This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Kirsten Ferrari. The Leavenworth case by Anna Catherine Green. CHAPTER XVII The beginning of great surprises. And now followed days in which I seemed to make little or no progress. Mr. Clavering, disturbed perhaps by my presence, forsook his usual haunts, thus depriving me of all opportunity of making his acquaintance in any natural manner, while the evenings spent at Miss Leavenworth's were productive of little else than constant suspense and uneasiness. The manuscript required less revision than I supposed, but in the course of making such few changes as were necessary, I had ample opportunity of studying the character of Mr. Harwell. I found him to be neither more nor less than an excellent Amanuensis. Stiff, unbending and somber, but true to his duty and reliable in its performance, I learned to respect him, and even to like him. And this too, though I saw the liking was not reciprocated, whatever the respect may have been. He never spoke of Ellen or Leavenworth, or indeed mentioned the family or its trouble in any way, till I began to feel that all this reticence had a cause deeper than the nature of the man, and that if he did speak, it would be to some purpose. This suspicion, of course, kept me restlessly eager in his presence. I could not forbear giving him sly glances now and then to see how he acted when he believed himself unobserved, but he was ever the same—a passive, diligent, unexcitable worker. This continual beating against a stone wall, for thus I regarded it, became at last almost unendurable. Clavering shy and the secretary unapproachable, how was I to gain anything? The short interviews I had with Mary did not help matters. Haughty, constrained, feverish, pettish, grateful, appealing, everything at once and never twice the same. I learned to dread even while I coveted an interview. She appeared to be passing through some crisis which occasioned her the keenest suffering.  I have likewise beheld her standing with her proud head abased, her nervous hands drooping, her whole form sinking and inert, as if the pressure of a weight she could neither upbear nor cast aside had robbed her even of the show of resistance. But this was only once. Ordinarily she was at least stately in her trouble. Even when the softest appeal came into her eyes she stood erect and retained her expression of conscious power. Even the night she met me in the hall with feverish cheeks and lips trembling with eagerness, only to turn and fly again without giving utterance to what she had to say, she imported herself with a fiery dignity that was well nigh imposing. That all this meant something, I was sure, and so I kept my patience alive with the hope that some day she would make a revelation. Those quivering lips would not always remain closed. The secret involving Eleanor's honour and happiness would be divulged by this restless being if by no one else. Nor was the memory of that extraordinary, if not cruel, accusation I had heard her make enough to destroy this hope, for hope it had grown to be, so that I found myself insensibly shortening my time with Mr. Harwell in the library, and extending my tate-a-tate visits with Mary in the reception room, till the imperturbable secretary was forced to complain that he was often left for hours without work. But as I say, days passed, and a second Monday evening came round without seeing me any further advanced upon the problem I had set myself to solve, than when I first started upon it two weeks before. The subject of the murder had not even been broached, nor was Hannah spoken of, though I observed the papers were not allowed to languish an instant upon the stoop, mistress and servants betraying equal interest in their contents. All this was strange to me. It was as if you saw a group of human beings eating, drinking, and sleeping upon the sides of a volcano, hot with a late eruption and trembling with the birth of a new one. I longed to break this silence as we shiver glass, by shouting the name of Eleanor through these gilded rooms and satin-draped vestibules. But this Monday evening I was in a calmer mood. I was determined to expect nothing from my visits to Mary Leavenworth's house, and entered it upon the even question with an equanimity such as I had not experienced since the first day I passed under its unhappy portals. But when, upon nearing the reception room, I saw Mary pacing the floor with the air of one who is restlessly awaiting something or somebody, I took a sudden resolution and advancing toward her said, Do I see you alone, Miss Leavenworth? She paused in her hurried action, blushed and bowed, but contrary to her usual custom did not bid me enter. Will it be too great an intrusion on my part if I venture to come in, I asked. Her glance flashed uneasily to the clock, and she seemed about to excuse herself but suddenly yielded, and drawing up a chair before the fire motioned me toward it. Though she endeavored to appear calm, I vaguely felt I had chanced upon her in one of her most agitated moods, and that I had only to broach the subject I had in mind to behold her haughtiness disappear before me like melting snow. I also felt that I had but few minutes in which to do it. I accordingly plunged immediately into the subject. Miss Leavenworth said I, in obtruding upon you to-night I have a purpose other than that of giving myself a pleasure. I have come to make an appeal. Instantly I saw that in some way I had started wrong. An appeal to make—to me, she asked, breathing coldness from every feature of her face. Yes, I went on, with passionate recklessness, balked in every other endeavour to learn the truth. I have come to you, whom I believed to be noble at the core, for that help which seems likely to fail us in every other direction, for the word which, if it does not absolutely save your cousin, will at least put us on the track of what will. I do not understand what you mean, she protested, slightly shrinking. Miss Leavenworth, I pursued. It is needless for me to tell you in what position your cousin stands—you who remember both the form and drift of the questions put to her at the inquest, comprehended all without any explanation from me. But what you may not know is this—that unless she is speedily relieved from the suspicion which justly or not has attached itself to her name, the consequences which such suspicion entails must fall upon her, and—good God! she cried! You do not mean she will be—subject to arrest? Yes. It was a blow. Shame, horror, and anguish were in every line of her white face. And all because of that key, she murmured. Key? How do you know anything about a key? Why? she cried, flushing painfully. I cannot say. Didn't you tell me? No, I returned. The papers, then. The papers have never mentioned it. She grew more and more agitated. I thought everyone knew—no, I did not, either, she avowed—in a sudden burst of shame and penitence. I knew it was a secret, but—Mr. Raymond, it was Eleanor herself who told me. Eleanor? Yes, that last evening she was here. We were together in the drawing-room. What did she tell? That the key to the library had been seen in her possession. I could scarcely conceal my incredulity. Eleanor, conscious of the suspicion with which her cousin regarded her, informed that cousin of a fact calculated to add weight to that suspicion? I could not believe this. But you knew it? Mary went on. I revealed nothing I ought to have kept secret? No, said I, and Miss Leavenworth, it is this thing which makes your cousin's position absolutely dangerous. It is a fact that left unexplained must ever link her name with infamy. A bit of circumstantial evidence no sophistry can smother and no denial obliterate. Only her hitherto spotless reputation, and the efforts of one who not withstanding appearances believes in her innocence, keeps her so long from the clutch of the officers of justice. That key, and the silence preserved by her in regard to it, is sinking her slowly into a pit from which the utmost endeavours of her best friends will soon be inadequate to extricate her. And you tell me this? That you may have pity on the poor girl, who will not have pity on herself, and by the explanation of a few circumstances which cannot be mysteries to you, assist in bringing her from under the dreadful shadow that threatens to overwhelm her? And would you insinuate, sir, she cried, turning upon me with a look of great anger, that I know any more than you do of this matter, that I possess any knowledge which I have not already made public concerning the dreadful tragedy which has transformed our home into a desert, our existence into a lasting horror, has the blight of suspicion fallen upon me too, and have you come to accuse me in my own house? Miss Leavenworth, I entreated, calm yourself, I accuse you of nothing. I only desire you to enlighten me as to your cousin's probable motive for this criminating silence. You cannot be ignorant of it. You are her cousin, almost her sister, have been at all events her daily companion for years, and must know for whom or for what she seals her lips, and conceals facts which, if known, would direct suspicion to the real criminal, i.e., if you really believe what you have hitherto stated, that your cousin is an innocent woman. She not making any answer to this, I rose and confronted her. Miss Leavenworth, do you believe your cousin guiltless of this crime or not? Guiltless? Eleanor! Oh my God! If all the world were only as innocent as she! Then said I, you must likewise believe that if she refrains from speaking in regard to matters which do ordinary observers ought to be explained, she does it only from motives of kindness toward one less guiltless than herself. What? No. No, I do not say that. What made you think of any such explanation? The action itself. With one of Eleanor's characters, such conduct as hers admits of no other construction. Whether she is mad, or she is shielding another at the expense of herself. Mary's lip, which had trembled, slowly steadied itself. And whom have you settled upon as the person for whom Eleanor thus sacrifices herself? Ah, said I, that is where I seek assistance from you, with your knowledge of her history.  I beg your pardon, said she, but you make a mistake. I know little or nothing of Eleanor's personal feelings. The mystery must be solved by someone besides me. I changed my tactics. When Eleanor confessed to you that the missing key had been seen in her possession, did she likewise inform you where she obtained it, and for what reason she was hiding it? No. Merely told you the fact without any explanation. Yes. It was not that a strange piece of gratuitous information for her to give to one who, but a few hours before, had accused her to the face of committing a deadly crime. What do you mean, she asked, her voice suddenly sinking.  Explain yourself, she cried. Miss Leavenworth, do you not remember what you said in that room upstairs when you were alone with your cousin on the morning of the inquest just before Mr. Grice and myself entered your presence? Her eyes did not fall, but they filled with sudden terror. You heard, she whispered. I could not help it. I was just outside the door, and what did you hear? I told her. And Mr. Grice? He was at my side. It seemed as if her eyes would devour my face. Nothing was said when you came in. No. You however have never forgotten it? How could we, Miss Leavenworth? Her head fell forward in her hands, and for one wild moment she seemed lost in despair. Then she roused and desperately exclaimed, And that is why you come here to-night. With that sentence written upon your heart you invade my presence and torture me with questions. Pardon me, I broke in. Are my questions, such as you, with reasonable regard for the honour of one with whom you were accustomed to associate, should hesitate to answer? Do I derogate from my manhood in asking you how and why you came to make an accusation of so grave a nature, at a time when all the circumstances of the case were freshly before you, only to insist fully as strongly upon your cousin's innocence when you found there was even more cause for your imputation than you had supposed? She did not seem to hear me. Oh, my cruel fate! she murmured. Oh, my cruel fate! Miss Leavenworth said I, rising, and taking my stand before her. Although there is a temporary estrangement between you and your cousin, you cannot wish to seem her enemy. Speak then. Let me at least know the name of him for whom she thus immolates herself. A hint from you. But rising with a strange look to her feet, she interrupted me with a stern remark. If you do not know, I cannot inform you. Do not ask me, Mr. Raymond. And she glanced at the clock for the second time. I took another turn. Miss Leavenworth you once asked me if a person who had committed a wrong ought necessarily to confess it, and I replied no, unless by the confession reparation could be made. Do you remember? Her lips moved, but no words issued from them. I begin to think, I solemnly proceeded, following the lead of her emotion, that confession is the only way out of this difficulty, that only by the words you can utter Eleanor can be saved from the doom that awaits her. Will you not then show yourself a true woman by responding to my earnest entreaties? I seem to have touched the right cord, for she trembled, and a look of wistfulness filled her eyes. Oh, if I could, she murmured. Why can you not? You will never be happy until you do. Eleanor persists in silence, but that is no reason why you should emulate her example. You only make her position more doubtful by it. I know it, but I cannot help myself. The fate has too strong a hold upon me, I cannot break away. That is not true, any one can escape from Bond's imaginary as yours. No, she protested, you do not understand. I understand this, that the path of rectitude is a straight one, and that he who steps into devious by-ways is going astray.  Her throat rose as with one wild sob. Her lips opened. She seemed yielding when— A sharp ring at the front doorbell. Oh, she cried sharply, turning, tell him I cannot see him! Tell him— Miss Leavenworth, said I, taking her by both hands. Never mind the door, never mind anything but this. I have asked you a question which involves the mystery of this whole affair. Answer me, then, for your soul's sake. Tell me what the unhappy circumstances were which could induce you. But she tore her hands from mine. The door, she cried, it will open. Stepping into the hall, I met Thomas coming up the basement stairs. Go back, said I. I will call you when you are wanted. With a bow he disappeared. Do you expect me to answer, she exclaimed when I re-entered. Now, in a moment, I cannot. Impossible! Fastening her gaze upon the front door. Miss Leavenworth! She shuddered. I fear the time will never come if you do not speak now. Impossible! She reiterated. Another twang at the bell. You hear, said she. I went into the hall and called Thomas. You may open the door now, said I, and move to return to her side. But with a gesture of command she pointed upstairs. With me. And her glance passed on to Thomas, who stopped where he was. I will see you again before I go, said I, and hastened upstairs. Thomas opened the door. His Miss Leavenworth in. I heard a rich, tremulous voice inquire. Yes, sir, came in the butler's most respectful and measured accents, and leaning over the bannisters I beheld to my amazement the form of Mr. Clavering, entered the front hall, and moved toward the reception room. CHAPTER XVIII. Exited, tremulous, filled with wonder at this unlooked-for event, I paused for a moment to collect my scattered senses, when the sound of a low, monotonous voice breaking upon my ear from the direction of the library, I approached, and found Mr. Harwell reading aloud from his late employer's manuscript. It would be difficult for me to describe the effect which this simple discovery made upon me at this time. There, in that room of late death, withdrawn from the turmoil of the world, a hermit in his skeleton-lined cell, this man employed himself in reading and re-reading with passive interest the words of the dead, while above and below human beings agonized in doubt and shame. Listening, I heard these words. By these means their native rulers will not only lose their jealous terror of our institutions, but acquire an actual curiosity in regard to them. Opening the door I went in. Ah! you are late, sir! was the greeting with which he rose and brought forward a chair. My reply was probably inaudible, for he added, as he passed to his own seat. I am afraid you are not well. I roused myself. I am not ill. And pulling the papers toward me, I began looking them over. But the words danced before my eyes, and I was obliged to give up all attempt at work for that night. I fear I am unable to assist you this evening, Mr. Harwell. The fact is, I find it difficult to give proper attention to this business, while the man, who, by a dastardly assassination, has made it necessary, goes unpunished. The secretary in his turn pushed the papers aside, as if moved by a sudden distaste of them, but gave me no answer. You told me, when you first came to me with news of this fearful tragedy, that it was a mystery. But it is one which must be solved, Mr. Harwell. It is wearing out the lives of too many whom we love and respect." The secretary gave me a look.  You have manifested much interest in the matter from the beginning,' said he, methodically dipping his pen into the ink. I stared at him in amazement. "'And you,' said I, "'do you take no interest in that which involves not only the safety, but the happiness and honour of the family in which you have dwelt so long?' He looked at me with increased coldness. I have no wish to discuss the subject. I believe I have before prayed you to spare me its introduction.' And he arose. "'But I cannot consider your wishes in this regard,' I persisted. If you know any facts connected with this affair which have not yet been made public, it is manifestly your duty to state them. The position which Miss Eleanor occupies at this time is one which should arouse the sense of justice in every true breast, and if you—if I knew anything which would serve to release her from her unhappy position, Mr. Raymond, I should have spoken long ago. I bit my lip weary of these continual bafflings, and rose also. If you have nothing more to say,' he went on, and fear utterly disinclined to work why I should be glad to excuse myself, as I have an engagement out. "'Do not let me keep you,' I said bitterly. I can take care of myself.' He turned upon me with a short stare, as if this display of feeling was well nigh incomprehensible to him. And then with a quiet, almost compassionate bow left the room. I heard him go upstairs, felt the jar when his room door closed, and sat down to enjoy my solitude. But solitude in that room was unbearable. By the time Mr. Harwell again descended I felt I could remain no longer, and stepping into the hall told him that if he had no objection I would accompany him for a short stroll. He bowed a stiff ascent, and hastened before me down the stairs. By the time I had closed the library door he was half way to the foot, and I was just remarking to myself upon the unplayability of his figure and the awkwardness of his carriage, as seen from my present standpoint, when suddenly I saw him stop, clutch the banister at his side, and hang there with a startled, deathly expression upon his half-turned countenance, which fixed me for an instant where I was in breathless astonishment, and then caused me to rush down to his side, catch him by the arm, and cry, What is it? What is the matter? But thrusting out his hand he pushed me upwards. Go back, he whispered, in a voice shaking with intenseist emotion. Go back!" And catching me by the arm he literally pulled me up the stairs. Arrived at the top he loosened his grasp, and leaning, quivering from head to foot over the banisters, glared below. Who is that? he cried. Who is that man? What is his name? Startled in my turn I bent beside him, and saw Henry Clavering come out of the reception room and cross the hall. That is Mr. Clavering, I whispered, with all the self-possession I could muster. Do you know him? Mr. Harwell fell back against the opposite wall. Clavering! Clavering! he murmured, with quaking lips. Then suddenly bounding forward clutched the railing before him, and fixing me with his eyes from which all the stoic calmness had gone down forever in flame and frenzy gurgled into my ear. You want to know who the assassin of Mr. Leavenworth is, do you? Look there, then! That is the man, Clavering! And with a leap he bounded from my side, and swaying like a drunken man disappeared from my gaze in the hall above. My first impulse was to follow him. Rushing upstairs I knocked at the door of his room, but no response came to my summons. I then called his name into the hall, but without a veil. He was determined not to show himself. Resolved that he should not thus escape me, I returned to the library, and wrote him a short note in which I asked for an explanation of his tremendous accusation, saying I would be in my room the next evening at six, when I should expect to see him. This done. I descended to rejoin Mary. But the evening was destined to be full of disappointments. She had retired to her room while I was in the library, and I lost the interview from which I expected so much. The woman is as slippery as a kneel, I inwardly commented, pacing the hall in my chagrin. Wrapped in mystery, she expects me to feel for her the respect due to one of frank and open nature. I was about to leave the house, when I saw Thomas descending the stairs with a letter in his hand. Miss Leavenworth's compliments, sir, and she is too fatigued to remain below this evening. I moved aside to read the note he handed me, feeling a little conscience-stricken as I traced the hurried, trembling handwriting through the following words. You ask more than I can give. Matters must be received as they are without explanation from me. It is the grief of my life to deny you, but I have no choice. God forgive us all, and keep us from despair. M. And below. As we cannot now meet without embarrassment, it is better we should bear our burdens in silence and apart. Mr. Harwell will visit you. Farewell. As I was crossing 32nd Street, I heard a quick footstep beside me, and turning saw Thomas at my side. "'Excuse me, sir,' said he, but I have something a little particular to say to you. When you asked me the other night what sort of person the gentleman was who called on Miss Eleanor the evening of the murder, I didn't answer you as I should. The fact is, the detectives have been talking to me about that very thing, and I felt shy. "'But, sir, I know that you are a friend of the family, and I want to tell you now that that same gentleman, whoever he was, Mr. Robbins,' he called himself then, was at the house again to-night, sir, and the name he gave me this time to carry to Miss Leavenworth was clattering. "'Yes, sir,' he went on, seeing me start, and as I told Molly he acts queer for a stranger. When he came the other night he hesitated a long time before asking for Miss Eleanor, and when I wanted his name took out a card, and wrote on it the one I told you of, sir, with a look on his face, a little peculiar for a caller. Besides—' "'Well?' "'Mr. Raymond,' the butler went on, in a low, excited voice, edging up very closely to me in the darkness. There is something I have never told any living being but Molly, sir, which may be of use to those as wishes to find out who committed this murder. "'A fact?' "'Or a suspicion?' I inquired. "'A fact, sir, which I beg your pardon for troubling you with at this time, but Molly will give me no rest unless I speak of it to you or Mr. Grice, her feelings being so worked up on Hannah's account, whom we all know is innocent, though folks do dare to say as how she must be guilty just because she is not to be found the minute they want her. But this fact, I urged. "'Well, the fact is this. You see, I would tell Mr. Grice,' he resumed, unconscious of my anxiety, but I have my fears of detective, sir. They catch you up so quick at times, and seem to think you know so much more than you really do. "'But this fact,' I again broke in. "'Oh, yes, sir. The fact is that, that night, the one of the murder you know, I saw Mr. Clevering, Robbins, or whatever his name is, enter the house, but neither I nor anyone else saw him go out of it, nor do I know that he did.' "'What do you mean?' "'Well, sir, what I mean is this. When I came down from Miss Eleanor and told Mr. Robbins, as he called himself at that time, that my mistress was ill and unable to see him, the word she gave me, sir, to deliver, Mr. Robbins, instead of bowing and leaving the house like a gentleman, stepped into the reception room and sat down. He may have felt sick. He looked pale enough. At any rate, he asked me for a glass of water. Not knowing any reason then for suspicionating anyone's actions, I immediately went down to the kitchen for it, leaving him there in the reception room alone. But before I could get it, I heard the front door close. "'What's that?' said Molly, who was helping me, sir. "'I don't know, sir, I, unless it's the gentleman, has got tired of waiting and gone.' "'If he's gone, he won't want the water,' she said. So down I set the pitcher and upstairs I come, and sure enough he was gone, or so I thought then. But who knows, sir, if he was not in that room, or the drawing-room, which was dark that night, all the time I was a-shutten up of the house?' I made no reply to this. I was more startled than I cared to reveal. "'You see, sir, I wouldn't speak of such a thing about any person that comes to see the young ladies. But we all know someone was in the house. That night murdered my master. And as it was not Hannah. "'You say that Miss Eleanor refused to see him,' I interrupted, in the hope that the simple suggestion would be enough to elicitate further details of his interview with Eleanor. "'Yes, sir. When she first looked at the card she showed a little hesitation. But in a moment she grew very flushed in the face, and made me say what I told you. I should never have thought of it again if I had not seen him come blazing and bold into the house this evening with a new name on his tongue. Indeed, and I do not like to think any evil of him now. But Molly would have it. I should speak to you, sir, and ease my mind. And that is all, sir.' When I arrived home that night I entered into my memorandum book a new list of suspicious circumstances, but this time they were under the captions C instead of E. CHAPTER XIX Something between a hindrance and a help. The next day, as with nerves unstrung and an exhausted brain, I entered my office. I was greeted by the announcement. "'A gentleman, sir, in your private room. Been waiting some time. Very impatient.' Weary. In no mood to hold consultation with clients new or old, I advanced with anything but an eager step towards my room, when, upon opening the door, I saw Mr. Clavering. Too much astounded for the moment to speak. I bowed to him silently, whereupon he approached me with the air and dignity of a highly bred gentleman, and presented his card, on which I saw written, in free and handsome characters, his whole name, Henry Richie Clavering. After this introduction of himself, he apologized for making so unceremonious a call, saying in excuse that he was a stranger in town, that his business was one of great urgency, that he had casually heard honorable mention of me as a lawyer and a gentleman, and so had ventured to seek this interview on behalf of a friend, who was so unfortunately situated as to require the opinion and advice of a lawyer upon a question which not only involved an extraordinary state of facts, but was of a nature peculiarly embarrassing to him, owing to his ignorance of American laws, and the legal bearing of these facts upon the same. Having thus secured my attention, and awakened my curiosity, he asked me if I would permit him to relate his story. Recovering in a measure from my astonishment, and subduing the extreme repulsion, almost horror, I felt for the man, I signified my assent, at which he drew from his pocket a memorandum book from which he read in substance as follows. An Englishman travelling in this country meets, at a fashionable watering-place, an American girl, with whom he falls deeply in love, and whom, after a few days, he desires to marry. Knowing his position to be good, his fortune ample, and his intentions highly honorable, he offers her his hand, and is accepted. But a decided opposition arising in the family to the match, he is compelled to disguise his sentiments, though the engagement remained unbroken. While matters were in this uncertain condition, he received advice from England demanding his instant return, and alarmed at the prospect of a protracted absence from the object of his affections, he writes to the lady, informing her of the circumstances, and proposing a secret marriage. She consents with stipulations, the first of which is that he should leave her instantly upon the conclusion of the ceremony, and the second that he should entrust the public declaration of the marriage to her. It was not precisely what he wished, but anything which served to make her his own was acceptable at such a crisis. He readily enters into the plans proposed. Meeting the lady at a parsonage, some twenty miles from the watering-place at which she was staying, he stands up with her before a Methodist preacher, and the ceremony of marriage is performed. There were two witnesses, a hired man of the minister, called in for the purpose, and a lady-friend who came with the bride. But there was no license, and the bride had not completed her twenty-first year. Now, was that marriage legal? If the lady wedded in good faith upon that day by my friend chooses to deny that she is his lawful wife, can he hold her to a compact entered in so informal a matter? In short, Mr. Raymond, is my friend the lawful husband of that girl or not? While listening to this story, I found myself yielding to feelings greatly in contrast to those with which I greeted the relator but a moment before. I became so interested in his friend's case, as to quite forget for the time being, that I had ever seen or heard of Henry Clevering. And after learning that the marriage ceremony took place in the state of New York, I replied to him, as near as I can remember, in the following words— "'In this state, and I believe it to be American law, marriage is a civil contract, requiring neither license, priest, ceremony, nor certificate, and in some cases witnesses are not even necessary to give it validity. Of old, the modes of getting a wife were the same as those of acquiring any other species of property, and they are not materially changed at the present time. It is enough that the man and woman say to each other, from this time we are married, or, you are now my wife or my husband as the case may be. The mutual consent is all that is necessary. In fact, you may contract marriage as you contract to lend a sum of money, or to buy the nearest trifle. Then your opinion is, that upon your statement your friend is the lawful husband of the lady in question, presuming of course that no legal disabilities of either party existed to prevent such a union. As to the young lady's age, I will merely say that any fourteen-year-old girl can be party to a marriage contract." Mr. Clevering bowed, his countenance assuming a look of great satisfaction. "'I am very glad to hear this,' said he. "'My friend's happiness is entirely involved in the establishment of his marriage.' He appeared so relieved my curiosity was yet further aroused. I therefore said, "'I have given you my opinion as to the legality of this marriage, but it may be quite another thing to prove it should the same be contested.' He started, cast me an inquiring look, and murmured, "'True.' "'Allow me to ask you a few questions. Was the lady married under her own name?' She was. "'The gentleman?' Yes, sir. Did the lady receive a certificate?' She did. Properly signed by the minister and witness, he bowed his head in ascent. "'Did she keep this?' I cannot say, but I presume she did. The witnesses were a hired man of the minister. Who can be found? Who cannot be found? Dead or disappeared? The minister is dead. The man has disappeared. The minister dead. Three months since. And the marriage took place when? Last July. The other witness, the lady friend, where is she? She can be found, but her action is not to be depended upon. Has the gentleman himself no proofs of this marriage? Mr. Clavering shook his head. He cannot even prove he was in the town where it took place on that particular day. The marriage certificate was, however, filed with the clerk of the town, said I. It was not, sir. How was that? I cannot say. I only know that my friend has made enquiry, and that no such papers to be found. I leaned slowly back and looked at him. I do not wonder your friend is concerned in regard to his position if what you hint is true, and the lady seems disposed to deny that any such ceremony ever took place. Still if he wishes to go to law the court may decide in his favour, though I doubt it. His sworn word is all he would have to go upon, and if she contradicts his testimony under oath, why, the sympathy of a jury is as a rule with the woman. Mr. Clavering rose, looked at me with some earnestness, and finally asked, in a tone which, though somewhat changed, lacked nothing of its former suavity, if I would be kind enough to give him, in writing, that portion of my opinion which directly bore upon the legality of the marriage, that such a paper would go far towards satisfying his friend that his case had been properly presented, as he was aware that no respectable lawyer would put his name to a legal opinion without having first carefully arrived at his conclusions by a thorough examination of the law bearing upon the fact submitted. This request seeming so reasonable, I unhesitatingly complied with it, and handed him the opinion. He took it, and after reading it carefully over, deliberately copied it into his memorandum book. This done, he turned toward me, a strong, though hitherto subdued emotion showing itself in his countenance. Now, sir, said he, rising upon me to the full height of his majestic figure, I have but one more request to make, and that is, that you will receive back this opinion into your own possession, and in the day you think to lead a beautiful woman to the altar, pause and ask yourself, am I sure that the hand I clasp with such impassioned fervour is free? Have I any certainty for knowing that it has not already been given away, like that of the lady whom, in this opinion of mine, I have declared to be a wedded wife according to the laws of my country?" Mr. clavoring! But he, with an urbane bow, laid his hand upon the nab of the door. I thank you for your courtesy, Mr. Raymond, and I bid you good day. I hope you will have no needs of consulting that paper before I see you again. And with another bow, he passed out. It was the most vital shock I had yet experienced, and for a moment I stood paralyzed. Me! Me! Why should he mix me up with the affair, unless—but I would not contemplate that possibility. Eleanor married, and to this man. Know anything but that. And yet I found myself continually turning the supposition over in my mind, until, to escape the torment of my own conjectures, I seized my hat and rushed into the street in the hope of finding him again and extorting from him an explanation of his mysterious conduct. But by the time I reached the sidewalk he was nowhere to be seen. A thousand busy men, with their various cares and purposes, had pushed themselves between us, and I was obliged to return to my office with my doubts unsolved. I think I never experienced a longer day. But it passed, and at five o'clock I had the satisfaction of inquiring for Mr. Clevering at the Hoffman House. Judge of my surprise, when I learned that his visit to my office was his last action before taking passage upon the steamer leaving that day for Liverpool, that he was now on the high seas, and all chance of another interview with him was at an end. I could scarcely believe the fact at first, but after a talk with the Cadman who had driven him off to my office, and thence to the steamer, I became convinced. My first feeling was one of shame. I had been brought face to face with the accused man, had received an intimation from him that he was not expecting to see me again for some time, and had weakly gone on attending to my own affairs, and allowed him to escape, like the simple Tyro that I was. My next, the necessity of notifying Mr. Grice of this man's departure. But it was now six o'clock, the hour set apart for my interview with Mr. Harwell. I could not afford to miss that. So merely stopping to dispatch a line to Mr. Grice, in which I promised to visit him that evening, I turned my steps toward home. I found Mr. Harwell there before me. CHAPTER XX Often do the spirits of great events stride on before the events, and in today already walks to-morrow. Coleridge. Instantly a great dread seized me. What revelations might not this man be going to make? But I subdued the feeling, and greeting him with what cordiality I could, settled myself to listen to his explanations. But Truman Harwell had no explanations to give, or so it seemed. On the contrary, he had come to apologize for the very violent words he had used the evening before. Words which, whatever their effect upon me, he now felt bound to declare had been used without sufficient basis, in fact, to make their utterance of the least importance. But you must have thought you had grounds for so tremendous an accusation, or your act was that of a madman. His brow wrinkled heavily, and his eyes assumed a very gloomy expression. It does not follow, he returned. Under the pressure of surprise I have known men utter convictions no better founded than mine, without running the risk of being called mad. Surprise! Mr. Clavering's face or form must then have been known to you. The mere fact of seeing a strange gentleman in the hall would have been insufficient to cause you astonishment, Mr. Harwell. He uneasily fingered the back of the chair before which he stood, but made no reply. Sit down, I again urged, this time with a touch of command in my voice. This is a serious matter, and I intend to deal with it as it deserves. You once said that if you knew anything which might serve to exonerate Eleanor Leavenworth from the suspicion under which she stands you would be ready to impart it. Pardon me. I said that if I had ever known anything calculated to release her from her unhappy position I would have spoken, he coldly corrected. Do not quibble. You know and I know that you are keeping something back, and I ask you in her behalf and in the cause of justice to tell me what it is. You are mistaken, was his dogged reply. I have reasons perhaps for certain conclusions I may have drawn, but my conscience will not allow me in cold blood to give utterance to suspicions which may not only damage the reputation of an honest man, but place me in the unpleasant position of an accuser without substantial foundation for my accusations. You occupy that position already, I retorted, with equal coldness. Nothing can make me forget that in my presence you have denounced Henry Clavering as the murderer of Mr. Leavenworth. You had better explain yourself, Mr. Harwell. He gave me a short look, but moved around and took the chair. You have me at a disadvantage, he said, in a lighter tone. If you choose to profit by your position and press me to disclose the little I know, I can only regret the necessity under which I lie and speak. And you are deterred by conscientious scruples alone? Yes, and by the meagerness of the facts at my command. I will judge the facts when I have heard them. He raised his eyes to mine, and I was astonished to observe a strange eagerness in their depths. Evidently his convictions were stronger than his scruples. Mr. Raymond he began, you are a lawyer, and undoubtedly a practical man, but you may know what it is to sent danger before you see it, to feel influences working in the air over and about you, and yet be an ignorance of what it is that affects you so powerfully, till chance reveals that an enemy has been at your side, or a friend past your window, or the shadow of death crossed your book as you read, or mingled with your breath as you slept. I shook my head, fascinated by the intensity of his gaze into some sort of response. Then you cannot understand me, or what I have suffered these last three weeks. And he drew back with an icy reserve that seemed to promise but little to my now thoroughly awakened curiosity. I beg your pardon, I hasten to say, but the fact of my never having experienced such sensations does not hinder me from comprehending the emotions of others more affected by spiritual influences than myself. He drew himself slowly forward. Then you will not ridicule me if I say that upon the eve of Mr. Leavenworth's murder I experienced in a dream all that occurred afterwards. Saw him murdered, saw—and he clasped his hands before him, in an attitude inexpressibly convincing, while his voice sank to a horrified whisper. I saw the face of his murderer. I started, looked at him in amazement, a thrill as at a ghostly presence running through me. And was that? I began. By reason for denouncing the man I beheld before me in the hall of Miss Leavenworth's house last night—it was—and taking out his handkerchief, he wiped his forehand, on which the perspiration was standing in large drops. You would then intimate that the face you saw in your dream and the face you saw in the hall last night were the same. He gravely nodded his head. I drew my chair nearer to his. Tell me your dream, said I. It was the night before Miss Leavenworth's murder. I had gone to bed feeling especially contented with myself, and the world at large, for, bill my life is anything but a happy one. And he heaved a short sigh. Some pleasant words had been said to me that day, and I was reveling in the happiness they conferred when suddenly a chills struck my heart, and the darkness, which a moment before had appeared to me as the abode of peace, thrilled to the sound of a supernatural cry. And I heard my name, Truman, Truman, Truman, repeated three times in a voice I did not recognize, and starting from my pillow beheld at my bedside a woman. Her face was strange to me, he solemnly proceeded, but I can give you each and every detail of it, as bending over me she stared into my eyes with a growing terror that seemed to implore help, though her lips were quiet, and only the memory of that cry echoed in my ears. Describe the face, I interposed. It was a round, fair lady's face, very lovely in contour, but devoid of colouring, not beautiful, but winning, from its childlike look of trust. The hair, banded upon the low, broad forehead, was brown. The eyes, which were very far apart, were grey. The mouth, which was its most charming feature, delicate of make, and very expressive. There was a dimple in the chin, but none in the cheeks. It was a face to be remembered. Go on, said I. Meeting the gaze of those imploring eyes, I started up. Instantly the face and all vanished, and I became conscious, as we sometimes do in dreams, of a certain movement in the hall below, and the next instant the gliding figure of a man of imposing size entered the library. I remember experiencing a certain thrill at this, half terror, of curiosity, though I seemed to know, as if by intuition what he was going to do. Strange to say I now seem to change my personality, and to be no longer a third person watching these proceedings but Mr. Leavenworth himself, sitting at his library table and feeling his doom crawling upon him, without capacity for speech or power of movement to avert it. Though my back was towards the man, I could feel his stealthy form traverse the passage, enter the room beyond, pass to that stand where the pistol was. Try the door, find it locked, turn the key, procure the pistol, weigh it in an accustomed hand, and advance again. I could feel each footstep he took, as though his feet were in truth upon my heart, and I remember staring at the table before me, as if I expected every moment to see it run with my own blood. I can see now how the letters I had been writing danced upon the paper before me, appearing to my eyes to take the phantom shapes of persons and things long ago forgotten, crowding my last moments with regrets and dead shames, wild longings and unspeakable agonies through all of which that face, the face of my former dream, mingled pale, sweet and searching, while closer and closer behind me crept that noiseless foot, till I could feel the glaring of the assassin's eyes across the narrow threshold separating me from death, and hear the click of his teeth as he set his lips for the final act. Ah! The secretary's livid face showed the touch of awful horror. What words can describe such an experience as that? In one moment, all the agonies of hell in the heart and brain, the next blank through which I seem to see afar, and as if suddenly removed from all this, a crouching figure looking at its work with starting eyes and pallid back-drawn lips, and seeing, recognize no face that I had ever known, but one so handsome, so remarkable, so unique in its formation and character, that it would be as easy for me to mistake the countenance of my father as the look and figure of the man revealed to me in my dream. "'And this face?' said I, in a voice I failed to recognize as my own.' "'Was that of him whom we saw leave Mary Leavenworth's presence last night, and go down the hall to the front door?' CHAPTER XXI. A Prejudice.  Romeo and Juliet. For one moment I sat a prey to superstitious horror. Then, my natural incredulity asserting itself, I looked up and remarked, "'You say that all this took place the night previous to the actual occurrence?' He bowed his head. "'For a warning,' he declared. "'But you did not seem to take it as such?' "'No, I am subject to horrible dreams. I thought but little of it in a superstitious way, till I looked next day upon Mr. Leavenworth's dead body. I do not wonder you behaved strangely at the inquest.' "'Ah, sir,' he returned, with a slow, sad smile. No one knows what I suffered in my endeavours not to tell more than I actually knew, irrespective of my dream of this murder and the manner of its accomplishment. You believe, then, that your dream foreshadowed the manner of the murder as well as the fact? I do. It is a pity it did not go a little further, then, and tell us how the assassin escaped from, if not how he entered a house so securely fastened.' His face flushed. "'That would have been convenient,' he repeated. "'Also, if I had been informed where Hannah was, and why a stranger and a gentleman should have stooped to the committal of such a crime.' Seeing that he was nettle'd, I dropped my bantering vein. "'Why do you say a stranger?' I asked. "'Are you so well acquainted with all those who visit that house as to be able to say who are and who are not strangers to the family? I am well acquainted with the faces of their friends, and Henry Clavering is not amongst the number, but were you ever with Mr. Leavenworth, I interrupted, when he has been away from home, in the country, for instance, or upon his travels?' "'No. But the negative came with some constraint. Yet I suppose he was in the habit of absenting himself from home?' "'Certainly.' "'Can you tell me where he was last July?' he and the ladies. "'Yes, sir. They went to R. The famous watering-place you know.' "'Ah! he cried, seeing a change in my face. Do you think he could have met them there?' I looked at him for a moment. Then, rising in my turn, stood level with him, and exclaimed, "'You are keeping something back, Mr. Harwell. You have more knowledge of this man than you have hithered to, given me to understand. What is it?' He seemed astonished at my penetration, but replied, "'I know no more of the man than I have already informed you, but—' And a burning flush crossed his face. If you are determined to pursue this matter.' And he paused with an inquiring look. "'I am resolved to find out all I can about Henry Clavering,' was my decided answer. Then said he, I can tell you this much. Henry Clavering wrote a letter to Mr. Leavenworth a few days before the murder, which I have some reason to believe produced a marked effect upon the household. And folding his arms, the secretaries stood quietly awaiting my next question. "'How do you know?' I asked. I opened it by mistake. I was in the habit of reading Mr. Leavenworth's business letters, and this, being from one unaccustomed to write to him, lacked the mark which usually distinguished those of a private nature. And you saw the name of Clavering? I did—Henry Richie Clavering. Did you read the letter? I was trembling now.' The secretary did not reply. "'Mr. Harwell,' I reiterated, this is no time for false delicacy. Did you read that letter? I did, but hastily, and with an agitated conscience.' "'You can, however, recall its general drift.' It was some complaint in regard to the treatment received by him at the hand of one of Mr. Leavenworth's nieces. I remember nothing more.' Which niece? There were no names mentioned. But you inferred. No, sir, that is just what I did not do. I forced myself to forget the whole thing. And yet you say it produced an effect upon the family? I can see now that it did. None of them have ever appeared quite the same as before. Mr. Harwell, I gravely continued. When you were questioned as to the receipt of any letter by Mr. Leavenworth, which might seem in any manner to be connected with this tragedy, you denied having seen any such. How is that? Mr.  Have a chivalrous regard for the ladies. Do you think you could have brought yourself, even if in your secret heart you considered some such result possible, which I am not ready to say I did? To mention, at such a time as that, the receipt of a letter complaining of the treatment received from one of Mr. Leavenworth's nieces, as a suspicious circumstance worthy to be taken into account by a coroner's jury?' I shook my head. I could not but acknowledge the impossibility. What reason had I for thinking that the letter was one of importance? I knew of no Henry Ritchie clattering. And yet you seemed to think it was. I remember you hesitated before replying. It is true, but not as I should hesitate now if the question were put to me again. Silence followed these words, during which I took two or three turns up and down the room. "'This is all very fanciful,' I remarked, laughing in the vain endeavour to throw off the superstitious horror his words had awakened. He bent his head in ascent. I know it,' said he. "'I am practical myself in broad daylight, and recognize the flimsiness of an accusation based upon a poor, hardworking secretary's dream, as plainly you do. This is the reason I desired to keep from speaking at all. But Mr. Raymond—and his long, thin hand—fell upon my arm, with a nervous intensity which gave me almost the sensation of an electric shock. If the murderer of Mr. Leavenworth is ever brought to confess his deed, mark my words, he will prove to be the man of my dream.' I drew a long breath. For a moment his belief was mine, and a mingled sense of relief and exquisite pain swept over me, as I thought of the possibility of Eleanor being exonerated from crime, only to be plunged into fresh humiliation and deeper abysses of suffering. He stalks the streets in freedom now, the secretary went on, as if to himself, even dares to enter the house he has so woefully desecrated. But justice is justice, and sooner or later something will transpire which will prove to you that a premonition so wonderful as that I receive had its significance, that the voice calling Truman Truman was something more than the empty utterances of an excited brain, that it was justice itself calling attention to the guilty. I looked at him in wonder. Did he know that the officers of justice were already upon the track of this same clavoring? I judged not from his look, but felt an inclination to make an effort and see. You speak with strange conviction, I said. But in all probability you are doomed to be disappointed. So far as we know Mr. Clavoring is a respectable man. He lifted his hat from the table. I do not propose to denounce him. I do not even propose to speak his name again. I'm not a fool, Mr. Raymond. I have spoken thus plainly to you, only in explanation of last night's most unfortunate betrayal. And while I trust you will regard what I have told you as confidential, I also hope you will give me credit for behaving on the whole as well as could be expected under the circumstances. Then he held out his hand. Certainly I replied as I took it. Then with a sudden impulse to test the accuracy of this story of his, inquired if he had any means of verifying his statement of having had this dream at the time spoken of—that is, before the murder and not afterwards. No, sir. I know myself that I had it the night previous to that of Mr. Leavenworth's death, but I cannot prove the fact. Did not speak of it next morning to any one? Oh, no, sir. I was scarcely in a position to do so. Yet it must have had a great effect upon you, unfitting you for work. Nothing unfits me for work was his bitter reply. I believe you, I returned, remembering his diligence for the last few days. But you must at least have shown some traces of having passed an uncomfortable night. Have you no recollection of anyone speaking to you in regard to your appearance the next morning? Mr. Leavenworth may have done so. But no one else would be likely to notice. There was sadness in the tone, and my own voice softened, as I said. I shall not be at the house to-night, Mr. Harwell, nor do I know when I shall return there. Personal considerations keep me from Miss Leavenworth's presence for a time, and I look to you to carry on the work we have undertaken without my assistance, unless you can bring it here. I can do that. I shall expect you then to tomorrow evening. Very well, sir. And he was going, when a sudden thought of curiosity in regard to this man. Would you object to telling me what you know of him? You believe him to be a respectable man. Are you acquainted with him, Mr. Raymond? I know his name and where he resides. And where is that? In London. He is an Englishman. Ah, he murmured, with a strange intonation. Why do you say that? He bit his lip, looked down, then up, finally fixed his eyes on mine, and returned with marked emphasis. I used an exclamation, sir, because I was startled. Startled? Yes. You say he is an Englishman. Mr. Leavenworth had the most bitter antagonism to the English. It was one of his marked peculiarities. He would never be introduced to one if he could help it. It was my turn to look thoughtful. You know, continued the Secretary, that Mr. Leavenworth was a man who carried his prejudices to the extreme. He had a hatred for the English race, amounting to mania. If he had known the letter I have mentioned was from an Englishman, I doubt if he would have read it. He used to say he would sooner see a daughter of his dead before him than married to an Englishman. I turned hastily aside to hide the effect which this announcement made upon me. You think I'm exaggerating, he said. Ask Mr. Veely. No, I replied. I have no reason for thinking so. He had doubtless some cause for hating the English with which we are unacquainted, pursued the Secretary. He spent some time in Liverpool when he was young, and had, of course, many opportunities for studying their manners and character. And the Secretary made another movement, as if to leave. But it was my turn to detain him now. Mr. Harwell, you must excuse me. You have been on familiar terms with Mr. Leavenworth for so long. Do you think that, in the case of one of his nieces, say, desiring to marry a gentleman of that nationality, his prejudice was sufficient to cause him to absolutely forbid the match? I do. I moved back. I had learned what I wished, and saw no further reason for prolonging the interview. XXII. Patchwork. Come, give us a taste of your quality. Hamlet. Starting with the assumption that Mr. Clavering, in his conversation of the morning, had been giving me, with more or less accuracy, a detailed account of his own experience and position regarding Eleanor Leavenworth, I asked myself what particular facts it would be necessary for me to establish in order to prove the truth of this assumption, and found them to be, one, that Mr. Clavering had not only been in this country at the time designated, but that he had been located for some little time at a watering-place in New York State, two, that this watering- place should correspond to the one in which Miss Eleanor Leavenworth was staying at the same time, three, that they had been seen while there to hold more or less communication, four, that they had both been absent from town at Lorn one time long enough to have gone through the ceremony of marriage at a point twenty miles or so away, five, that a Methodist clergyman who has since died lived at that time within a radius of twenty miles of said watering-place. I next asked myself how I was to establish these facts. Mr. Clavering's life was as yet too little known to me to offer me any assistance, so, leaving it for the present, I took up the thread of Eleanor's history, and found that at the time given me she had been in our, a fashionable watering-place in this state. Now, if his was true, and my theory correct, he must have been there also. To prove this fact became consequently my first business. I resolved to go to our on the morrow. But before proceeding in an undertaking of such importance I considered it expedient to make such inquiries and collect such facts as the few hours I had left to work in rendered possible. I went first to the house of Mr. Grice. I found him lying upon a hard sofa in the bare sitting-room I have before mentioned, suffering from a severe attack of rheumatism. His hands were done up in bandages, and his feet encased in multiplied folds of a dingy red shawl which looked as if it had been through the wars. Greeting me with a short nod that was both a welcome and an apology, he devoted a few words to an explanation of his unwanted position. And then, without further preliminaries, rushed into the subject which was uppermost in both our minds, by inquiring in a slightly sarcastic way, if I was very much surprised to find my bird flown when I returned to the Hoffman House that afternoon. I was astonished to find you allowed him to fly at this time, I replied. From the manner in which you requested me to make his acquaintance, I supposed you'd considered him to be an important character in the tragedy which has just been enacted. And what makes you think I don't?  That's no proof. I never fiddle with the brakes till the car starts downhill. But let that pass for the present. Mr. Clavering then did not explain himself before going? That is a question which I find it exceedingly difficult to answer. Hempered by circumstances I cannot at present speak with the directness which is your due. But what I can say I will. Know then that in my opinion Mr. Clavering did explain himself in an interview with me this morning, but it was done in so blind a way it will be necessary for me to make a few investigations before I shall feel sufficiently sure of my ground to take you into my confidence. He has given me a possible clue. Wait, said Mr. Grice, does he know this? Was it done intentionally and with sinister motive, or unconsciously, and in plain good faith? In good faith, I should say. Mr. Grice remained silent for a moment. It is very unfortunate you cannot explain yourself a little more definitely, he said at last. I am almost afraid to trust you to make investigations, as you call them, on your own hook. You are not used to the business and will lose time, to say nothing of running upon false sense and using up your strength on unprofitable details. You should have thought of that when you admitted me into the partnership. And you absolutely insist upon working this mine alone? Mr. Grice, the matter stands just here. Mr. Clavering, for all I know, is a gentleman of untarnished reputation. I am not even aware for what purpose you set me upon his trail. I only know that in thus following it I have come upon certain facts that seem worthy of further investigation. Well, well, you know best. But the days are slipping by. Something must be done, and soon the public are becoming clamorous. I know it, and for that reason I have come to you for such assistance as you can give me at this stage of the proceedings. You are in possession of certain facts relating to this man, which it concerns me to know, or your conduct in reference to him has been purposeless.  In short, tell me all you know of Mr. Clavering without requiring an immediate return of confidence on my part. That is asking a great deal of a professional detective. I know it, and under other circumstances I should hesitate long before preferring such a request. But as things are I don't see how I am to proceed in the matter without some such concession on your part. At all events—wait a moment—is not Mr. Clavering the lover of one of the young ladies? Anxious as I was to preserve the secret of my interest in that gentleman, I could not prevent the blush from rising to my face at the suddenness of this question. I thought as much, he went on. Being neither a relative nor an acknowledged friend, I took it for granted he must occupy some such position as that in the family. I do not see why you should draw such an inference, said I, anxious to determine how much he knew about him. Mr. Clavering is a stranger in town, has not even been in this country long, has indeed had no time to establish himself upon any such footing as you suggest. This is not the only time Mr. Clavering has been in New York. He was here a year ago to my certain knowledge. You know that? Yes. How much more do you know? Can it be possible I am groping blindly about for facts which are already in your possession? I pray you listen to my entreaties, Mr. Grice, and acquaint me at once with what I want to know. You will not regret it. I have no selfish motive in this matter. If I succeed, the glory shall be yours. If I fail, the shame of the defeat shall be mine. That is fair, he muttered, and how about the reward? My reward will be to free an innocent woman from the imputation of crime which hangs over her. This assurance seemed to satisfy him. His voice and appearance changed. For a moment he looked quite confidential. Well well, said he. And what is it you want to know? I should first like to know how your suspicions came to light on him at all. What reason had you for thinking a gentleman of his bearing in position was in any way connected with this affair? That is a question you ought not to be obliged to put," he returned. How so? Simply because the opportunity of answering it was in your hands before it ever came into mind. What do you mean? Don't you remember the letter mailed in your presence by Miss Mary Leavenworth during your drive from her home to that of her friend in 37th Street? On the afternoon of the inquest? Yes. Certainly, but you never thought to look at its superscription before it was dropped in the box. I had neither opportunity nor right to do so. Was it not written in your presence? It was. And you never regarded the affair as worth your attention? However I may have regarded it. I did not see how I could prevent Miss Leavenworth from dropping a letter into a box if she chose to do so.  Well, it has its disadvantages," he muttered broodingly. But you, said I, how came you to know anything about this letter? Ah, I see! Remembering that the carriage in which we were riding at the time had been procured for us by him. The man on the box was in your pay and informed, as you call it. Mr. Grice winked at his muffled toes mysteriously. That is not the point, he said. Enough that I heard that a letter which might reasonably prove to be of some interest to me had been dropped at such an hour into the box on the corner of a certain street. That, coinciding in the opinion with my informant, I telegraphed to the station, connected with that box, to take note of the address of a suspicious-looking letter about to pass through their hands on the way to the General Post Office, and following up the telegram in person, found that a curious epistle addressed in lead pencil and sealed with a stamp had just arrived, the address of which I was allowed to see. And which was? Henry R. Clavering, Hoffman House, New York. I drew a deep breath. And so that is how your attention first came to be directed to this man. Yes. Strange, but go on. What next? Why, next I followed up the clue by going to the Hoffman House and instituting engrits. I learned that Mr. Clavering was a regular guest of the hotel, that he'd come there direct from the Liverpool steamer about three months since, and registering his name as Henry R. Clavering Esquire London had engaged a first-class room which he had kept ever since. That, although nothing definite was known concerning him, he had been seen with various highly respectable people, both of his own nation and ours, by all of whom he was treated with respect. And lastly, that, while not liberal, he had given many evidences of being a man of means. So much done, I entered the office and waited for him to come in, in the hope of having an opportunity to observe his manner when the clerk handed him that strange-looking letter from Mary Leavenworth. And did you succeed? No, an awkward gawk of a fellow stepped between us at just the critical moment and shut off my view. But I heard enough that evening from the clerk and servants of the agitation he had shown on receiving it to convince me I was upon a trail worth following. I accordingly put on my men, and for two days Mr. Clavering was subjected to the most rigid watch a man ever walked under. But nothing was gained by it. His interest in the murder, if interest at all, was a secret one, and though he walked the streets, studied the papers, and haunted the vicinity of the house in Fifth Avenue, he not only refrained from actually approaching it, but made no attempt to communicate with any of the family. Meanwhile, you crossed my path, and with your determination incited me to renewed effort, convinced from Mr. Clavering's bearing and the gossip I had by this time gathered in regard to him, that no one short of a gentleman and a friend could succeed at getting the clue of his connection with this family. I handed him over to you, and found me a rather unmanageable colleague. Mr. Grice smiled very much as if a sour plum had been put into his mouth, but made no reply, and a momentary pause ensued. Did you think to inquire, I asked at last, if anyone knew where Mr. Clavering had spent the evening of the murder? Yes, but with no good result. It was agreed he went out during the evening, also that he was in his bed in the morning when the servant came in to make his fire, but further than this no one seems posted. So that in fact you gleaned nothing that would in any way connect this man with the murder, except his marked and agitated interest in it, and the fact that a niece of the murdered man had written a letter to him. That is all. Another question. Did you hear in what manner and at what time he had procured a newspaper that evening? No, I only learned that he was observed, by more than one, to hasten out of the dining-room with the post in his hand, and to go immediately to his room without touching his dinner. Humpf! That does not look. If Mr. Clavering had had a guilty knowledge of the crime, he would either have ordered dinner before opening the paper, or having ordered it he would have eaten it. Then you do not believe from what you have learned that Mr. Clavering is the guilty party? Mr. Grice shifted uneasily, glanced at the papers protruding from my coat pocket, and exclaimed, I am ready to be convinced by you that he is. That sentence recalled me to the business at hand. Without appearing to notice his look, I recurred to my questions. How came you to know that Mr. Clavering was in this city last summer? Did you learn that to at the Hoffman House? No, I ascertained that in quite another way. In short, I have had a communication from London in regard to the matter. From London? Yes, I have a friend there in my own line of business who sometimes assists me with a bit of information when requested. But how? You have not had time to write to London, and receive an answer since the murder. It is not necessary to write. It is enough for me to telegraph him the name of a person, for him to understand that I want to know everything he can gather in a reasonable length of time about that person. And you sent the name of Mr. Clavering to him? Yes, in Cypher. And have received a reply? This morning. I looked towards his desk. It is not there, he said. If you will be kind enough to feel in my breast-pocket you will find a letter. It was in my hand before he finished his sentence. Excuse my eagerness, I said. This kind of business is new to me, you know. He smiled indulgently at a very old and faded picture hanging on the wall before him. Eagerness is not a fault, only the betrayal of it. But read out what you have there. Let us hear what my friend Brown has to tell us of Mr. Henry Ritchie Clavering, of Portland Place, London. I took the paper to the light, and read as follows. Henry Ritchie Clavering, gentleman, aged forty-three. Born in Hartfordshire, England, his father was Charles Clavering, for a short time in the army. Mother was Helen Ritchie of Dumfershire, Scotland. She is still living. Home with HRC in Portland Place, London. HRC is a bachelor, six feet high, squarely built, weight about twelve stone, dark complexion, regular features, eyes dark brown, no straight, called a handsome man, walks erect and rapidly. In society is considered a good fellow, rather a favourite, especially with the ladies. Is liberal, not extravagant, reported to be worth about five thousand pounds per year, and appearances give colour to this statement. Property consists of a small estate in Hartfordshire, and some funds, amount not known. Since writing this much a correspondent sends the following in regard to his history. In forty-six went from Uncle's house to Eaton. From Eaton went to Oxford, graduating in fifty-six. Scholarship good. In eighteen fifty-five his uncle died, and his father succeeded to the estates. Father died in fifty-seven by a fall from his horse, or a similar accident. Within a very short time HRC took his mother to London, to the residence named where they have lived to the present time. Old considerably in eighteen-sixty. Part of the time was with Blank of Munich. Also in party of Vandervoorts from New York. Went as far east as Cairo. Went to America in eighteen-seventy-five alone, but at end of three months returned on account of mother's illness. Nothing is known of his movements while in America. From servants learned that he was always a favourite from a boy. More recently has become somewhat taciturn. Toward last of his stay watched the post carefully, especially foreign ones. Posted scarcely anything but newspapers. Has written to Munich. Have seen from waist-paste per basket torn envelope directed to Amy Belden no address. American correspondence mostly in Boston, two in New York, names not known, but supposed to be bankers. Brought home considerable luggage, and fitted up part of house as for a lady. This was closed soon afterwards. Left for America two months since. As been I understand travelling in the south. Has telegraphed twice to Portland Place. His friends hear from him but rarely. Letters received recently posted in New York. One by last steamer posted in FKY. Business here conducted by Blank. In the country, blank of Blank has charge of the property. Brown. The document fell from my hands. F. New York. Was a small town near R. Your friend is a Trump, I declared. He tells me just what I most wanted to know. And taking out my book, I made memoranda of the facts which had most forcibly struck me during my perusal of the communication before me. With the aid of what he tells me I shall ferret out the mystery of Henry Clavering in a week, see if I do not. And how soon, inquired Mr. Christ, may I expect to be allowed to take a hand in the game. As soon as I'm reasonably assured I am upon the right tack. And what will it take to assure you of that? Not much. A certain point settled, and—hold on, who knows but what I can do that for you? And looking toward the desk which stood in the corner, Mr. Christ asked if I would be kind enough to open the top drawer and bring him the bits of partly burned paper I would find there. Hastily complying, I brought three or four strips of ragged paper and laid them on the table at his side. Another result of Fobbs's research is under the coal on the first day of the inquest. Mr. Christ abruptly explained. You thought the key was all he found? Well, it wasn't. A second turning over of the coal brought these to light, and very interesting they are, too. I immediately bent over the torn and discoloured scraps with great anxiety. There were four in number, and appeared at first glance to be the mere remnants of a sheet of common writing-paper torn lengthwise into strips, and twisted up into lighters. But upon closer inspection they showed traces of writing upon one side, and what was more important still, the presence of one or more drops of spattered blood. This latter discovery was horrible to me, and so overcame me for the moment that I put the scraps down and turning toward Mr. Christ inquired, What do you make of them? That is just the question I was going to put to you. Swallowing my disgust I took them up again. They looked like the remnants of some old letter, I said. They had that appearance, Mr. Christ grimly assented. A letter which, from the drop of blood observable on the written side, must have been lying face up on Mr. Leavenworth's table at the time of the murder. Just so. And from the uniformity and width of each of these pieces, as well as their tendency to curl up when left alone, must first have been torn into even strips, and then severally rolled up before being tossed into the grate where they were afterwards found. That is all good, said Mr. Christ. Go on. The writing, so far as discernible, is that of a cultivated gentleman. It is not that of Mr. Leavenworth, for I have studied his chirography too much lately, not to know it at a glance. But it may be— Hold! I suddenly exclaimed. Have you any mucilage handy? I think if I could paste these strips down upon a piece of paper so that they would remain flat, I should be able to tell you what I think of them much more easily. There is mucilage on the desk, signified Mr. Grice. Procuring it, I proceeded to consult the scraps once more for evidence to guide me in their arrangement. These were more marked than I expected. The longer and best preserved strip, with its Mr. Hoar at the top, showed itself at first blush to be the left-hand margin of the letter, while the machine-cut edge of the next, in length, presented tokens fully as conclusive of its being the right-hand margin of the same. Selecting these then I pasted them down on a piece of paper at just the distance they would occupy if the sheet from which they were torn was of the ordinary commercial note size. Immediately it became apparent, first, that it would take two other strips of the same width to fill up the space left between them, and secondly, that the writing did not terminate at the foot of the sheet, but was carried on to another page. Taking up the third strip I looked at its edge. It was machine-cut at the top, and showed by the arrangement of its words that it was the margin strip of a second leaf. Pasting that down by itself I scrutinized the fourth, and finding it also machine-cut at the top, but not at the side, endeavored to fit it to the piece already pasted down, but the words would not match. Moving it along to the position it would hold if it were the third strip, I fastened it down, the hole presenting when completed the appearance seen on the opposite page. Well said Mr. Grice, that's business! Then as I held it up before his eyes, but don't show it to me, study it yourself, and tell me what you think of it. Well, said I, this much is certain that it is a letter directed to Mr. Leavenworth from some house, and dated—let's see, that is an H, isn't it?—and I pointed to the one letter just discernible on the line under the word house. I should think so, but don't ask me. It must be an H. The year is 1875, and this is not the termination of either January or February. Dated then, March 1st, 1875, and signed, Mr. Grice rolled his eyes in anticipatory ecstasy toward the ceiling. By Mr. Henry Clavering, I announced, without hesitation. Mr. Grice's eyes returned to his swathed finger ends. Humpf! How do you know that? Wait a moment, and I'll show you. And taking out of my pocket the card which Mr. Clavering had handed me as an introduction at our late interview, I laid it underneath the last line of writing on the second page. One glance was sufficient. Henry Ritchie Clavering on the card. H—C-H-I-E—in the same handwriting on the letter. Clavering it is, said he, without a doubt. But I saw he was not surprised. And now I continued, for its general tenor and meaning. And commencing at the beginning, I read aloud the words as they came with pauses at the breaks. Something as follows. Mr. Hoare, dear, a niece whom you, one to who sees, the love and trust, any other man can, beautiful, so care, she and face for, conversation, every rose has its, rose is no exception. Really as she is, care tender as she is, capable of trampling, one who trusted heart, him too, he owes, an honour, if believe, her too, cruel face, what is, honourable service, yours, H. Ritchie. It reads like a complaint against one of Mr. Leavenworth's nieces, I said, and started at my own words. What is it? cried Mr. Greiss. What's the matter? Why, said I, the fact is that I have heard this very letter spoken of. It is a complaint against one of Mr. Leavenworth's nieces, and was written by Mr. Clavering. And I told him of Mr. Harwell's communication in regard to the matter. Ah! Then Mr. Harwell has been talking, has he? I thought he had foresworn gossip. Mr. Harwell and I have seen each other almost daily for the last two weeks, I replied. It would be strange if he had nothing to tell me. And he says he has read a letter written to Mr. Leavenworth by Mr. Clavering? Yes, the particular words of which he has now forgotten. These few here may assist him in recalling the rest. I would rather not admit him to a knowledge of the existence of this piece of evidence. I don't believe in letting anyone into our confidence whom we can conscientiously keep out. I see you don't, Drilly responded, Mr. Greiss. Not appearing to notice the fling conveyed by these words, I took up the letter once more, and began pointing out such half-formed words in it as I thought we might venture to complete, as the whore, yo, si, udiful, har, for, trampolin, pebble, serve. This done I next proposed the introduction of such others as seemed necessary to the sense, as Leavenworth after Horatio, sir after dear, have, with a possible you before a niece, born after us in the phrase rose has its, on after trampoline, whom after to, debt after a, you after if, ask me after believe, beautiful after cruel. Between the columns of words thus furnished I interposed a phrase or two here and there, the whole reading upon its completion as follows. Mr. Horatio Leavenworth, dear sir, you have a niece whom you, one, two, who seems worthy the love and trust of any other man, ca, so beautiful, so charming is she in face, form, and conversation. But every rose has its thorn, and this rose is no exception, lovely as she is, charming as she is, tender as she is, she is capable of trampling on one who trusted her heart, him to whom she owes a debt of honour a, aunts. If you don't believe me, ask her to her cruel, beautiful face, what is? Her humble servant, yours, Henry Richie Clavering. I think that will do, said Mr. Grice. Its general tenor is evident, and that is all we want at this time. The whole tone of it is anything but complementary to the lady at mentions, I remarked. He must have had, or imagined, he had, some desperate grievance to provoke him to the use of such plain language in regard to one whom he can still characterise as tender, charming, and beautiful. Grievances are apt to lie back of mysterious crimes. I think I know what this one was, I said. But, seeing him look up, must decline to communicate my suspicion to you for the present. My theory stands unshaken, and in some degree confirmed, and that is all I can say. Then this letter does not supply the link you wanted? No. It is a valuable piece of evidence, but it is not the link I am in search of just now. Yet it must be an important clue, or Eleanor Leavenworth would not have been to such pains, first to take it in the way she did from her uncle's table, and secondly—wait, what makes you think this is the paper she took, or was believed to have taken from Mr. Leavenworth's table on that fatal morning? Why, the fact that it was found together with the key which we know she dropped into the grate, and that there are drops of blood on it? I shook my head. Why do you shake your head? asked Mr. Grice. Because I am not satisfied with your reason for believing this to be the paper taken by her from Mr. Leavenworth's table. And why? Well, first, because Fobbs did not speak of seeing any paper in her hand when she bent over the fire, leaving us to conclude that these pieces were in the scuttle of coal she threw upon it, which surely you must acknowledge to be a strange place for her to have put a paper she took such pains to gain possession of, and secondly for the reason that these scraps are twisted as if they had been used for curl-papers or something of that kind, a fact hard to explain by your hypothesis. The detective's eye stole in the direction of my necktie, which was as near as he ever came to a face.  A very bright one. I quite admire you, Mr. Raymond. A little surprised, and not altogether pleased with this unexpected compliment, I regarded him doubtfully for a moment and then asked, What is your opinion on the matter? Oh, you know I have no opinion. I gave up everything of that kind when I put the affair into your hands. Still! That the letter of which these scraps are the remnant was upon Mr. Leavenworth's table at the time of the murder is believed—that upon the body being removed a paper was taken from the table by Miss Eleanor Leavenworth is also believed—that when she found her action had been noticed, and attention called to this paper and the key, she resorted to subterfuge in order to escape the vigilance of the watch that had been set over her, and partially succeeding in her endeavour, flung the key into the fire from which these same scraps were afterwards recovered is also known. The conclusion I leave to your judgment. Very well, then, said I, rising. We will let conclusions go for the present. My mind must be satisfied in regard to the truth or falsity of a certain theory of mine, for my judgment to be worth much on this or any other matter connected with the affair. And only waiting to get the address of his subordinate, P., in case I should need assistance in my investigations, I left Mr. Grice, and proceeded immediately to the house of Mr. Velie. CHAPTER 23 THE STORY OF A CHARMING You have never heard, then, the particulars of Mr. Leavenworth's marriage. It was my partner who spoke. I had been asking him to explain to me Mr. Leavenworth's well-known antipathy to the English race. No. If you had, you would not need to come to me for this explanation. But it is not strange you are ignorant of the matter. I doubt if there are half a dozen persons in existence who could tell you where Horatio Leavenworth found the lovely woman who afterwards became his wife, much less give you any details of the circumstances which led to his marriage. I am very fortunate, then, in being in the confidence of one who can. What were those circumstances, Mr. Velie? It will aid you but little to hear. Horatio Leavenworth, when a young man, was very ambitious, so much so that at one time he aspired to marry a wealthy lady of Providence. But, chanceing to go to England, he met there a young woman whose grace and charm had such an effect upon him that he relinquished all thought of the Providence lady, though it was some time before he could face the prospect of marrying the one who had so greatly interested him, as she was not only in humble circumstances, but was encumbered with a child concerning whose parentage the neighbors professed ignorance, and she had nothing to say. But, as is very apt to be the case in an affair like this, love and admiration soon got the better of worldly wisdom. Taking his future in his hands he offered himself as her husband, when she immediately proved herself worthy of his regard by entering at once into those explanations he was too much of a gentleman to demand. The story she told was pitiful. She proved to be an American by birth, her father having been a well-known merchant of Chicago. While he lived her home was one of luxury, but just as she was emerging into womanhood he died. It was at his funeral she met the man destined to be her ruin. How he came there she never knew. He was not a friend of her father's. It is enough that he was there, and saw her, and that in three weeks, don't shudder, she was such a child. They were married. In twenty-four hours she knew what that word meant for her. It meant blows. Everett, I'm telling no fanciful story. In twenty-four hours after that girl was married her husband, coming drunk into the house, found her in his way and knocked her down. It was but the beginning. Her father's estate on being settled out proved to be less than he expected. He carried her off to England where he did not wait to be drunk in order to maltreat her. She was not free from his cruelty night or day. Before she was sixteen she had run the whole gamut of human suffering, and that not at the hands of a coarse common ruffian, but from an elegant, handsome, luxury-loving gentleman whose taste in dress was so nice he would sooner fling a garment of hers into the fire than see her go into company clad in a manner he did not consider becoming. She bore it until her child was born. Then she fled. Two days after the little one saw the light she rose from her bed, and taking her baby in her arms ran out of the house. The few jewels she had put into her pocket supported her till she could set up a little shop. As for her husband she neither saw him, nor heard from him from the day she left him, till about two weeks before Horatio Leavenworth first met her, when she learned from the papers that he was dead. She was therefore free. But though she loved Horatio Leavenworth with all her heart, she would not marry him. She felt herself forever stained and soiled by the one awful year of abuse and contamination. Nor could he persuade her. Not until the death of her child, a month or so after his proposal, did she consent to give him her hand and what remained of her unhappy life. He brought her to New York, surrounded her with luxury and every tender care. But the arrow had gone too deep. Two years from the day her child breathed its last, she too died. It was the blow of his life to Horatio Leavenworth. He was never the same man again. Though Mary and Eleanor shortly after entered his home he never recovered to his old light-heartedness, money became his idol. And the ambition to make and leave a great fortune behind him modified all his views of life. But one proof remained that he never forgot the wife of his youth, and that was he could not bear to have the word Englishman uttered in his hearing. Mr. Veely paused, and I rose to go. Do you remember how Mrs. Leavenworth looked, I asked? Could you describe her to me? He seemed a little astonished at my request, but immediately replied, She was a very pale woman, not strictly beautiful, but of a contour and expression of great charm. Her hair was brown, her eyes grey, and very wide apart. He nodded, looking still more astonished. How came you to know? Have you seen her picture? I did not answer that question. On my way downstairs I bethought me of a letter which I had in my pocket for Mr. Veely's son Fred, and knowing of no sure way of getting it to him that night, then by leaving it on the library table, I stepped to the door of that room which in this house was at the rear of the parlours, and receiving no reply to my knock, opened it, and looked in. The room was unlighted, but a cheerful fire was burning in the grate, and by its glow I aspired a lady crouching on the hearth, whom at first glance I took for Mrs. Veely. But upon advancing, and addressing her by that name, I saw my mistake, for the person before me not only refrained from replying, but rising at the sound of my voice revealed a form of such noble proportions that all possibility of its being that of the dainty little wife of my partner fled. I see I have made a mistake, said I, I beg your pardon, and would have left the room, but something in the general attitude of the lady before me restrained me, and believing it to be Mary Leavenworth, I inquired, Can this be Miss Leavenworth? The noble figure appeared to droop, the gently lifted head to fall, and for a moment I doubted if I had been correct in my supposition. Then Foreman had slowly erected themselves, a soft voice spoke, and I heard a low, yes, and hurriedly advancing, confronted, not Mary, with her glancing feverish gaze and scarlet trembling lips, but Eleanor, the woman whose faintest look had moved me from the first, the woman whose husband I believed myself to be even then pursuing to his doom. The surprise was too great. I could neither sustain nor conceal it. Stumbling slowly back, I murmured something about having believed it to be her cousin, and then, conscious only of the one wish to fly a presence I dared not encounter in my present mood, turned, when her rich, heartful voice rose once more, and I heard, You will not leave me without a word, Mr. Raymond, now that chance has thrown us together. Then as I came slowly forward, were you so very much astonished to find me here? I did not know. I did not expect, was my incoherent reply. I had heard you were ill, that you went nowhere, that you had no wish to see your friends. I have been ill, she said, but I am better now, and have come to spend the night with Mrs. Veely, because I could not endure the stare of the four walls of my room any longer. This was said without any effort at plaintiveness, but rather as if she thought it necessary to excuse herself for being where she was. I'm glad you did so, said I.  That dreary, lonesome boarding-house is no place for you, Miss Leavenworth. It distresses us all to feel that you are exiling yourself at this time. I do not wish anybody to be distressed, she returned. It is best for me to be where I am, nor am I altogether alone.  She will keep me from despair. Do not let my friends be anxious, I can bear it. Then in a lower tone. There is but one thing which really unnerves me, and that is my ignorance of what is going on at home. Sorrow I can bear, but suspense is killing me. Will you not tell me something of Mary and home? I cannot ask Mrs. Veely. She is kind, but has no real knowledge of Mary or me, nor does she know anything of our estrangement. She thinks me obstinate, and blames me for leaving my cousin in her trouble. But you know I could not help it. You know—her voice wavered off into a tremble, and she did not conclude. I cannot tell you much, I hasten to reply. But whatever knowledge is at my command is certainly yours. Is there anything in particular you wish to know? Yes, how Mary is, whether she's well and—and composed. Your cousin's health is good, I returned, but I fear I cannot say she is composed. She's greatly troubled about you. You see her often, then? I am assisting Mr. Harwell in preparing your uncle's book for the press, and necessarily am there much of the time. My uncle's book? The words came in a tone of low horror. Yes, Miss Leavenworth, it has been thought best to bring it before the world, and—and Mary has set you at the task? Yes. It seemed as if she could not escape from the horror which this caused. How could she? Oh, how could she? She considers herself as fulfilling her uncle's wishes. He was very anxious, as you know, to have the book out by July. Do not speak of it, she broke in. I cannot bear it. Then, as if she feared she had hurt my feelings by her abruptness, lowered her voice and said, I do not, however, know of any one I should be better pleased to have charged with the task than yourself. With you it will be a work of respect and reverence, but a stranger. Oh, I could not have endured a stranger touching it. She was fast falling into her old horror, but rousing herself murmured, I wanted to ask you something. Oh, I know! And she moved so as to face me. I wish to inquire if everything is as before in the house. The servants the same, and—and other things. There is a Mrs. Darrell there. I do not know of any other change. Mary does not talk of going away. I think not. But she has visitors—someone besides Mrs. Darrell—to help her bear her loneliness. I knew what was coming, and strove to preserve my composure. Yes, I replied, a few. Would you mind naming them? How low her tones were, but how distinct. Certainly not, Mrs. Veely, Mrs. Gilbert, Mrs. Martin, and, uh—uh—go on, she whispered. A gentleman by the name of Clevering. You speak that name with evident embarrassment, she said, after a moment of intense anxiety on my part. May I inquire why? Astounded, I raised my eyes to her face. It was very pale, and wore the old look of self-repressed calm I remembered so well. I immediately dropped my gaze. Why? Because there are some circumstances surrounding him which have struck me as peculiar. How so, she asked? He appears under two names. Today it is Clevering, a short time ago it was—go on—Robbins. Her dress rustled on the hearth. There was a sound of desolation in it, but her voice, when she spoke, was expressionless as that of an automaton. How many times has this person, of whose name you do not appear to be certain, been to see Mary? Once. When was it? Last night. Did he stay long? About twenty minutes, I should say. And do you think he will come again? No. Why? He's left the country. A short silence followed this. I felt her eyes searching my face, but doubt whether, if I had known she held a loaded pistol I could have looked up at that moment. Mr. Raymond, she at length observed, in a changed tone.  I did not wish you to do so then, nor do I wish you to do so now. Can you not make me comparatively happy then by assuring me you have abandoned, or will abandon, a project so hopeless? It is impossible, I replied with emphasis. I cannot abandon it. Much as I grieve to be a source of sorrow to you, it is best you should know that I can never give up the hope of writing you while I live. She put out her hand in a sort of hopeless appeal inexpressibly touching to behold in the fast waning firelight. But I was relentless. I should never be able to face the world or my own conscience if, through any weakness of my own, I should miss the blessed privilege of setting the wrong right and saving a noble woman from unmerited disgrace. And then, seeing she was not likely to reply to this, drew a step nearer and said, Is there not some little kindness I can show you, Miss As there no message you would like taken or act it would give you pleasure to see performed. She stopped to think. No, since she, I have only one request to make in that you refuse to grant. For the most unselfish of reasons I urged.  You think so. Then, before I could reply, I could desire one little favour shown me, however. What is that? But if anything should transpire, if Hannah should be found or my presence required in any other way, you will not keep me in ignorance, that you will let me know the worst when it comes without fail. I will. And now, good night, Mrs. Velie is coming back and you would scarcely wish to be found here by her. No, I said. And yet I did not go, but stood watching the firelight flicker on her black dress till the thought of clattering and the duty I had for the morrow struck coldly to my heart and I turned away towards the door. But at the threshold I paused again and looked back. Oh, the flickering, dying fire flame! Oh, the crowding, clustering shadows! Oh, that drooping figure in their midst with its clasped hands and hidden face! I see it all again. I see it as in a dream. Then darkness falls and in the glare of gaslighted streets I am hastening along, solitary and sad, to my lonely home.