweet on a certain Miss Pratt," remarked Hickory.

"Pratt? Where have I heard that name?" murmured Byrd to himself.

"But nothing came of it," Hickory continued. "She was not over and above

smart they say, and though pretty enough, did not hold his fancy. Some

folks declare she was so disappointed she left town."

"Pratt, Pratt!" repeated Byrd to himself. "Ah! I know now," he suddenly

exclaimed. "While I stood around amongst the crowd, the morning Mrs.

Clemmens was murdered, I remember overhearing some one say how hard she

was on the Pratt girl."

"Humph!" ejaculated Mr. Gryce. "The widow was hard on any one Mr. Orcutt

chose to admire."

"I don't understand it," said Byrd.

"Nor I," rejoined Mr. Gryce; "but I intend to before the week is out."

Then abruptly: "When did Mrs. Clemmens come to this town?"

"Fifteen years ago," replied Byrd.

"And Orcutt--when did he first put in an appearance here?"

"At very much the same time, I believe."

"Humph! And did they seem to be friends at that time?"

"Some say Yes, some say No."

"Where did he come from--have you learned?"

"From some place in Nebraska, I believe."

"And she?"

"Why, she came from some place in Nebraska too!"

"The _same_ place?"

"That we must find out."

Mr. Gryce mused for a minute; then he observed:

"Mr. Orcutt was renowned in his profession. Do you know any thing about

his career--whether he brought a reputation for ability with him, or

whether his fame was entirely made in this place?"

"I think it was made here. Indeed, I have heard that it was in this

court he pleaded his first case. Don't you know more about it, Hickory?"

"Yes; Mr. Ferris told me this morning that Orcutt had not opened a

law-book when he came to this town. That he was a country schoolmaster

in some uncivilized district out West, and would never have been any

thing more, perhaps, if the son of old Stephen Orcutt had not died, and

thus made a vacancy in the law-office here which he was immediately sent

for to fill."

"Stephen Orcutt? He was the uncle of this man, wasn't he?"

"Yes."

"And quite a lawyer too?"

"Yes, but nothing like Tremont B. _He_ was successful from the start.

Had a natural aptitude, I suppose--must have had, to pick up the

profession in the way he did."

"Boys," cried Mr. Gryce, after another short ruminative pause, "the

secret we want to know is of long standing; indeed, I should not be

surprised if it were connected with his life out West. I will tell you

why I think so. For ten years Mrs. Clemmens has been known to put money

in the bank regularly every week. Now, where did she get that money?

From Mr. Orcutt, of course. What for? In payment for the dinner he

usually took with her? No, in payment of her silence concerning a past

he desired kept secret."

"But they have been here fifteen years and she has only received money

for ten."

"She has only put money in the bank for ten; she may have been paid

before that and may not. I do not suppose he was in a condition to be

very lavish at the outset of his career."

"You advise us, then, to see what we can make out of his early life out

West?"

"Yes; and I will see what I can make out of hers. The link which

connects the two will be found. Mr. Orcutt did not say: 'It was all for

you, Imogene,' for nothing."

And, dismissing the two young men, Mr. Gryce proceeded to the house of

Mr. Orcutt, where he entered upon an examination of such papers and

documents as were open to his inspection, in the hope of discovering

some allusion to the deceased lawyer's early history. But he was not

successful. Neither did a like inspection of the widow's letters bring

any new facts to light. The only result which seemed to follow these

efforts was an increased certainty on his part that some dangerous

secret lurked in a past that was so determinedly hidden from the world,

and resorting to the only expedient now left to him, he resolved to

consult Miss Firman, as being the only person who professed to have had

any acquaintance with Mrs. Clemmens before she came to Sibley. To be

sure, she had already been questioned by the coroner, but Mr. Gryce was

a man who had always found that the dryest well could be made to yield a

drop or two more of water if the bucket was dropped by a dexterous hand.

He accordingly prepared himself for a trip to Utica.

XLIII.

MRS. FIRMAN.

Hark! she speaks. I will set down what comes from her....

Heaven knows what she has known.--MACBETH.

"MISS FIRMAN, I believe?" The staid, pleasant-faced lady whom we know,

but who is looking older and considerably more careworn than when we saw

her at the coroner's inquest, rose from her chair in her own cozy

sitting-room, and surveyed her visitor curiously. "I am Mr. Gryce," the

genial voice went on. "Perhaps the name is not familiar?"

"I never heard it before," was the short but not ungracious reply.

"Well, then, let me explain," said he. "You are a relative of the Mrs.

Clemmens who was so foully murdered in Sibley, are you not? Pardon me,

but I see you are; your expression speaks for itself." How he could have

seen her expression was a mystery to Miss Firman, for his eyes, if not

attention, were seemingly fixed upon some object in quite a different

portion of the room. "You must, therefore," he pursued, "be in a state

of great anxiety to know who her murderer was. Now, I am in that same

state, madam; we are, therefore, in sympathy, you see."

The respectful smile and peculiar intonation with which these last words

were uttered, robbed them of their familiarity and allowed Miss Firman

to perceive his true character.

"You are a detective," said she, and as he did not deny it, she went on:

"You say I must be anxious to know who my cousin's murderer was. Has

Craik Mansell, then, been acquitted?"

"A verdict has not been given," said the other. "His trial has been

adjourned in order to give him an opportunity to choose a new counsel."

Miss Firman motioned her visitor to be seated, and at once took a chair

herself.

"What do you want with me?" she asked, with characteristic bluntness.

The detective was silent. It was but for a moment, but in that moment he

seemed to read to the bottom of this woman's mind.

"Well," said he, "I will tell you. You believe Craik Mansell to be

innocent?"

"I do," she returned.

"Very well; so do I."

"Let me shake hands with you," was her abrupt remark. And without a

smile she reached forth her hand, which he took with equal gravity.

This ceremony over, he remarked, with a cheerful mien:

"We are fortunately not in a court of law, and so can talk freely

together. Why do you think Mansell innocent? I am sure the evidence has

not been much in his favor."

"Why do _you_ think him innocent?" was the brisk retort.

"I have talked with him."

"Ah!"

"I have talked with Miss Dare."

A different "Ah!" this time.

"And I was present when Mr. Orcutt breathed his last."

The look she gave was like cold water on Mr. Gryce's secretly growing

hopes.

"What has that to do with it?" she wonderingly exclaimed.

The detective took another tone.

"You did not know Mr. Orcutt then?" he inquired.

"I had not that honor," was the formal reply.

"You have never, then, visited your cousin in Sibley?"

"Yes, I was there once; but that did not give me an acquaintance with

Mr. Orcutt."

"Yet he went almost every day to her house."

"And he came while I was there, but _that_ did not give me an

acquaintance with him."

"He was reserved, then, in his manners, uncommunicative, possibly

morose?"

"He was just what I would expect such a gentleman to be at the table

with women like my cousin and myself."

"Not morose, then; only reserved."

"Exactly," the short, quick bow of the amiable spinster seemed to

assert.

Mr. Gryce drew a deep breath. This well seemed to be destitute of even a

drop of moisture.

"Why do you ask me about Mr. Orcutt? Has his death in any way affected

young Mansell's prospects?"

"That is what I want to find out," declared Mr. Gryce. Then, without

giving her time for another question, said: "Where did Mrs. Clemmens

first make the acquaintance of Mr. Orcutt? Wasn't it in some town out

West?"

"Out West? Not to my knowledge, sir. I always supposed she saw him first

in Sibley."

This well was certainly very dry.

"Yet you are not positive that this is so, are you?" pursued the patient

detective. "She came from Nebraska, and so did he; now, why may they not

have known each other there?"

"I did not know that he came from Nebraska."

"She has never talked about him then?"

"Never."

Mr. Gryce drew another deep breath and let down his bucket again.

"I thought your cousin spent her childhood in Toledo?"

"She did, sir."

"How came she to go to Nebraska then?"

"Well, she was left an orphan and had to look out for herself. A

situation in some way opened to her in Nebraska, and she went there to

take it."

"A situation at what?"

"As waitress in some hotel."

"Humph! And was she still a waitress when she married?"

"Yes, I think so, but I am not sure about it or any thing else in

connection with her at that time. The subject was so painful we never

discussed it."

"Why painful?"

"She lost her husband so soon."

"But you can tell me the name of the town in which this hotel was, can

you not?"

"It was called Swanson then, but that was fifteen years ago. Its name

may have been changed since."

Swanson! This was something to learn, but not much. Mr. Gryce returned

to his first question. "You have not told me," said he, "why _you_

believe Craik Mansell to be innocent?"

"Well," replied she, "_I_ believe Craik Mansell to be innocent because

he is the son of his mother. I think I know _him_ pretty well, but I am

certain I knew _her_. She was a woman who would go through fire and

water to attain a purpose she thought right, but who would stop in the

midst of any project the moment she felt the least doubt of its being

just or wise. Craik has his mother's forehead and eyes, and no one will

ever make me believe he has not her principles also."

"I coincide with you, madam," remarked the attentive detective.

"I hope the jury will," was her energetic response.

He bowed and was about to attempt another question, when an interruption

occurred. Miss Firman was called from the room, and Mr. Gryce found

himself left for a few moments alone. His thoughts, as he awaited her

return, were far from cheerful, for he saw a long and tedious line of

inquiry opening before him in the West, which, if it did not end in

failure, promised to exhaust not only a week, but possibly many months,

before certainty of any kind could be obtained. With Miss Dare on the

verge of a fever, and Mansell in a position calling for the utmost nerve

and self-control, this prospect looked any thing but attractive to the

benevolent detective; and, carried away by his impatience, he was about

to give utterance to an angry ejaculation against the man he believed to

be the author of all this mischief, when he suddenly heard a voice

raised from some unknown quarter near by, saying in strange tones he was

positive did not proceed from Miss Firman:

"Was it Clemmens or was it Orcutt? Clemmens or Orcutt? I cannot

remember."

Naturally excited and aroused, Mr. Gryce rose and looked about him. A

door stood ajar at his back. Hastening toward it, he was about to lay

his hand on the knob when Miss Firman returned.

"Oh, I beg you," she entreated. "That is my mother's room, and she is

not at all well."

"I was going to her assistance," asserted the detective, with grave

composure. "She has just uttered a cry."

"Oh, you don't say so!" exclaimed the unsuspicious spinster, and

hurrying forward, she threw open the door herself. Mr. Gryce

benevolently followed. "Why, she is asleep," protested Miss Firman,

turning on the detective with a suspicious look.

Mr. Gryce, with a glance toward the bed he saw before him, bowed with

seeming perplexity.

"She certainly appears to be," said he, "and yet I am positive she spoke

but an instant ago; I can even tell you the words she used."

"What were they?" asked the spinster, with something like a look of

concern.

"She said: 'Was it Clemmens or was it Orcutt? Clemmens or Orcutt? I

cannot remember.'"

"You don't say so! Poor ma! She was dreaming. Come into the other room

and I will explain."

And leading the way back to the apartment they had left, she motioned

him again toward a chair, and then said:

"Ma has always been a very hale and active woman for her years; but this

murder seems to have shaken her. To speak the truth, sir, she has not

been quite right in her mind since the day I told her of it; and I often

detect her murmuring words similar to those you have just heard."

"Humph! And does she often use his name?"

"Whose name?"

"Mr. Orcutt's."

"Why, yes; but not with any understanding of whom she is speaking."

"Are you _sure_?" inquired Mr. Gryce, with that peculiar impressiveness

he used on great occasions.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," returned the detective, dryly, "that I believe your mother

does know what she is talking about when she links the name of Mr.

Orcutt with that of your cousin who was murdered. They belong together;

Mr. Orcutt was her murderer."

"_Mr. Orcutt?_"

"Hush!" cried Mr. Gryce, "you will wake up your mother."

And, adapting himself to this emergency as to all others, he talked with

the astounded and incredulous woman before him till she was in a

condition not only to listen to his explanations, but to discuss the

problem of a crime so seemingly without motive. He then said, with easy

assurance:

"Your mother does not know that Mr. Orcutt is dead?"

"No, sir."

"She does not even know he was counsel for Craik Mansell in the trial

now going on."

"How do you know that?" inquired Miss Firman, grimly.

"Because I do not believe you have even told her that Craik Mansell was

on trial."

"Sir, you are a magician."

"Have you, madam?"

"No, sir, I have not."

"Very good; what _does_ she know about Mr. Orcutt, then; and why should

she connect his name with Mrs. Clemmens?"

"She knows he was her boarder, and that he was the first one to discover

she had been murdered."

"That is not enough to account for her frequent repetition of his name."

"You think not?"

"I am sure not. Cannot your mother have some memories connected with his

name of which you are ignorant?"

"No, sir; we have lived together in this house for twenty-five years,

and have never had a thought we have not shared together. Ma could not

have known any thing about him or Mary Ann which I did not. The words

she has just spoken sprang from mental confusion. She is almost like a

child sometimes."

Mr. Gryce smiled. If the cream-jug he happened to be gazing at on a tray

near by had been full of cream, I am far from certain it would not have

turned sour on the spot.

"I grant the mental confusion," said he; "but why should she confuse

those two names in preference to all others?" And, with quiet

persistence, he remarked again: "She may be recalling some old fact of

years ago. Was there never a time, even while you lived here together,

when she could have received some confidence from Mrs. Clemmens----"

"Mary Ann, Mary Ann!" came in querulous accents from the other room, "I

wish you had not told me; Emily would be a better one to know your

secret."

It was a startling interruption to come just at that moment The two

surprised listeners glanced toward each other, and Miss Firman colored.

"That sounds as if your surmise was true," she dryly observed.

"Let us make an experiment," said he, and motioned her to re-enter her

mother's room, which she did with a precipitation that showed her

composure had been sorely shaken by these unexpected occurrences.

He followed her without ceremony.

The old lady lay as before in a condition between sleeping and waking,

and did not move as they came in. Mr. Gryce at once withdrew out of

sight, and, with finger on his lip, put himself in the attitude of

waiting. Miss Firman, surprised, and possibly curious, took her stand

at the foot of the bed.

A few minutes passed thus, during which a strange dreariness seemed to

settle upon the room; then the old lady spoke again, this time repeating

the words he had first heard, but in a tone which betrayed an increased

perplexity.

"_Was_ it Clemmens or _was_ it Orcutt? I wish somebody would tell me."

Instantly Mr. Gryce, with his soft tread, drew near to the old lady's

side, and, leaning over her, murmured gently:

"I think it was Orcutt."

Instantly the old lady breathed a deep sigh and moved.

"Then her name was Mrs. Orcutt," said she, "and I thought you always

called her Clemmens."

Miss Firman, recoiling, stared at Mr. Gryce, on whose cheek a faint spot

of red had appeared--a most unusual token of emotion with him.

"Did she say it was Mrs. Orcutt," he pursued, in the even tones he had

before used.

"She said----" But here the old lady opened her eyes, and, seeing her

daughter standing at the foot of her bed, turned away with a peevish

air, and restlessly pushed her hand under the pillow.

Mr. Gryce at once bent nearer.

"She said----" he suggested, with careful gentleness.

But the old lady made no answer. Her hand seemed to have touched some

object for which she was seeking, and she was evidently oblivious to all

else. Miss Firman came around and touched Mr. Gryce on the shoulder.

"It is useless," said she; "she is awake now, and you won't hear any

thing more; come!"

And she drew the reluctant detective back again into the other room.

"What does it all mean?" she asked, sinking into a chair.

Mr. Gryce did not answer. He had a question of his own to put.

"Why did your mother put her hand under her pillow?" he asked.

"I don't know, unless it was to see if her big envelope was there."

"Her big envelope?"

"Yes; for weeks now, ever since she took to her bed, she has kept a

paper in a big envelope under her pillow. What is in it I don't know,

for she never seems to hear me when I inquire."

"And have you no curiosity to find out?"

"No, sir. Why should I? It might easily be my father's old letters

sealed up, or, for that matter, be nothing more than a piece of blank

paper. My mother is not herself, as I have said before."

"I should like a peep at the contents of that envelope," he declared.

"You?"

"Is there any name written on the outside?"

"No."

"It would not be violating any one's rights, then, if you opened it."

"Only my mother's, sir."

"You say she is not in her right mind?"

"All the more reason why I should respect her whims and caprices."

"Wouldn't you open it if she were dead?"

"Yes."

"Will it be very different then from what it is now? A father's letters!

a blank piece of paper! What harm would there be in looking at them?"

"My mother would know it if I took them away. It might excite and injure

her."

"Put another envelope in the place of this one, with a piece of paper

folded up in it."

"It would be a trick."

"I know it; but if Craik Mansell can be saved even by a trick, I should

think you would be willing to venture on one."

"Craik Mansell? What has he got to do with the papers under my mother's

pillow?"

"I cannot say that he has any thing to do with them; but if he has--if,

for instance, that envelope should contain, not a piece of blank paper,

or even the letters of your father, but such a document, say, as a

certificate of marriage----"

"A certificate of marriage?"

"Yes, between Mrs. Clemmens and Mr. Orcutt, it would not take much

perspicacity to prophesy an acquittal for Craik Mansell."

"Mary Ann the wife of Mr. Orcutt! Oh, that is impossible!" exclaimed the

agitated spinster. But even while making this determined statement, she

turned a look full of curiosity and excitement toward the door which

separated them from her mother's apartment.

Mr. Gryce smiled in his wise way.

"Less improbable things than that have been found to be true in this

topsy-turvy world," said he. "Mrs. Clemmens might very well have been

Mrs. Orcutt."

"Do you really think so?" she asked; and yielding with sudden

impetuosity to the curiosity of the moment, she at once dashed from his

side and disappeared in her mother's room. Mr. Gryce's smile took on an

aspect of triumph.

It was some few moments before she returned, but when she did, her

countenance was flushed with emotion.

"I have it," she murmured, taking out a packet from under her apron and

tearing it open with trembling fingers.

A number of closely written sheets fell out.

XLIV.

THE WIDOW CLEMMENS.

Discovered

The secret that so long had hovered

Upon the misty verge of Truth.--LONGFELLOW.

"WELL, and what have you to say?" It was Mr. Ferris who spoke. The week

which Mr. Gryce had demanded for his inquiries had fully elapsed, and

the three detectives stood before him ready with their report.

It was Mr. Gryce who replied.

"Sir," said he, "our opinions have not been changed by the discoveries

which we have made. It was Mr. Orcutt who killed Mrs. Clemmens, and for

the reason already stated that she stood in the way of his marrying Miss

Dare. Mrs. Clemmens was his wife."

"His _wife_?"

"Yes, sir; and, what is more, she has been so for years; before either

of them came to Sibley, in fact."

The District Attorney looked stunned.

"It was while they lived West," said Byrd. "He was a poor school-master,

and she a waitress in some hotel. She was pretty then, and he thought he

loved her. At all events, he induced her to marry him, and then kept it

secret because he was afraid she would lose her place at the hotel,

where she was getting very good wages. You see, he had the makings in

him of a villain even then."

"And was it a real marriage?"

"There is a record of it," said Hickory.

"And did he never acknowledge it?"

"Not openly," answered Byrd. "The commonness of the woman seemed to

revolt him after he was married to her, and when in a month or so he

received the summons East, which opened up before him the career of a

lawyer, he determined to drop her and start afresh. He accordingly left

town without notifying her, and actually succeeded in reaching the

railway depot twenty miles away before he was stopped. But here, a delay

occurring in the departure of the train, she was enabled to overtake

him, and a stormy scene ensued. What its exact nature was, we, of

course, cannot say, but from the results it is evident that he told her

his prospects had changed, and with them his tastes and requirements;

that she was not the woman he thought her, and that he could not and

would not take her East with him as his wife: while she, on her side,

displayed full as much spirit as he, and replied that if he could desert

her like this he wasn't the kind of a man she could live with, and that

he could go if he wished; only that he must acknowledge her claims upon

him by giving her a yearly stipend, according to his income and success.

At all events, some such compromise was effected, for he came East and

she went back to Swanson. She did not stay there long, however; for the

next we know she was in Sibley, where she set up her own little

house-keeping arrangements under his very eye. More than that, she

prevailed upon him to visit her daily, and even to take a meal at her

house, her sense of justice seeming to be satisfied if he showed her

this little attention and gave to no other woman the place he denied

her. It was the weakness shown in this last requirement that doubtless

led to her death. She would stand any thing but a rival. He knew this,

and preferred crime to the loss of the woman he loved."

"You speak very knowingly," said Mr. Ferris. "May I ask where you

received your information?"

It was Mr. Gryce who answered.

"From letters. Mrs. Clemmens was one of those women who delight in

putting their feelings on paper. Fortunately for us, such women are not

rare. See here!" And he pulled out before the District Attorney a pile

of old letters in the widow's well-known handwriting.

"Where did you find these?" asked Mr. Ferris.

"Well," said Mr. Gryce, "I found them in rather a curious place. They

were in the keeping of old Mrs. Firman, Miss Firman's mother. Mrs.

Clemmens, or, rather, Mrs. Orcutt, got frightened some two years ago at

the disappearance of her marriage certificate from the place where she

had always kept it hidden, and, thinking that Mr. Orcutt was planning to

throw her off, she resolved to provide herself with a confidante capable

of standing by her in case she wished to assert her rights. She chose

old Mrs. Firman. Why, when her daughter would have been so much more

suitable for the purpose, it is hard to tell; possibly the widow's pride

revolted from telling a woman of her own years the indignities she had

suffered. However that may be, it was to the old lady she told her story

and gave these letters--letters which, as you will see, are not written

to any special person, but are rather the separate leaves of a journal

which she kept to show the state of her feelings from time to time."

"And this?" inquired Mr. Ferris, taking up a sheet of paper written in a

different handwriting from the rest.

"This is an attempt on the part of the old lady to put on paper the

story which had been told her. She evidently thought herself too old to

be entrusted with a secret so important, and, fearing loss of memory, or

perhaps sudden death, took this means of explaining how she came into

possession of her cousin's letters. 'T was a wise precaution. Without it

we would have missed the clue to the widow's journal. For the old lady's

brain gave way when she heard of the widow's death, and had it not been

for a special stroke of good-luck on my part, we might have remained

some time longer in ignorance of what very valuable papers she secretly

held in her possession."

"I will read the letters," said Mr. Ferris.

Seeing from his look that he only waited their departure to do so, Mr.

Gryce and his subordinates arose.

"I think you will find them satisfactory," drawled Hickory.

"If you do not," said Mr. Gryce, "then give a look at this telegram. It

is from Swanson, and notifies us that a record of a marriage between

Benjamin Orcutt--Mr. Orcutt's middle name was Benjamin--and Mary Mansell

can be found in the old town books."

Mr. Ferris took the telegram, the shade of sorrow settling heavier and

heavier on his brow.

"I see," said he, "I have got to accept your conclusions. Well, there

are those among the living who will be greatly relieved by these

discoveries. I will try and think of that."

Yet, after the detectives were gone, and he sat down in solitude before

these evidences of his friend's perfidy, it was many long and dreary

moments before he could summon up courage to peruse them. But when he

did, he found in them all that Mr. Gryce had promised. As my readers may

feel some interest to know how the seeming widow bore the daily trial of

her life, I will give a few extracts from these letters. The first bears

date of fourteen years back, and was written after she came to Sibley:

"NOVEMBER 8, 1867.--In the same town! Within a

stone's throw of the court-house, where, they tell

me, his business will soon take him almost every

day! Isn't it a triumph? and am I not to be

congratulated upon my bravery in coming here? He

hasn't seen me yet, but I have seen _him_. I crept

out of the house at nightfall on purpose. He was

sauntering down the street and he looked--it makes

my blood boil to think of it--he looked _happy_."

"NOVEMBER 10, 1867.--Clemmens, Clemmens--that is

my name, and I have taken the title of widow. What

a fate for a woman with a husband in the next

street! He saw _me_ to-day. I met him in the open

square, and I looked him right in the face. How he

did quail! It just does me good to think of it!

Perk and haughty as he is, he grew as white as a

sheet when he saw me, and though he tried to put

on airs and carry it off with a high hand, he

failed, just as I knew he would when he came to

meet me on even ground. Oh, I'll have my way now,

and if I choose to stay in this place where I can

keep my eye on him, he won't dare to say No. The

only thing I fear is that he will do me a secret

mischief some day. His look was just murderous

when he left me."

"FEBRUARY 24, 1868.--Can I stand it? I ask myself

that question every morning when I get up. Can I

stand it? To sit all alone in my little narrow

room and know that he is going about as gay as you

please with people who wouldn't look at me twice.

It's awful hard; but it would be worse still to be

where I couldn't see what he was up to. Then I

should imagine all sorts of things. No, I will

just grit my teeth and bear it. I'll get used to

it after a while."

"OCTOBER 7, 1868.--If he says he never loved me he

lies. He did, or why did he marry me? I never

asked him to. He teased me into it, saying my

saucy ways had bewitched him. A month after, it

was common ways, rude ways, such ways as he

wouldn't have in a wife. That's the kind of man he

is."

"MAY 11, 1869.--One thing I will say of him. He

don't pay no heed to women. He's too busy, I

guess. He don't seem to think of any thing but to

get along, and he does get along remarkable. I'm

awful proud of him. He's taken to defending

criminals lately. They almost all get off."

"OCTOBER 5, 1870.--He pays me but a pittance. How

can I look like any thing, or hold my head up with

the ladies here if I cannot get enough together to

buy me a new fall hat. I _will_ not go to church

looking like a farmer's wife, if I haven't any

education or any manners. I'm as good as anybody

here if they but knew it, and deserve to dress as

well. He _must_ give me more money."

"NOVEMBER 2, 1870.--No, he sha'n't give me a cent

more. If I can't go to church I will stay at home.

He sha'n't say I stood in his way of becoming a

great man. He _is_ too good for me. I saw it

to-day when he got up in the court to speak. I was

there with a thick veil over my face, for I was

determined to know whether he was as smart as

folks say or not. And he just is! Oh, how

beautiful he did look, and how everybody held

their breaths while he was speaking! I felt like

jumping up and saying: 'This is my husband; we

were married three years ago.' Wouldn't I have

raised a rumpus if I had! I guess the poor man he

was pleading for would not have been remembered

very long after that. My husband! the thought

makes me laugh. No other woman can call him that,

anyhow. He is mine, _mine_, _mine_, and I mean he

shall stay so."

"JANUARY 9, 1871.--I feel awful blue to-night. I

have been thinking about those Hildreths. How they

would like to have me dead! And so would Tremont,

though he don't say nothing. I like to call him

Tremont; it makes me feel as if he belonged to me.

What if that wicked Gouverneur Hildreth should

know I lived so much alone? I don't believe he

would stop at killing me! And my husband! He is

equal to telling him I have no protector. Oh, what

a dreadful wickedness it is in me to put that down

on paper! It isn't so--it isn't so; my husband

wouldn't do me any harm if he could. If ever I'm

found dead in my bed, it will be the work of that

Toledo man and of nobody else."

"MARCH 2, 1872.--I hope I am going to have some

comfort now. Tremont has begun to pay me more

money. He _had_ to. He isn't a poor man any more,

and when he moves into his big house, I am going

to move into a certain little cottage I have

found, just around the corner. If I can't have no

other pleasures, I will at least have a kitchen I

can call my own, and a parlor too. What if there

don't no company come to it; they would if they

_knew_. I've just heard from Adelaide; she says

Craik is getting to be a big boy, and is so

smart."

"JUNE 10, 1872.--What's the use of having a home?

I declare I feel just like breaking down and

crying. I don't want company: if women folks,

they're always talking about their husbands and

children; and if men, they're always saying: 'My

wife's this, and my wife's that.' But I do want

_him_. It's my right; what if I couldn't say three

words to him that was agreeable, I could look at

him and think: 'This splendid gentleman is my

husband, I ain't so much alone in the world as

folks think.' I'll put on my bonnet and run down

the street. Perhaps I'll see him sitting in the

club-house window!"

"EVENING.--I hate him. He has a hard, cruel,

wicked heart. When I got to the club-house window

he was sitting there, so I just went walking by,

and he saw me and came out and hustled me away

with terrible words, saying he wouldn't have me

hanging round where he was; that I had promised

not to bother him, and that I must keep my word,

or he would see me--he didn't say where, but it's

easy enough to guess. So--so! he thinks he'll put

an end to my coming to see him, does he? Well,

perhaps he can; but if he does, he shall pay for

it by coming to see me. I'll not sit day in and

day out alone without the glimpse of a face I

love, not while I have a husband in the same town

with me. He shall come, if it is only for a moment

each day, or I'll dare every thing and tell the

world I am his wife."

"JUNE 16, 1872.--He had to consent! Meek as I have

been, he knows it won't do to rouse me too much.

So to-day he came in to dinner, and he had to

acknowledge it was a good one. Oh, how I did feel

when I saw his face on the other side of the

table! I didn't know whether I hated him or loved

him. But I am sure now I hated him, for he

scarcely spoke to me all the time he was eating,

and when he was through, he went away just as a

stranger would have done. He means to act like a

boarder, and, goodness me, he's welcome to if he

isn't going to act like a husband! The hard,

selfish---- Oh, oh, I love him!"

"AUGUST 5, 1872.--It is no use; I'll never be a

happy woman. Tremont has been in so regularly to

dinner lately, and shown me such a kind face, I

thought I would venture upon a little familiarity.

It was only to lay my hand upon his arm, but it

made him very angry, and I thought he would strike

me. Am I then actually hateful to him? or is he so

proud he cannot bear the thought of my having the

right to touch him? I looked in the glass when he

went out. I _am_ plain and homespun, that's a

fact. Even my red cheeks are gone, and the dimples

which once took his fancy. I shall never lay the

tip of a finger on him again."

"FEBRUARY 13, 1873.--What shall I cook for him

to-day? Some thing that he likes. It is my only

pleasure, to see how he does enjoy my meals. I

should think they would choke him; they do me

sometimes. But men are made of iron--ambitious

men, anyhow. Little they care what suffering they

cause, so long as they have a good time and get

all the praises they want. _He_ gets them more and

more every day. He will soon be as far above me as

if I had married the President himself. Oh,

sometimes when I think of it and remember he is my

own husband, I just feel as if some awful fate was

preparing for him or me!"

"JUNE 7, 1873.--Would he send for me if he was

dying? No. He hates me; he hates me."

"SEPTEMBER 8, 1874.--Craik was here to-day; he is

just going North to earn a few dollars in the

logging business. What a keen eye he has for a boy

of his years! I shouldn't wonder if he made a

powerful smart man some day. If he's only good,

too, and kind to his women-folks, I sha'n't mind.

But a smart man who is all for himself is an awful

trial to those who love him. Don't I know? Haven't

I suffered? Craik must never be like him."

"DECEMBER 21, 1875.--One thousand dollars. That's

a nice little sum to have put away in the bank. So

much I get out of my husband's fame, anyhow. I

think I will make my will, for I want Craik to

have what I leave. He's a fine lad."

"FEBRUARY 19, 1876.--I was thinking the other day,

suppose I did die suddenly. It would be dreadful

to have the name of Clemmens put on my tombstone!

But it would be. Tremont would never let the truth

be known, if he had to rifle my dead body for my

marriage certificate. What shall I do, then? Tell

anybody who I am? It seems just as if I couldn't.

Either the whole world must know it, or just

himself and me alone. Oh, I wish I had never been

born!"

"JUNE 17, 1876.--Why wasn't I made handsome and

fine and nice? Think where I would be if I was!

I'd be in that big house of his, curtesying to all

the grand folks as go there. I went to see it last

night. It was dark as pitch in the streets, and I

went into the gate and all around the house. I

walked upon the piazza too, and rubbed my hand

along the window-ledges and up and down the doors.

It's mighty nice, all of it, and there sha'n't lie

a square inch on that whole ground that my foot

sha'n't go over. I wish I could get inside the

house once."

"JULY 1, 1876.--I have done it. I went to see Mr.

Orcutt's sister. I had a right. Isn't he away, and

isn't he my boarder, and didn't I want to know

when he was coming home? She's a soft,

good-natured piece, and let me peek into the

library without saying a word. What a room it is!

I just felt like I'd been struck when I saw it and

spied his chair setting there and all those books

heaped around and the fine things on the

mantel-shelf and the pictures on the walls. What

would I do in such a place as that? I could keep

it clean, but so could any gal he might hire. Oh,

me! Oh, me! I wish he'd given me a chance. Perhaps

if he had loved me I might have learned to be

quiet and nice like that silly sister of his."

"JANUARY 12, 1877.--Some women would take a heap

of delight in having folks know they were the wife

of a great man, but I find lots of pleasure in

being so without folks knowing it. If I lived in

his big house and was called Mrs. Orcutt, why, he

would have nothing to be afraid of and might do as

he pleased; but now he has to do what _I_ please.

Sometimes, when I sit down of an evening in my

little sitting-room to sew, I think how this

famous man whom everybody is afraid of has to come

and go just as humble me wants him to; and it

makes me hug myself with pride. It's as if I had a

string tied round his little finger, which I can

pull now and then. I don't pull it much; but I do

sometimes."

"MARCH 30, 1877.--Gouverneur Hildreth is dead. I

shall never be his victim, at any rate. Shall I

ever be the victim of anybody? I don't feel as if

I cared now. For one kiss I would sell my life and

die happy.

"There is a young Gouverneur, but it will be years

before he will be old enough to make me afraid of

him."

"NOVEMBER 16, 1878.--I should think that Tremont

would be lonely in that big house of his. If he

had a heart he would. They say he reads all the

time. How can folks pore so over books? I can't.

I'd rather sit in my chair and think. What story

in all the books is equal to mine?"

"APRIL 23, 1879.--I am growing very settled in my

ways. Now that Tremont comes in almost every day,

I'm satisfied not to see any other company. My

house affairs keep me busy too. I like to have it

all nice for him. I believe I could almost be

happy if he'd only smile once in a while when he

meets my eye. But he never does. Oh, well, we all

have our crosses, and he's a very great man."

"JANUARY 18, 1880.--He went to a ball last night.

What does it mean? He never seemed to care for

things like that. Is there any girl he is after?"

"FEBRUARY 6, 1880.--Oh, he has been riding with a

lady, has he? It was in the next town, and he

thought I wouldn't hear. But there's little he

does that I don't know about; let him make himself

sure of that. I even know her name; it is Selina

Pratt. If he goes with her again, look out for a

disturbance. I'll not stand his making love to

another woman."

"MAY 26, 1880.--My marriage certificate is

missing. Can it be that Tremont has taken it? I

have looked all through the desk where I have kept

it for so many years, but I cannot find it. He was

left alone in the house a few minutes the other

day. Could he have taken the chance to rob me of

the only proof I have that we are man and wife? If

he has he is a villain at heart, and is capable of

doing any thing, even of marrying this Pratt girl

who he _has_ taken riding again. The worst is that

I dare not accuse him of having my certificate;

for if he didn't take it and should find out it is

gone, he'd throw me off just as quick as if he

had. What shall I do then? Something. He shall

_never_ marry another woman while I live."

"MAY 30, 1880.--The Pratt girl is gone. If he

cared for her it was only for a week, like an old

love I could mention. I think I feel safe again,

only I am convinced some one ought to know my

secret besides myself. Shall it be Emily? No. I'd

rather tell her mother."

"JUNE 9TH, 1880.--I am going to Utica. I shall

take these letters with me. Perhaps I shall leave

them. For the last time, then, let me say 'I am

the lawful wife of Tremont Benjamin Orcutt, the

lawyer, who lives in Sibley, New York.' We were

married in Swanson, Nevada, on the 3d of July,

1867, by a travelling minister, named George

Sinclair.

"MARY ANN ORCUTT, Sibley, N. Y."

XLV.

MR. GRYCE SAYS GOOD-BYE.

There still are many rainbows in your sky.--BYRON.

"HELEN?"

"Yes, Imogene."

"What noise is that? The people seem to be shouting down the street.

What does it mean?"

Helen Richmond--whom we better know as Helen Darling--looked at the

worn, fever-flushed countenance of her friend, and for a moment was

silent; then she whispered:

"I have not dared to tell you before, you seemed so ill; but I can tell

you now, because joyful news never hurts. The people shout because the

long and tedious trial of an innocent man has come to an end. Craik

Mansell was acquitted from the charge of murder this morning."

"Acquitted! O Helen!"

"Yes, dear. Since you have been ill, very strange and solemn revelations

have come to light. Mr. Orcutt----"

"Ah!" cried Imogene, rising up in the great arm-chair in which she was

half-sitting and half-reclining. "I know what you are going to say. I

was with Mr. Orcutt when he died. I heard him myself declare that fate

had spoken in his death. I believe Mr. Orcutt to have been the murderer

of Mrs. Clemmens, Helen."

"Yes, there can be no doubt about that," was the reply.

"It has been proved then?"

"Yes."

Moved to the depths of her being, Imogene covered her face with her

hands. Presently she murmured:

"I do not understand it. Why should such a great man as he have desired

the death of a woman like her? He said it was all for my sake. What did

he mean, Helen?"

"Don't you know?" questioned the other, anxiously.

"How should I? It is the mystery of mysteries to me."

"Ah, then you did not suspect that she was his wife?"

"His wife!" Imogene rose in horror.

"Yes," repeated the little bride with decision. "She was his lawfully

wedded wife. They were married as long ago as when we were little

children."

"Married! And he dared to approach me with words of love! Dared to offer

himself to me as a husband while his hands were still wet with the

life-blood of his wife! O the horror of it! The amazing wickedness and

presumption of it!"

"He is dead," whispered the gentle little lady at her side.

With a sigh of suppressed feeling, Imogene sank back.

"I must not think of him," she cried. "I am not strong enough. I must

think only of Craik. He has been acquitted, you say--acquitted."

"Yes, and the whole town is rejoicing."

A smile, exquisite as it was rare, swept like a sunbeam over Imogene's

lips.

"And I rejoice with the rest," she cried. Then, as if she felt all

speech to be a mockery, she remained for a long time silent, gazing with

ever-deepening expression into the space before her, till Helen did not

know whether the awe she felt creeping over her sprang from admiration

of her companion's suddenly awakened beauty or from a recognition of the

depths of that companion's emotions. At last Imogene spoke:

"How came Mr. Mansell to be _acquitted_? Mr. Gryce did not tell me to

look for any such reinstatement as that. The most he bade me expect was

that Mr. Ferris would decline to prosecute Mr. Mansell any further, in

which event he would be discharged."

"I know," said Helen, "but Mr. Mansell was not satisfied with that. He

demanded a verdict from the jury. So Mr. Ferris, with great generosity,

asked the Judge to recommend the jury to bring in a verdict of

acquittal, and when the Judge hesitated to do this, the foreman of the

jury himself rose, and intimated that he thought the jury were ready

with their verdict. The Judge took advantage of this, and the result was

a triumphant acquittal."

"O Helen, Helen!"

"That was just an hour ago," cried the little lady, brightly, "but the

people are not through shouting yet. There has been a great excitement

in town these last few days."

"And I knew nothing of it!" exclaimed Imogene. Suddenly she looked at

Helen. "How did you hear about what took place in the court-room

to-day?" she asked.

"Mr. Byrd told me."

"Ah, Mr. Byrd?"

"He came to leave a good-bye for you. He goes home this afternoon."

"I should like to have seen Mr. Byrd," said Imogene.

"Would you?" queried the little lady, quietly shaking her head. "I don't

know; I think it is just as well you did not see him," said she.

But she made no such demur when a little while later Mr. Gryce was

announced. The fatherly old gentleman had evidently been in that house

before, and Mrs. Richmond was not the woman to withstand a man like him.

He came immediately into the room where Imogene was sitting. Evidently

he thought as Helen did, that good news never hurts.

"Well!" he cried, taking her trembling hand in his, with his most

expressive smile. "What did I tell you? Didn't I say that if you would

only trust me all would come right? And it has, don't you see? Right as

a trivet."

"Yes," she returned; "and I never can find words with which to express

my gratitude. You have saved two lives, Mr. Gryce: his--and mine."

"Pooh! pooh!" cried the detective, good-humoredly. "You mustn't think

too much of any thing I have done. It was the falling limb that did the

business. If Mr. Orcutt's conscience had not been awakened by the stroke

of death, I don't know where we should have been to-day. Affairs were

beginning to look pretty dark for Mansell."

Imogene shuddered.

"But I haven't come here to call up unpleasant memories," he continued.

"I have come to wish you joy and a happy convalescence." And leaning

toward her, he said, with a complete change of voice: "You know, I

suppose, why Mr. Mansell presumed to think _you_ guilty of this crime?"

"No," she murmured, wearily; "unless it was because the ring he believed

me to have retained was found on the scene of murder."

"Bah!" cried Mr. Gryce, "he had a much better reason than that."

And with the air of one who wishes to clear up all misunderstandings, he

told her the words which her lover had overheard Mrs. Clemmens say when

he came up to her dining-room door.

The effect on Imogene was very great. Hoping to hide it, she turned away

her face, showing in this struggle with herself something of the

strength of her old days. Mr. Gryce watched her with interest.

"It is very strange," was her first remark. "I had such reasons for

thinking him guilty; he such good cause for thinking me so. What wonder

we doubted each other. And yet I can never forgive myself for doubting

him; I can sooner forgive him for doubting me. If you see him----"

"If _I_ see him?" interrupted the detective, with a smile.

"Yes," said she. "If you see him tell him that Imogene Dare thanks him

for his noble conduct toward one he believed to be stained by so

despicable a crime, and assure him that I think he was much more

justified in his suspicions than I was in mine, for there were

weaknesses in my character which he had ample opportunities for

observing, while all that I knew of him was to his credit."

"Miss Dare," suggested the detective, "couldn't you tell him this much

better yourself?"

"I shall not have the opportunity," she said.

"And why?" he inquired.

"Mr. Mansell and I have met for the last time. A woman who has stained

herself by such declarations as I made use of in court the last time I

was called to the stand has created a barrier between herself and all

earthly friendship. Even he for whom I perjured myself so basely cannot

overleap the gulf I dug between us two that day."

"But that is hard," said Mr. Gryce.

"My life _is_ hard," she answered.

The wise old man, who had seen so much of life and who knew the human

heart so well, smiled, but did not reply. He turned instead to another

subject.

"Well," he declared, "the great case is over! Sibley, satisfied with

having made its mark in the world, will now rest in peace. I quit the

place with some reluctance myself. 'Tis a mighty pretty spot to do

business in."

"You are going?" she asked.

"Immediately," was the reply. "We detectives don't have much time to

rest." Then, as he saw how deep a shadow lay upon her brow, added,

confidentially: "Miss Dare, we all have occasions for great regret. Look

at me now. Honest as I hold myself to be, I cannot blind myself to the

fact that I am the possible instigator of this crime. If I had not shown

Mr. Orcutt how a man like himself might perpetrate a murder without

rousing suspicion, he might never have summoned up courage to attempt

it. For a detective with a conscience, that is a hard thought to bear."

"But you were ignorant of what you were doing," she protested. "You had

no idea there was any one present who was meditating crime."

"True; but a detective shouldn't be ignorant. He ought to know men; he

has opportunity enough to learn them. But I won't be caught again. Never

in any company, not if it is composed of the highest dignitaries in the

land, will I ever tell again how a crime of any kind can be perpetrated

without risk. One always runs the chance of encountering an Orcutt."

Imogene turned pale. "Do not speak of him," she cried. "I want to forget

that such a man ever lived."

Mr. Gryce smiled again.

"It is the best thing you can do," said he. "Begin a new life, my child;

begin a new life."

And with this fatherly advice, he said good-bye, and she saw his wise,

kind face no more.

The hour that followed was a dreary one for Imogene. Her joy at knowing

Craik Mansell was released could not blind her to the realization of her

own ruined life. Indeed she seemed to feel it now as never before; and

as the slow minutes passed, and she saw in fancy the strong figure of

Mansell surrounded by congratulating admirers and friends, the full

loneliness of her position swept over her, and she knew not whether to

be thankful or not to the fever for having spared her blighted and

dishonored life.

Mrs. Richmond, seeing her so absorbed, made no attempt at consolation.

She only listened, and when a step was heard, arose and went out,

leaving the door open behind her.

And Imogene mused on, sinking deeper and deeper into melancholy, till

the tears, which for so long a time had been dried at their source,

welled up to her eyes and fell slowly down her cheeks. Their touch

seemed to rouse her. Starting erect, she looked quickly around as if to

see if anybody was observing her. But the room seems quite empty, and

she is about to sink back again with a sigh when her eyes fall on the

door-way and she becomes transfixed. A sturdy form is standing there! A

manly, eager form in whose beaming eyes and tender smile shine a love

and a purpose which open out before her quite a different future from

that which her fancy had been so ruthlessly picturing.

THE END.

PUBLICATIONS OF G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS.

=THE LEAVENWORTH CASE.= A Lawyer's Story. By ANNA

KATHERINE GREEN. 16mo, paper, 60 cents; cloth, $1.00.

"In one respect at least, 'The Leavenworth Case'

is the peer of Gaboriau's best efforts--the

wonderful skill with which the author draws the

reader, now this way, now that, in the search for

the perpetrator of the mysterious crime with which

the story begins, and deludes him until he reaches

almost the last page."--_New Haven Palladium._

"Wilkie Collins, in his best period, never

invented a more ingeniously constructed plot, nor

held the reader in such suspense until the final

denouement. The most blase novel-reader will be

unable to put aside 'The Leavenworth Case' until

he has read the last sentence and mastered the

mystery which has baffled him from the

beginning."--_N. Y. Express._

"She has proved herself as well able to write an

interesting story of mysterious crime as any man

living."--_The Academy, (London.)_

"She has worked up a _cause celebre_ with a

fertility of device and ingenuity of treatment

hardly second to Wilkie Collins or Edgar Allen

Poe."--_Christian Union._

"We have read no story for a long time which has

had so much of the Wilkie Collins, and Edgar Allen

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telling."--_Congregationalist._

"We do not propose to give the plot of the work,

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most ingenious of the kind we have ever

read."--_Buffalo Express._

"This is the sort of book to be eagerly read and

thoroughly enjoyed."--_St. Paul Pioneer._

"A new novel by a new writer, which enchains our

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first page, is a pleasant surprise. * * * Told

with a force and power that indicate great

dramatic talent in the writer."--_St. Louis Post._

"Its interest is undoubted and it is thoroughly

well sustained."--_N. Y. Evening Post._

"The story is developed with great skill and shows

ingenuity of the highest order."--_Troy Times._

"A story of mystery and crime and is here narrated

with an artistic skill which inevitably holds the

interest of the reader, even to the point of the

highest tension, to the close of the last chapter.

* * * A real marvel of fiction."--_Davenport

Gazette._

=A STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE.= By ANNA KATHARINE GREEN.

16mo, paper, 50 cents, cloth, $1.00.

"The plot is marked with striking originality, and

the story is narrated with a vigor and power

rarely met in modern novels. It is deeply

interesting from beginning to end, and holds the

reader entranced from the moment the first page is

read until the last sentence is reached. It is, in

fact, a revelation in American romance-writing,

and we heartily commend it to the

public."--_Baltimore Gazette._

"Catches the fancy and chains the interest of the

reader to such a degree that he is unwilling to

lay it down until every page is

devoured."--_Toledo Journal._

"The author has chosen a department of fiction

where only the best writers succeed, but she has

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told so straightforward as to be wholly

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"One of the best police detective stories written

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"Wilkie Collins would not be ashamed of the

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"The plot is very ingenious. * * * The interest in

the tale is remarkably well sustained until its

conclusion, and the mystery which envelopes the

principal character is concealed with a great deal

of artistic skill. * * * Shows a spirit of patient

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writer, and an analytical faculty rarely seen in a

woman."--_Boston Courier._

=X. Y. Z.= A Detective Story. By ANNA KATHARINE GREEN. 16mo,

paper, 25 cents.

"Well written and extremely exciting and

captivating. * * * She is a perfect genius in the

construction of a plot."--_N. Y. Commercial

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"Will keep the sleepiest reader wide-awake from

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"An extremely interesting story, * * * the

development of the plot is kept well in hand, and

the denouement is as dramatic as any that could be

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=THE DEFENCE OF THE BRIDE=, and Other Poems. By ANNA

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PUBLICATIONS OF G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS.

BAYARD TAYLOR'S NOVELS.

I. =Hannah Thurston.= A STORY OF AMERICAN LIFE

12mo. Household edition, $1.50

"If Bayard Taylor has not placed himself, as we

are half inclined to suspect, in the front rank of

novelists, he has produced a very remarkable

book--a really original story, admirably told,

crowded with life-like characters full of delicate

and subtle sympathies, with ideas the most

opposite to his own, and lighted up throughout

with that playful humor which suggests always

wisdom rather than mere fun."--_London Spectator._

II. =John Godfrey's Fortunes.= RELATED BY HIMSELF

12mo. Household edition, $1.50

"'John Godfrey's Fortunes,' without being

melodramatic or morbid, is one of the most

fascinating novels which we have ever read. Its

portraiture of American social life, though not

flattering, is eminently truthful; its delineation

of character is delicate and natural; its English,

though sometimes careless, is singularly grateful

and pleasant."--_Cleveland Leader._

III. =The Story of Kennett.= 12mo. Household

edition, $1.50

"Mr. Bayard Taylor's book is _delightful and

refreshing reading_, and great rest after the

crowded artistic effects and the conventional

interests of even the better kind of English

novels."--_London Spectator._

"As a picture of rural life, we think this novel

of Mr. Taylor's excels any of his previous

productions."--_N. Y. Evening Post._

"A tale of absorbing interest."--_Syracuse

Standard._

IV. =Joseph and his Friend.= A STORY OF PENNSYLVANIA

12mo. Household edition, $1.50

"In Bayard Taylor's happiest vein."--_Buffalo

Express._

"By far the best novel of the season."--_Cleveland

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V. =Beauty and the Beast= and =Tales of Home=. 12mo

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Bayard Taylor's Complete Works.

=The Complete Works of Bayard Taylor.= In sixteen

volumes. Household edition, $24.00

=The Travels=, separate, eleven volumes. Household

edition, $16.50

The Novels, separate, five volumes, boards.

Cedarcroft edition, $6.25

* * * * *

Transcriber's note:

The original text had page v before pages iii and iv. This was

rearranged in this edition. The List of Illustrations now follows the

Table of Contents.

The text uses both "vail" and "veil," "depot" and "depot."

Obvious punctuation errors were corrected.

Page 17, "have'nt" changed to "haven't" (that haven't much)

Page 29, "vengance" changed to "vengeance" (May the vengeance of Heaven)

Page 138, "yon" changed to "you" (you would be likely)

Page 140, "notwithstandingt he" changed to "notwithstanding the"

(notwithstanding the humiliating)

Page 221, "infinitesmal" changed to "infinitesimal" (an infinitesimal

chip from)

Page 227, "obstancy" changed to "obstinacy" (selfishness and obstinacy)

Page 235, "Ferrris" changed to "Ferris" (cried Mr. Ferris, looking)

Page 267, "where" changed to "were" (you were when you)

Page 288, "desparing" changed to "despairing" (The despairing influence)

Page 326, "a" changed to "at" (I am boarding at present)

Page 402, "band" changed to "hand" (lay his hand upon)

Page 410, "unneccessary" changed to "unnecessary" (an unnecessary

display)

Page 417, "his" changed to "is" (he is trying his influence)

Page 431, "disegarded" changed to "disregarded" (it shall be

disregarded)

Page 462, "Sueh" changed to "Such" (Such--as--Gouvernour)

Page 526, "thumselves" changed to "themselves" (are amusing themselves)

Page 552, "sor" changed to "for" (promised little for an)

Page 558, "most" changed to "must" (one must also believe)

Page 565, "Gyrce" changed to "Gryce" (Mr. Gryce, with his usual)

Page 591, "surbordinates" changed to "subordinates" (his subordinates

arose)