CHAPTER 36 GATHERED THREDS This is the long and the short of it. PROMPTLY, AT THE HOUR NAMED, I MADE MY APPEARANCE AT MR. GRISE'S DOOR. I FOUND HIM AWATING ME ON THE THRESHELD.  I AM TO DO THE TALKING, YOU THE LISTENING. NEITHER ARE YOU TO BE SURPRISED AT ANYTHING I MAY DO OR SAY. I AM IN A FACETIOUS MOOD." He did not look so. And may take it into my head to address you by another name in your own. If I do, don't mind it. Above all, don't talk. Remember that. And without waiting to meet my look of doubtful astonishment, he led me softly upstairs. The room in which I had been accustomed to meet him was at the top of the first flight, but he took me past that, into what appeared to be the Garrett's story, where after many cautionary signs he ushered me into a room of singularly strange and unpromising appearance. In the first place it was darkly gloomy, being lighted simply by a very dim and dirty skylight. Next it was hideously empty, a pine-table and two hard-backed chairs set face to face at each end of it being the only articles in the room. Lastly, it was surrounded by several closed doors with blurred and ghostly ventilators over their tops which, being round, looked like the blank eyes of a row of staring mummies. All together it was a lugubrious spot, and in the present state of my mind made me feel as if something unearthly and threatening lay crouched in the very atmosphere. Nor sitting fair cold and desolate could I imagine that the sunshine glowed without or that life, beauty, and pleasure paraded the streets below. Mr. Grice's expression, as he took a seat and beckoned me to do the same, may have had something to do with this strange sensation. It was so mysteriously and somberly expectant. "'You'll not mind the room,' said he, in so muffled a tone I scarcely heard him. It's an awful lonesome spot, I know, but folks with such matters before them mustn't be too particular as to the places in which they hold their consultations, if they don't want all the world to know as much as they do. Smith. And he gave me an admonitory shake of his finger while his voice took a more distinct tone. I have done the business. The reward is mine. The assassin of Mr. Leavenworth is found, and in two hours will be in custody. Do you want to know who it is? Leaning forward with every appearance of eagerness in tone and expression. I stared at him in great amazement. Had anything new come to light? Any great change taken place in his conclusions? All this preparation could not be for the purpose of acquainting me with what I already knew, yet he cut short my conjectures with a low expressive chuckle. It was a long chase, I tell you. Raising his voice still more, a tight go, a woman in the business, too, but all the women in the world can't pull the wool over the eyes of Ebenezer Grice when he is on a trail, and the assassin of Mr. Leavenworth and—here his voice became actually shrill in his excitement, and of Hanna Chester is found. Hush! he went on, though I had neither spoken nor made any move. You didn't know Hanna Chester was murdered. Well, she wasn't, in one sense of the word, but in another she was, and by the same hand that killed the old gentleman. How do I know this? Look here! This scrap of paper was found on the floor of her room. It had a few particles of white powder sticking to it. Those particles were tested last night, and found to be poison. But you say the girl took it herself that she was a suicide. You are right. She did take it herself, and it was a suicide. But who terrified her into this act of self-destruction? Why the one who had the most reason to fear her testimony, of course? But the proof, you say? Well, sir, this girl left a confession behind her, throwing the onus of the whole crime on a certain party believed to be innocent. This confession was a forged one, known from three facts—first, that the paper upon which it was written was unobtainable by the girl in the place where she was, secondly, that the words used therein were printed in coarse, awkward characters, whereas Hanna, thanks to the teaching of the woman under whose care she had been since the murder, had learned to write very well, thirdly, that the story told in the confession does not agree with the one related by the girl herself. Now, the fact of a forged confession throwing the guilt upon an innocent party having been found in the keeping of this ignorant girl, killed by a dose of poison, taken with the fact here stated that on the morning of the day on which she killed herself, the girl received from someone manifestly acquainted with the customs of the Leavenworth family a letter large enough and thick enough to contain the confession folded as it was when found, makes it almost certain to my mind that the murderer of Mr. Leavenworth sent this powder and this so-called confession to the girl, meaning her to use them precisely as she did, for the purpose of throwing off suspicion from the right track and of destroying herself at the same time, for, as you know, dead men tell no tales. He paused and looked at the dingy skylight above us. Why did the air seem to grow heavier and heavier? Why did I shudder in vague apprehension? I knew all this before. Why did it strike me then as something new? But who was this, you ask? Ah, that is the secret. That is the bit of knowledge which is to bring me fame and fortune. But secret or not I don't mind telling you. Lowering his voice and rapidly raising it again. The fact is I can't keep it to myself. It burns like a new dollar in my pocket. Smith, my boy, the murderer of Mr. Leavenworth. But, State, who does the world say it is? Whom do the papers point at and shake their heads over? A woman. A young, beautiful, bewitching woman. Ha! The papers are right. It is a woman. Young, beautiful, and bewitching, too. But what one? Ah, that's the question. There is more than one woman in this affair. Since Hannah's death I have heard it openly advance that she was a guilty party in the crime. Bah! Others cry. It is the niece who was so unequally dealt with by her uncle in his will. Bah again! But folks are not without some justification for this latter assertion. Eleanor Leavenworth did know more of this matter than appeared. Worse than that, Eleanor Leavenworth stands in a position of positive peril today. If you don't think so, let me show you what the detectives have against her. First, there is the fact that a handkerchief, with her name on it, was found stained with pistol grease upon the scene of the murder, a place which she explicitly denies having entered for twenty-four hours previous to the discovery of the dead body. Secondly, the fact that she not only evinced terror when confronted with this bit of circumstantial evidence, but manifested a decided disposition both at this time and others to mislead inquiry, shirking a direct answer to some questions and refusing all answer to others. Thirdly, that an attempt was made by her to destroy a certain letter evidently relating to this crime. Fourthly, that the key to the library door was seen in her possession. All this, taken with the fact that the fragments of the letter which this same lady attempted to destroy within an hour after the inquest were afterwards put together and were found to contain a bitter denunciation of one of Mr. Leavenworth's nieces by a gentleman we will call X, in other words, an unknown quantity, makes out a dark case against you, especially as after investigations revealed the fact that a secret underly the history of the Leavenworth family. That unknown to the world at large, and Mr. Leavenworth in particular, a marriage ceremony had been performed a year before in a little town called F between a Miss Leavenworth and the same X. That in other words, the unknown gentleman who in this letter, partly destroyed by Miss Eleanor Leavenworth, complained to Mr. Leavenworth of the treatment received by him from one of his nieces, was in fact the secret husband of that niece, and that more over this same gentleman under an assumed name called on the night of the murder at the house of Mr. Leavenworth and asked for Miss Eleanor. Now you see, with all this against her Eleanor Leavenworth is lost, if it cannot be proved, first that the articles testifying against her bedellicied the handkerchief letter and key passed after the murder, through other hands before reaching hers, and secondly that someone else had an even stronger reason than she for desiring Mr. Leavenworth's death at this time. Smith, my boy, both of these hypotheses have been established by me. By dint of mulling into old secrets and following unpromising clues I have finally come to the conclusion that not Eleanor Leavenworth, dark as are the appearances against her, but another woman, beautiful as she, and fully as interesting is the true criminal, in short that her cousin, the exquisite Mary, is the murderer of Mr. Leavenworth, and by inference of Hannah Chester also. He brought this out with such force, and with such a look of triumph and appearance of having led up to it, that I was for the moment dumb found it, and started as if I had not known what he was going to say. The stir I made seemed to awake an echo. Something like a suppressed cry was in the air about me. All the rooms seemed to breathe horror and dismay. Yet, when in the excitement of this fancy I half turned round to look, I found nothing but the blank eyes of those dull ventilators staring upon me. You're taken aback, Mr. Grice went on. I don't wonder. Everyone else is engaged in watching the movements of Eleanor Leavenworth. I know where to put my hands upon the real culprit.  Another fiction. You don't believe me. Think I am deceived. Ha! Ebenezer Grice deceived after a month of hard work. You were as bad as Miss Leavenworth herself, who has so little faith in my sagacity that she offered me of all men an enormous reward if I would find for her the assassin of her uncle. But that is neither here nor there. You have your doubts, and you are waiting for me to solve them. Nothing is easier. No, first, that on the morning of the inquest I made one or two discoveries not to be found in the records. Videlisit. That the handkerchief picked up, as I have said in Mr. Leavenworth's library, had not withstanding its stains of pistol grease, a decided perfume lingering about it. Going to the dressing-table of the two ladies, I sought for that perfume, and found it in Mary's room, not Eleanor's. This led me to examine the pockets of the dresses respectively worn by them the evening before. In that of Eleanor I found a handkerchief, presumably the one she had carried at that time, but in Mary's there was none, nor did I see any lying about her room as if tossed down on her retiring. The conclusion I drew from this was that she, and not Eleanor, had carried the handkerchief into her uncle's room, a conclusion emphasized by the fact privately communicated to me by one of the servants that Mary was in Eleanor's room when the basket of clean clothes was brought up with this handkerchief lying on top. But knowing the liability we are to mistake in such matters as these I made another search in the library, and came across a very curious thing. Lying on the table was a pen-knife, and scattered on the floor beneath in close proximity to the chair were two or three minute portions of wood freshly chipped off from the leg of the table, all of which looked as if someone of a nervous disposition had been sitting there, whose hand in a moment of self-forgetfulness had caught up the knife and unconsciously whittled the table. A little thing you may say, but when the question is which of the two ladies, one of a calm and self-possessed nature the other restless in her ways and excitable in her disposition was in a certain spot at a certain time, it is these little things that become almost deadly in their significance. No one who has been with these two women an hour can hesitate as to whose delicate hand made that cut in Mr. Leavenworth's library table. But we're not done. I distinctly overheard Eleanor accuse her cousin of this deed. Now, such a woman as Eleanor Leavenworth has proved herself to be never would accuse a relative of a crime without the strongest and most substantial reasons. First, she must have been sure her cousin stood in a position of such emergency that nothing but the death of her uncle could release her from it. Secondly, that her cousin's character was of such a nature she would not hesitate to relieve herself from a desperate emergency by the most desperate of means. And lastly, being in possession of some circumstantial evidence against her cousin, seriously corroborative of her suspicions. Smith, all this was true of Eleanor Leavenworth. As to the character of her cousin, she has had ample proof of her ambition, love of money, caprice, and deceit, it having been Mary Leavenworth and not Eleanor, as was first supposed, who had contracted the secret marriage already spoken of. Of the critical position in which she stood, let the thread once made by Mr. Leavenworth to substitute her cousin's name for hers in his will in case she married this ex be remembered, as well as the tenacity with which Mary clung to her hopes of future fortune, while for the corroborative testimony of her guilt which Eleanor is supposed to have had, remember that, previous to the key having been found in Eleanor's possession, she had spent some time in her cousin's room, and that it was at Mary's fireplace the half-burned fragments of that letter were found, and you have the outline of a report which in an hour's time from this will lead to the arrest of Mary Leavenworth as the assassin of her uncle and benefactor. A silence ensued which, like the darkness of Egypt could be felt, then a great and terrible cry rang through the room and a man's form rushing from I knew not where shot by me and fell at Mr. Grice's feet, shrieking out, it is a lie, a lie! Mary Leavenworth is as innocent as a babe unborn. I am the murderer of Mr. Leavenworth. I, I— It was Truman Harwell. End of Chapter 36 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 Ferreri. The Leavenworth case. By Anna Catherine Green. Chapter 37. Culmination. St. Siducing Gold. Romeo and Juliet. When our actions do not, our fears do make us traitors. Macbeth. I never saw such a look of mortal triumph on the face of a man, as that which crossed the countenance of the detective. Well, said he, this is unexpected but not wholly unwelcome. I am truly glad to learn that Miss Leavenworth is innocent, but I must hear some few more in particulars before I shall be satisfied. Get up, Mr. Harwell, and explain yourself. If you are the murderer of Mr. Leavenworth, how comes it that things look so black against everybody but yourself? But in the hot feverish eyes which sought him from the writhing form at his feet there was mad anxiety and pain but little explanation. Seeing him making unavailing efforts to speak I drew near. Lean on me, I said, lifting him to his feet. His face, relieved forever from its mask of repression, turned toward me with the look of a despairing spirit. Save! Save! he gasped. Save her! Mary! They are sending a report. Stop it! Yes, broken another voice. If there is a man here who believes in God and prizes women's honour, let him stop the issue of that report. And Henry Clavering, dignified as ever but in a state of extreme agitation, stepped into our midst through an open door at our right. But at the sight of his face the man in our arms quivered, shrieked, and gave one bound that would have overturned Mr. Clavering, her cullion of frame as he was, had not Mr. Gries interposed. Wait! he cried. And holding back the secretary with one hand, where was his rheumatism now, he put the other in his pocket and drew thence a document which he held up before Mr. Clavering. It has not gone yet, said he. Be easy. And you, he went on, turning towards Truman Harwell. Be quiet, or— His sentence was cut short by the man springing from his grasp. Let me go, he shrieked. Let me have my revenge on him, who, in face of all I have done for Mary Leavenworth, dares to call her his wife. Let me—but at this point he paused, his quivering frame stiffening into stone, and his clutching hands outstretched for his rival's throat, falling heavily back. Park! said he, glaring over Mr. Clavering's shoulder. It is she—I hear her. I feel her. She is on the stairs. She is at the door. She— A low, shuddering sigh of longing and despair finished the sentence. The door opened, and Mary Leavenworth stood before us. It was a moment to make young hairs turn gray. To see her face, so pale, so haggard, so wild in its fixed horror, turned towards Henry Clavering to the utter ignoring of the real actor in this most horrible scene, Truman Harwell could not stand it. Ah, he cried, look at her! Cold, cold! Not one glance for me, though I have just drawn the halter from her neck and fastened it about my own. And breaking from the clasp of the man who, in his jealous rage, would now have withheld him, he fell on his knees before Mary, clutching her dress with frenzied hands. You shall look at me, he cried. You shall listen to me. I will not lose body and soul for nothing. Mary, they said you were in peril. I could not endure that thought, so I uttered the truth, yes, though I know what the consequence would be, and all I want now is for you to say you believe me when I swear that I only meant to secure to you the fortune you so much desired, that I never dreamed it would come to this, that it was because I loved you, and hoped to win your love in return that I—but she did not seem to see him—did not seem to hear him. Her eyes were fixed upon Henry Clavering with an awful inquiry in their depths, and none but he could move her. You do not hear me, shrieked the poor wretch. Ice that you are! You would not turn your head if I should call to you from the depths of hell." But even this cry fell unheeded, pushing her hands down upon his shoulders as though she would sweep some impediment from her path she endeavored to advance. Why is that man here, she cried, indicating her husband with one quivering hand? What has he done that he should be brought here to confront me at this awful time? I told her to come here to meet her uncle's murderer, whispered Mr. Grice into my ear. But before I could reply to her, before Mr. Clavering himself could utter a word, the guilty wretch before her had started to his feet. Don't you know? Then I will tell you.  Yes, this man, turning and pointing at me, friend as he has made himself out to be, friendly and honorable as you have doubtless believed him, but who in every look he has bestowed upon you, every word he has uttered in your hearing during all these four horrible weeks has been weaving a cord for your neck, thinks you the assassin of your uncle, unknowing that a man stood at your side ready to sweep half the world from your path if that same white hand rose in bidding, that I, you, ah, now she could see him, now she could hear him. Yes, clutching her robe again as she hastily recoiled, didn't you know it? When in that dreadful hour of your rejection by your uncle you cried aloud for someone to help you, didn't you know? Don't, she shrieked, bursting from him with a look of unspeakable horror. Don't say that! Oh, she gasped, is the mad cry of a stricken woman for aid and sympathy the call for a murderer? And turning away in horror she moaned, who that ever looks at me now will forget that a man, such a man, dared to think that because I was in mortal perplexity I would accept the murder of my best friend as a relief from it. Her horror was unbounded. What a chastisement for folly! she murmured. What a punishment for the love of money which has always been my curse! Henry clavoring could no longer restrain himself. Leaping to her side he bent over her. Was it nothing but folly, Mary? Are you guiltless of any deeper wrong? Is there no link of complicity between you two?  Are you innocent in this matter? Tell me! Laying his hand on her head, he pressed it slowly back and gazed into her eyes, then without a word took her to his breast and looked calmly around him. She is innocent, said he. It was the uplifting of a stifling pall. No one in the room, unless it was the wretched criminal shivering before us, but felt an influx of hope. Even Mary's own countenance caught glow. Oh! she whispered, withdrawing from his arms to look better into his face. And this is the man I have trifled with, injured and tortured, till the very name of Mary Leavenworth might well make him shudder. Is this he whom I married in a fit of caprice only to forsake and deny? Henry, do you declare me innocent in face of all you have seen and heard, in face of that moaning, chattering wretch before us, and my own quaking flesh and evident terror, with the remembrance on your heart and in your mind of the letter I wrote you the morning after the murder, in which I prayed you to keep away from me, as I was in such deadly danger the least hint given to the world that I had a secret to conceal would destroy me. Do you? Can you? Will you? Declare me innocent before God and the world. I do, said he, a light such as had never visited her face before passed slowly over it. And God forgive me the wrong I have done this noble heart, for I can never forgive myself. Wait, said she, as he opened his lips. Before I accept any further tokens of your generous confidence, let me show you what I am.  Mr. Raymond she cried, turning towards me for the first time. In those days when, with such an earnest desire for your welfare, you see I do not believe this man's insinuations, you sought to induce me to speak out and tell all I knew concerning this dreadful deed, I did not do it, because of my selfish fears. I knew the case looked dark against me. Eleanor had told me so. Eleanor herself, and it was the keenest paying I had to endure, believed me guilty. She had her reasons. She knew first, from the directed envelope she had found lying under my uncle's dead body on the library table, that he had been engaged at the moment of death in summoning his lawyer to make that change in his will which would transfer my claims to her. Secondly, that notwithstanding my denial of the same I had been down to his room the night before, for she had heard my door open and my dress rustle as I passed out. But that was not all. The key that everyone felt to be a positive proof of guilt wherever found had been picked up by her from the floor of my room. The letter written by Mr. Clavering to my uncle was found in my fire, and the handkerchief which she had seen me take from the basket of clean clothes was produced at the inquest stained with pistol grease. I could not account for these things. A web seemed tangled about my feet. I could not stir without encountering some new toil. I knew I was innocent. But if I failed to satisfy my cousin of this, how could I hope to convince the general public if once called upon to do so? Worse still, if Eleanor, with every apparent motive for desiring long life to our uncle, was held in such suspicion because of a few circumstantial evidences against her, what would I not have to fear if these evidences were turned against me, the heiress? The tone and manner of the jurymen at the inquest that asked who would be most benefited by my uncle's will showed but too plainly. When, therefore, Eleanor, true to her heart's generous instincts, closed her lips and refused to speak when speech would have been my ruin, I let her do it, justifying myself with the thought that she had deemed me capable of crime and so must bear the consequences. Nor when I saw how dreadful these were likely to prove did I relent. Fear of the ignominy, suspense, and danger which confession would entail sealed my lips. Only once did I hesitate. That was when, in the last conversation we had, I saw that, not withstanding appearances, you believed in Eleanor's innocence, and the thought crossed me you might be induced to believe in mine if I threw myself upon your mercy. But just then Mr. Clavering came, and as in a flash I seemed to realize what my future life would be, stained by suspicion, and instead of yielding to my impulse, went so far in the other direction as to threaten Mr. Clavering with a denial of our marriage if he approached me again till all danger was over. Yes, he will tell you that was my welcome to him, when, with heart and brain wracked by long suspense, he came to my door for one word of assurance that the peril I was in was not of my own making. That was the greeting I gave him after a year of silence, every moment of which was torture to him. But he forgives me. I see it in his eyes. I hear it in his accents.  As for this man, I am sure could not be worse to me than this standing with him in the same room. Let him come forward and declare if I, by look or word, have given him reason to believe I understood his passion, much less returned it. Why, ask, he gasped. Don't you see? It was your indifference which drove me mad. To stand before you, to agonize over you, to follow you with thoughts in every move you made, to know my soul was welded to yours with bands of steel no fire could melt, no force destroy, no strain to sever, to sleep under the same roof, sit at the same table, and yet meet not so much as one look to show me who understood. It was that which made my life a hell. I was determined you should understand.  And you do. You comprehend it all now. Shrink as you will from my presence. Cower as you may to this weak man you call husband. You can never forget the love of Truman Harwell. Never forget that love, love, love was the force which led me down into your uncle's room that night and lent me will to pull the trigger which poured all the wealth you hold this day into your lap. Yes, he went on, towering in his preternatural despair till even the noble form of Henry Clavering looked dwarf beside him. Every dollar that chinks from your purse shall talk of me. Every gugah which flashes on that haughty head, too haughty to bend to me shall shriek my name into your ears. Fashion, pomp, luxury, you will have them all. Till gold loses its glitter and ease its attraction you will never forget the hand that gave them to you. With a look whose evil triumph I cannot describe he put his hand into the arm of the waiting detective and in another moment would have been led from the room when Mary crushing down the swell of emotions that was seething in her breast lifted her head and said, No, Truman Harwell, I cannot give you even that thought for your comfort. Wealth so laden would bring nothing but torture. I cannot accept the torture, so must release the wealth. From this day Mary Clavering owns nothing but what comes to her from the husband she has so long and so basely wronged. And raising her hands to her ears she tore out the diamonds which hung there and flung them at the feet of the unfortunate man. It was the final wrench of the rack. With a yell such as I never thought to listen to from the lips of a man he flung up his arms while all the lurid light of madness glared on his face.  Well, that is the best day's work I ever did. Your congratulations, Mr. Raymond, upon the success of the most daring game ever played in a detective's office. I looked at the triumphant countenance of Mr. Grice in amazement. What do you mean I cried? Did you plan all this? Did I plan it? he repeated. Could I stand here seeing how things have turned out if I have not? Mr. Raymond, let us be comfortable. You are a gentleman, but we can shake hands over this. I have never known such a satisfactory conclusion to a bad piece of business in all my professional career. We did shake hands long and fervently, and then I asked him to explain himself. Well, said he, there has always been one thing that plagued me even in the very moment of my strongest suspicion against this woman, and that was the pistol cleaning business. I could not reconcile it with what I knew of woman kind. I could not make it seem the act of a woman. Did you ever know a woman who cleaned a pistol? No, they can fire them and do, but after firing them they do not clean them. Now it is a principle which every detective recognizes that if of a hundred leading circumstances connected with a crime, ninety-nine of these are acts pointing to the suspected party with unerring certainty, but the hundredth equally important act one which that person could not have performed, the whole fabric of suspicion is destroyed. Recognizing this principle, then, as I have said, I hesitated when it came to the point of arrest. The chain was complete, the links were fastened, but one link was of a different size and material from the rest, and in this argued a break in the chain. I resolved to give her a final chance, summoning Mr. Clavering and Mr. Harwell, two persons whom I had no reason to suspect, but who were the only persons beside herself who could have committed the crime, being the only persons of intellect who were in the house or believed to be at the time of the murder, I notified them separately that the assassin of Mr. Leavenworth was not only found, but was about to be arrested in my house, and that if they wished to hear the confession which would be sure to follow they might have the opportunity of doing so by coming here at such an hour. They were both too much interested, though for very different reasons to refuse, and I succeeded in inducing them to conceal themselves in the two rooms from which you saw them issue, knowing that if either of them had committed this deed he had done it for the love of Mary Leavenworth, and consequently could not hear her charged with crime and threatened with arrest without betraying himself. I did not hope much from the experiment. Least of all did I anticipate that Mr. Harwell would prove to be the guilty man. But live and learn, Mr. Raymond. Live and learn. LibriVox.org. Recorded by Kirsten Ferreri. The Leavenworth Case. By Anna Catherine Green. CHAPTER XXXVIII. A FULL CONFESSION. Between the acting of a dreadful thing and the first motion, all the interim is like a phantasma or a hideous dream. The genius and the mortal instruments are then in counsel, and the state of a man, like to a little kingdom, suffers then the nature of an insurrection. Julius Caesar. I am not a bad man. I am only an intense one. Ambition, love, jealousy, hatred, revenge, transitory emotions with some are terrific passions with me. To be sure they are quiet and concealed ones, coiled serpents that make no stir till aroused, but then deadly in their spring and relentless in their action. Those who have known me best have not known this.  Often and often I have heard her say, if Truman only had more sensibility, if Truman were not so indifferent to everything, in short, if Truman had more power in him. It was the same at school. No one understood me. They thought me like—called me dough-face. For three years they called me this, then I turned on them. Choosing out their ring-leader, I felled him to the ground, laid him on his back, and stamped upon him. He was handsome before my foot came down. Afterwards—well, it is enough he never called me dough-face again. In the story I entered soon afterwards I met with even less appreciation. Regular at my work, and exact in the performance of it, they thought me a good machine, and nothing else. What heart, soul, feeling could a man have who never sported, never smoked, and never laughed? I could reckon up figures correctly, but one scarcely needed heart or soul for that. I could even write day by day and month by month without showing a flaw in my copy, but that only argued I was no more than they intimated—a regular automaton. I let them think so with the certainty before me that they would one day change their minds as others had done. The fact was I loved nobody well enough, not even myself, to care for any man's opinion. Life was well nigh a blank to me—a dead-level plane that had to be traversed whether I would or not. And such it might have continued to this day if I had never met Mary Leavenworth. But when some nine months since I left my desk in the counting-house for a seat in Mr. Leavenworth's library, a blazing torch fell into my soul whose flame has never gone out, and never will till the doom before me is accomplished. She was so beautiful. When on that first evening I followed my new employer into the parlour, and saw this woman standing up before me in her half-alluring, half-appalling charm, I knew, as by a lightning flash, what my future would be if I remained in that house. She was in one of her haughty moods and bestowed upon me little more than a passing glance, but her indifference made slight impression upon me then. It was enough that I was allowed to stand in her presence and look unrebuke'd on her loveliness. To be sure, it was like gazing into the flower-wreathed crater of an awakening volcano. Fear and fascination were in each moment I lingered there, but fear and fascination made the moment what it was, and I could not have withdrawn if I would. And so it was always. Unspeakable pain as well as pleasure was in the emotion with which I regarded her. Yet for all that I did not cease to study her hour by hour and day by day.  I had a purpose in this. I wished to knit her beauty so firmly into the warp and woof of my being that nothing could ever serve to tear it away. For I saw then as plainly as now that coquette though she was, she would never stoop to me. No, I might lie down at her feet and let her trample over me. She would not even turn to see what it was she had stepped upon. I might spend days, months, years learning the alphabet of her wishes. She would not thank me for my pains, or even raise the lashes from her cheek to look at me as I passed. I was nothing to her. Could not be anything unless—and this thought came slowly. I could in some way become her master. One time I wrote at Mr. Leavenworth's dictation and pleased him. My methodical ways were just to his taste. As for the other member of the family, Miss Eleanor Leavenworth, she treated me just as one of her proud but sympathetic nature might be expected to do. Not familiarly, but kindly. Not as a friend, but as a member of the household whom she met every day at table, and who, as she or any one else could see, was none too happy or hopeful. Six months went by. I had learned two things. First, that Mary Leavenworth loved her position as prospective heiress to a large fortune above every other earthly consideration. And secondly, that she was in the possession of a secret which endangered that position. What this was I had for some time no means of knowing. But when I became convinced that it was one of love I grew hopeful, strange as it may seem, for by this time I had learned Mr. Leavenworth's position almost as perfectly as that of his niece, and knew that in a matter of this kind he would be uncompromising, and that in the clashing of these two wills something might occur which would give me a hold upon her. The only thing that troubled me was the fact that I did not know the name of the man in whom she was interested. But chance soon favored me. One day, a month ago now, I sat down to open Mr. Leavenworth's mail as usual. One letter, shall I ever forget it? Ran thus. Hoffman House. March 1st, 1876. Mr. Horatio Leavenworth. Dear sir, you have a niece whom you love and trust, one too who seems worthy of all the love and trust that you or any other man can give her. So beautiful, so charming, so tender is she in face, form, manner, and conversation. But, dear sir, every rose has its thorn, and your rose is no exception to this rule. Lovely as she is, charming as she is, tender as she is, she is not only capable of trampling on the rites of one who trusted her, but of bruising the heart and breaking the spirit of him to whom she owes all duty, honour, and observance. If you don't believe this, ask her to her cruel, bewitching face who and what is her humble servant and yours, Henry Ritchie Clavering. If a bombshell had exploded at my feet, or the evil one himself appeared at my call, I would not have been more astounded. Not only was the name signed to these remarkable words unknown to me, but the epistle itself was that of one who felt himself to be her master, a position which, as you know, I was myself aspiring to occupy. For a few minutes then I stood to pray to feelings of the bitterest wrath and despair. Then I grew calm, realising that with this letter in my possession I was virtually the arbitrator of her destiny. Some men would have sought her then and there, and by threatening to place it in her uncle's hand one from her a look of entreaty of no more. But I, well, my plans went deeper than that. I knew she would have to be an extremity before I could hope to win her. She must feel herself slipping over the edge of the precipice before she would clutch at the first thing offering sucker. I decided to allow the letter to pass into my employer's hands. But it had been opened. How could I manage to give it to him in this condition without exciting his suspicions? I knew of but one way, to let him see me open it for what he would consider the first time. So waiting till he came into the room, I approached him with the letter, tearing off the end of the envelope as I came. Opening it, I gave a cursory glance at its contents and tossed it down on the table before him. That appears to be of a private character, said I, though there is no sign to that effect on the envelope. He took it up while I stood there.  I waited a moment, then withdrew to my own desk, one, two minutes passed in silence. He was evidently rereading the letter. Then he hurriedly rose and left the room. As he passed me, I caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror. The expression I saw there did not tend to lessen the hope rising in my breast. By following him almost immediately upstairs I ascertained that he went directly to Mary's room, and when a few hours later the family collected around the dinner table I perceived, almost without looking up, that a great and insurmountable barrier had been raised between him and his favorite niece. Two days passed. Days that were for me one long and unrelieved suspense. Had Mr. Leavenworth answered the letter? Would it all end as it had begun without the appearance of the mysterious clavoring on the seat? I could not tell. Meanwhile my monotonous work went on, grinding my heart beneath its relentless wheel. I wrote and wrote and wrote till it seemed as if my life-blood went from me with every drop of ink I used. Always alert and listening I dared not lift my head or turn my eyes at any unusual sound lest I should be seen to be watching. The third night I had a dream. I have already told Mr. Raymond what it was, and hence will not repeat it here. One correction, however, I wish to make in regard to it. In my statement to him I declared that the face of the man whom I saw lift his hand against my employer was that of Mr. clavoring. I lied when I said this. The face seen by me and my dream was my own. It was that fact which made it so horrible to me. In the crouching figures stealing warily downstairs I saw as in a glass the vision of my own form. Otherwise my account of the matter was true. This vision had a tremendous effect upon me. Was it a premonition? A forewarning of the way in which I was to win this coveted creature for my own? Was the death of her uncle the bridge by which the impassable gulf between us might be spanned? I began to think it might be. To consider the possibilities which could make this the only path to my Elysium, even went so far as to picture her lovely face bending gratefully towards me through the glare of a sudden release from some emergency in which she stood. One thing was sure. If that was the way I must go I had at least been taught how to tread it, and all through the dizzy blurred day that followed I saw as I sat at my work repeated visions of that stealthy, purposeful figure stealing down the stairs and entering with uplifted pistol into the unconscious presence of my employer. I even found myself a dozen times that day turning my eyes upon the door through which it was to come, wondering how long it would be before my actual form would pause there. That the moment was at hand I did not imagine. Even when I left him that night after drinking with him the glass of sherry mentioned at the inquest I had no idea the action was so near. But when not three minutes after going upstairs I caught the sound of a lady's dress rustling through the hall and listening heard Mary Leavenworth pass my door on her way to the library I realized that the fatal hour was come. That something was going to be said or done in that room which would make this deed necessary. What? I determined to ascertain. Casting about in my mind for the means of doing so I remembered that the ventilator running up through the house opened first into the passageway connecting Mr. Leavenworth's bedroom and library, and secondly into the closet of the large spare room adjoining mine. Hastily unlocking the door of the communication between the rooms I took my position in the closet. Instantly the sound of voices reached my ears. All was open below and standing there. I was as much an auditor of what went on between Mary and her uncle as if I were in the library itself. And what did I hear? Enough to assure me my suspicions were correct, that it was a moment of vital interest to her, that Mr. Leavenworth, in pursuit of a threat evidently made sometimes sense, was in the act of taking steps to change his will, and that she had come to make an appeal to be forgiven her fault and restored to his favor. What that fault was I did not learn. No mention was made of Mr. Clavering as her husband. I only heard her declare that her action had been the result of impulse rather than love, that she regretted it, and desired nothing more than to be free from all obligations to one she would faint forget, and be again to her uncle what she was before she ever saw this man. I thought, fool that I was, it was a mere engagement she was alluding to, and took the insaneest hope from these words. And when, in a moment later, I heard her uncle reply in his sternest tone that she had irreparably forfeited her claims to his regard in favor, I did not need her short and bitter cry of shame and disappointment, or that low moan for someone to help her, for me to sound his death knell in my heart.  I went down the stairs just as I had seen myself do in my dream, and knocking lightly at the library door, went in. Mr. Leavenworth was sitting in his usual place writing. "'Excuse me,' said I, as he looked up, I have lost my memorandum book, and think it possible I may have dropped it in the passageway when I went for the wine.' He bowed, and I hurried past him, into the closet. Once there, I proceeded rapidly into the room beyond, procured the pistol, returned, and almost before I realized what I was doing had taken up my position behind him, aimed, and fired. The result was what you know. Without a groan his head fell forward onto his hands, and Mary Leavenworth was the virtual possessor of the thousands she coveted. My first thought was to procure the letter he was writing. Approaching the table I tore it out from under his hands, looked at it, saw that it was, as I expected, a summons to his lawyer, and thrust it into my pocket, together with the letter from Mr. Clavering which I perceived lying spattered with blood on the table before me. Not till this was done did I think of myself, or remember the echo which that low, sharp report must have made in the house.  But I was saved from committing such a folly. The report had not been heard, or if so had evidently failed to create an alarm. No one came, and I was left to contemplate my work undisturbed and decide upon the best course to be taken to avoid detection. A moment's study of the wound made in his head by the bullet convinced me of the impossibility of passing the affair off as a suicide, or even the work of a burglar. To any one versed in such matters it was manifestly a murder and a most deliberate one. My one hope, then, lay in making it as mysterious as it was deliberate by destroying all due to the motive and manner of the deed. Picking up the pistol I carried it into the other room with the intention of cleaning it, but finding nothing there to do it with came back for the handkerchief I had seen lying on the floor at Mr. Leavenworth's feet. It was Miss Eleanor's, but I did not know it till I used it to clean the barrel. The sight of her initials in one corner so shocked me I forgot to clean the cylinder, and only thought of how I could do away with this evidence of her handkerchief having been employed for a purpose so suspicious. Not daring to carry it from the room I sought for means to destroy it, but finding none compromised the matter by thrusting it deep down behind the cushion of one of the chairs in the hope of being able to recover and burn it the next day. This done I reloaded the pistol, locked it up, and prepared to leave the room. But here the horror which usually follows such deeds struck me like a thunderbolt and made me for the first time uncertain in my action. I locked the door on going out, something I should never have done. Not till I reached the top of the stairs did I realize my folly, and then it was too late, for there before me, candle in hand and surprise written on every feature of her face, stood Hannah, one of the servants, looking at me. Lord sir, where have you been? she cried. But strange to say, in a low tone.  And her eyes turned suspiciously to the key which I held in my hand. I felt as if someone had clutched me around the throat. Thrusting the key into my pocket I took a step toward her. I will tell you what I have seen if you come downstairs, I whispered. The ladies will be disturbed if we talk here. And smoothing my brow as best I could I put out my hand and drew her towards me. What my motive was I hardly knew. The action was probably instinctive, but when I saw the look which came into her face as I touched her, and the alacrity with which she prepared to follow me, I took courage, remembering the one or two previous tokens I had had of this girl's unreasonable susceptibility to my influence, a susceptibility which I now felt could be utilized and made to serve my purpose. Taking her down to the parlor floor, I drew her into the depths of the great drawing-room, and there told her in the least alarming way possible what had happened to Mr. Leavenworth. She was of course intensely agitated, but she did not scream, the novelty of her position evidently bewildering her, and greatly relieved I went on to say that I did not know who committed the deed, but that folks would declare it was I if they knew I had been seen by her on the stairs with the library key in my hand. But I won't tell, she whispered, trembling violently in her fright and eagerness. I will keep it to myself. I will say I didn't see anybody. But I soon convinced her that she could never keep her secret if the police once began to question her, and following up my argument with a little cajolery, succeeded after a long while in winning her consent to leave the house till the storm should be blown over. But that given, it was some little time before I could make her comprehend that she must depart at once and without going back after her things. Not till I brightened up her wits by a promise to marry her some day if she only obeyed me now did she begin to look the thing in the face and show any evidence of the real mother which she evidently possessed. Mrs. Belden would take me in, said she, if I could only get to R she takes everybody in who asks her, and she would keep me too if I told her Miss Mary sent me. But I can't get there to-night. I immediately set to work to convince her that she could. The midnight train did not leave the city for half an hour yet, and the distance to the depot could easily be walked by her in fifteen minutes. But she had no money. I easily supplied that. And she was afraid she couldn't find her way. I entered into minutious directions. She still hesitated but at length consented to go, and with some further understanding of the method I was to employ in communicating with her we went downstairs. There we found a hat and shawl of the cooks which I put on her, and in another moment we were in the carriage-yard. Remember, you are to say nothing of what has occurred, no matter what happens, I whispered in parting injunction as she turned to leave me. Remember, you are to come and marry me some day, she murmured in reply, throwing her arms about my neck. The movement was sudden, and it was probably at this time she dropped the candle she had unconsciously held clenched in her hand till now. I promised her, and she glided out of the gate. Of the dreadful agitation that followed the disappearance of this girl I can give no better idea than by saying I not only committed the additional error of locking up the house on my re-entrance, but omitted to dispose of the key then in my pocket by flinging it into the street or dropping it in the hall as I went up. The fact is I was so absorbed by the thought of the danger I stood in from this girl I forgot everything else. Hannah's pale face, Hannah's look of terror as she turned from my side and flitted down the street were continually before me. I could not escape them. The form of the dead man lying below was less vivid. It was as though I were tied in fancy to this woman of the white face fluttering down the midnight streets. That she would fail in something, come back or be brought back, that I should find her standing white and horror stricken on the front steps when I went down in the morning was like a nightmare to me. I began to think no other result possible, that she never would or could win her way unchallenged to that little cottage in a distant village. That I had but sent a trailing flag of danger out into the world with this wretched girl, danger that would come back to me with the first burst of morning light. But even those thoughts faded after a while before the realization of the peril I was in as long as the key and papers remained in my possession. How to get rid of them? I dared not leave my room again or open my window. Someone might see me and remember it. Indeed I was afraid to move about in my room. Mr. Leavenworth might hear me. Yes, my morbid terror had reached that point. I was fearful of one whose ears I myself had forever closed, imagined him in his bed beneath and wakeful to the least sound. But the necessity of doing something with these evidences of guilt finally overcame this morbid anxiety, and drawing the two letters from my pocket, I had not yet undressed. I chose out the most dangerous of the two, that written by Mr. Leavenworth himself, and chewing it till it was mere pulp threw it into a corner. But the other had blood on it, and nothing, not even the hope of safety, could induce me to put it to my lips. I was forced to lie with it clenched in my hand, and the flitting image of Hannah before my eyes, till the slow morning broke. I have heard it said that a year in heaven seems like a day. I can easily believe it.  But with daylight came hope. Whether it was that the sunshine glancing on the wall made me think of Mary and all I was ready to do for her sake, or whether it was the mere return of my natural stoicism in the presence of actual necessity, I cannot say. I only know that I arose calm and master of myself. The problem of the letter and key had solved itself also. Hide them. I would not try to. Instead of that I would put them in plain sight, trusting to that very fact for their being overlooked. Making the letter up into lighters, I carried them into the spare room and placed them in a vase. Ben, taking the key in my hand, went downstairs, tending to insert it in the lock of the library door as I went by. But Miss Eleanor descending almost immediately behind me made this impossible. I succeeded, however, in thrusting it without her knowledge among the filigree work of the gas fixture in the second hall, and thus relieved, went down into the breakfast-room as self-possessed a man as ever crossed its threshold. Mary was there looking exceedingly pale and disheartened, and as I met her eye, which for a wonder turned upon me as I entered, I could almost have laughed, thinking of the deliverance that had come to her, and of the time when I should proclaim myself to be the man who had accomplished it. Of the alarm that speedily followed, and my action at that time and afterwards I need not speak in detail. I behaved just as I would have done if I had no hand in the murder. I even forbore to touch the key or go to the spare room, or make any movement which I was not willing all the world should see. For as things stood, there was not a shadow of evidence against me in the house. Neither was I, a hard-working, un-complaining secretary, whose passion for one of his employer's nieces was not even mistrusted by the lady herself, a person to be suspected of the crime which threw him out of a fair situation. So I performed all the duties of my position, summoning the police and going for Mr. Velie, just as I would have done if those hours between me leaving Mr. Leavenworth for the first time and going down to breakfast in the morning had been blotted from my consciousness. And this was the principle upon which I based my action at the inquest. Leaving that half-hour and its occurrences out of the question, I resolved to answer such questions as might be put me as truthfully as I could. The great fault with men situated as I was usually being that they lied too much, thus committing themselves on unessential matters. But alas, in thus planning for my own safety, I forgot one thing, and that was the dangerous position in which I should thus place Mary Leavenworth as the one benefited by the crime. Not till the inference was drawn by a juror, from the amount of wine found in Mr. Leavenworth's glass in the morning, that he had come to his death shortly after my leaving him did I realize what an opening I had made for suspicion in her direction by admitting that I had heard a rustle on the stair a few minutes after growing up. That all present believed it to have been made by Eleanor did not reassure me. She was so completely disconnected with the crime I could not imagine suspicion holding to her for an instant. But Mary, if a curtain had been let down before me pictured with the future as it has since developed, I could not have seen more plainly what her position would be if a tension were once directed toward her. So, in the vain endeavour to cover up my blunder, I began to lie. Forced to admit that a shadow of disagreement had lately been visible between Mr. Leavenworth and one of his nieces, I threw the burden of it upon Eleanor as the one best able to bear it. The consequences were more serious than I anticipated. Direction had been given to suspicion which every additional evidence that now came up seemed by some strange fatality to strengthen. Not only was it proved that Mr. Leavenworth's own pistol had been used in the assassination, and that too by a person then in the house, but I myself was brought to acknowledge that Eleanor had learned from me, only a little while before, how to load, aim, and fire this very pistol, a coincidence mischievous enough to have been of the devil's own making. Seeing all this, my fear of what the ladies would admit when questioned became very great. Let them in their innocence acknowledge that upon my assent Mary had gone to her uncle's room for the purpose of persuading him not to carry into effect the action he contemplated, and what consequences might not ensue. I was in a torture of apprehension. But events of which I had at the time no knowledge had occurred to influence them. Eleanor, with some show of reason as it seems, not only suspected her cousin of the crime, but had informed her of the fact, and Mary, overcome with terror at finding there was more or less circumstantial evidence supporting the suspicion, decided to deny whatever told against herself, trusting to Eleanor's generosity not to be contradicted. Nor was her confidence misplaced, though by the course she took Eleanor was forced to deepen the prejudice already rife against herself, she not only forbore to contradict her cousin, but when a true answer would have injured her, actually refused to return any, a lie being something she could not utter, even to save one especially endeared to her. This conduct of hers had one effect upon me. It aroused my admiration, and made me feel that here was a woman worth helping if assistance could be given without danger to myself. Yet I doubt if my sympathy would have led me into doing anything if I had not perceived by the stress laid upon certain well-known matters that actual danger hovered about us all while the letter and key remained in the house.  But when that was brought up and shown, I became so alarmed I immediately rose, and making my way under some pretense or another to the floors above, snatched the key from the gas fixture, the lighters from the vase, and hastening with them down the hall to Mary Leavenworth's room went in under the expectation of finding a fire there in which to destroy them. But to my heavy disappointment there were only a few smoldering ashes in the grate, and thwarted in my design I stood hesitating what to do when I heard someone coming upstairs. Alive to the consequences of being found in the room at that time, I cast the lighters into the grate and started for the door. But in the quick move I made, the key flew from my hand and slid under a chair. I gasped at the mischance, I paused, but the sound of approaching steps increasing I lost all control over myself and fled from the room. And indeed I had no time to lose. I had barely reached my own door when Eleanor Leavenworth, followed by two servants, appeared at the top of the staircase and proceeded toward the room I had just left. The sight reassured me. She would see the key, and take some means of disposing of it, and indeed I always supposed her to have done so, for no further word of key or letter ever came to my ears. This may explain why the questionable position in which Eleanor soon found herself awakened in me no greater anxiety. I thought the suspicions of the police rested upon nothing more tangible than the peculiarity of her manner at the inquest and the discovery of her handkerchief on the scene of this tragedy. I did not know they possessed what might be called absolute proof of her connection with the crime. But if I had, I doubt if my course would have been any different. Mary's peril was the one thing capable of influencing me, and she did not appear to be in peril. On the contrary, everyone by common consent seemed to ignore all appearance of guilt on her part. If Mr. Grice, whom I soon learned to fear, had given one sign of suspicion, or Mr. Raymond, whom I speedily recognized as my most persistent though unconscious foe, had betrayed the least distrust of her, I should have taken warning. But they did not, and lulled into a false security by their manner I let the days go by without suffering any fears on her account. But not without many anxieties for myself. Hannah's existence precluded all sense of personal security. Knowing the determination of the police to find her, I trod the verge of an awful suspense continually. Meantime, the wretched certainty was forcing itself upon me that I had lost instead of gained a hold on Mary Leavenworth. Not only did she evince the utmost horror of the deed which had made her mistress of her uncle's wealth, but owing as I believed to the influence of Mr. Raymond, soon gave evidence that she was losing, to a certain extent, the characteristics of mind and heart which had made me hopeful of winning her by this deed of blood. This revelation drove me almost insane. Under the terrible restraint forced upon me I walked my weary round in a state of mind bordering on frenzy. Many and many a time have I stopped in my work, wiped my pen and laid it down with the idea that I could not repress myself another moment. But I have always taken it up again, and gone on with my task. Mr. Raymond has sometimes shown his wonder at my sitting in my dead employer's chair. Great Heaven, it was my only safeguard! By keeping the murder constantly before my mind I was enabled to restrain myself from any inconsiderate action. At last there came a time when my agony could be no longer suppressed. Going down the stairs one evening with Mr. Raymond, I saw a strange gentleman standing in the reception room looking at Mary Leavenworth in a way that would have made my blood boil even if I had not heard him whisper these words. But you are my wife, and know it whatever you may say or do." It was the lightning stroke of my life. After what I had done to make her mine, to hear another claim her as already his own was stunning—maddening! It forced a demonstration from me. I had either to yell in my fury or deal the man beneath some tremendous blow in my hatred. I did not dare to shriek, so I struck the blow. Demanding his name for Mr. Raymond and hearing that it was as I expected clavoring, I flung caution, reason, common sense, all to the winds, and in a moment of fury denounced him as the murderer of Mr. Leavenworth. The next instant I would have given worlds to recall my words. What had I done but draw attention to myself in thus accusing a man against whom nothing could of course be proved? But recall now was impossible. So after a night of thought I did the next best thing, gave a superstitious reason for my action, and so restored myself to my former position without eradicating from the mind of Mr. Raymond that vague doubt of the man which my own safety demanded. But I had no intention of going any further, nor should I have done so if I had not observed that for some reason Mr. Raymond was willing to suspect Mr. clavoring. But that once seen, revenge took possession of me, and I asked myself if the burden of this crime could be thrown on this man. Still I do not believe that any active results would have followed this self-questioning if I had not overheard a whispered conversation between two of the servants, in which I learned that Mr. clavoring had been seen to enter the house on the night of the murder, but was not seen to leave it. That determined me. With such a fact for a starting point what might I not hope to accomplish? Hannah alone stood in my way. While she remained alive I saw nothing but ruin before me.  But how? By what means could I reach her without deserting my post, or make away with her without exciting fresh suspicion? The problem seemed insolvable. But Truman Harwell had not played the part of a machine so long without result. Before I had studied the question a day, light broke upon it, and I saw that the only way to accomplish my plans was to invagle her into destroying herself. No sooner had this thought matured than I hastened to act upon it. Knowing the tremendous risk I ran I took every precaution. Locking myself up in my room I wrote her a letter in printed characters. She having distinctly told me she could not read writing, in which I played upon her ignorance, foolish fondness, and Irish superstition, by telling her I dreamed of her every night, and wondered if she did of me. Was afraid she didn't, so enclosed her a little charm, which if she would use according to the directions would give her the most beautiful visions. These directions were for her first, to destroy my letter by burning it. Next, to take in her hand the packet I was careful to enclose, swallow the powder accompanying it, and go to bed. The powder was a deadly dose of poison, and the packet was, as you know, a forged confession, falsely criminating Henry clattering. Enclosing all these in an envelope in the corner of which I had marked across, I directed it, according to agreement, to Mrs. Belden, and sent it. Then followed the greatest period of suspense I had yet endured. Though I had purposely refrained from putting my name to the letter, I felt that the chances of detection were very great. Letter depart in the least particular from the course I had marked out for her, and fatal results must ensue. If she opened the enclosed packet, mistrusted the powder, took Mrs. Belden into her confidence, or even failed to burn my letter, all would be lost. I could not be sure of her or know the result of my scheme except through the newspapers. Do you think I kept watch of the countenances about me? Devoured the telegraphic news or started when the bell rang, and when a few days since I read that short paragraph in the paper which assured me that my efforts had at least produced the death of the woman I feared. Do you think I experienced any sense of relief? But of that why speak? In six hours had come the summons for Mr. Grice, and let these prison walls, this confession itself, tell the rest. I am no longer capable of speech or action.  Hamlet. For she is wise if I can judge of her, and fair she is if that mine eyes be true, and true she is as she has proved herself, and therefore like herself, fair, wise, and true, shall she be placed in my constant soul. Oh, Eleanor, I cried, as I made my way into her presence. Are you prepared for very good news? News that will brighten these pale cheeks and give the light back to those eyes, and make life hopeful and sweet to you once more. Tell me, I urged, stooping over her where she sat, for she looked ready to faint. I don't know, she faltered. I fear your idea of good news and mine may differ. No news can be good but— What, I asked, taking her hands in mine with a smile that ought to have reassured her, it was one of such profound happiness. Tell me, do not be afraid. But she was. Her dreadful burden had laid upon her so long it had become a part of her being. How could she realize it was founded upon a mistake, that she had no cause to fear the past, present, or future? But when the truth was made known to her, when with all the fervour and gentle tact of which I was capable, I showed her that her suspicions had been groundless, and that Truman Harwell and not Mary was accountable for the evidences of crime which had led her into attributing to her cousin the guilt of her uncle's death, her first words were a prayer to be taken to the one she had so wronged. Take me to her. Oh, take me to her. I cannot breathe or think till I have begged pardon of her on my knees. Oh, my unjust accusation, my unjust accusation! Seeing the state she was in, I deemed it wise to humor her. So, procuring a carriage, I drove with her to her cousin's house. Mary will spurn me. She will not even look at me. And she will be right, she cried, as we rolled away up the avenue. An outrage like this can never be forgiven. But God knows I thought myself justified in my suspicions. If you knew—I do, I interposed. Mary acknowledges that the circumstantial evidence against her was so overwhelming she was almost staggered herself, asking if she could be guiltless with such proofs against her. But—wait, oh wait, did Mary say that? Yes? Mary must be changed. I did not answer. I wanted her to see for herself the extent of that change. But when, a few minutes later, the carriage stopped and I hurried with her into the house which had been the scene of so much misery, I was hardly prepared for the difference in her own countenance which the hall light revealed. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks were brilliant, her brow lifted and free from shadow, so quickly does the ice of despair melt in the sunshine of hope. Thomas, who had opened the door, was somberly glad to see his mistress again. Miss Leavenworth is in the drawing-room, said he. I nodded then, seeing that Eleanor could scarcely move for agitation, asked her whether she would go in at once, or wait till she was more composed. I will go in at once. I cannot wait. And slipping from my grasp, she crossed the hall and laid her hand upon the drawing-room curtain when it was suddenly lifted from within, and Mary stepped out. Mary! Eleanor! The ring of those voices told everything. I did not need to glance their way to know that Eleanor had fallen at her cousin's feet, and that her cousin had affrightedly lifted her. I did not need to hear. My sin against you is too great. You cannot forgive me. Followed by the law, my shame is great enough to lead me to forgive anything. To know that the lifelong shadow between these two had dissolved like a cloud, and that for the future bright days of mutual confidence and sympathy were in store. Yet, when half an hour later or so, I heard the door of the reception-room into which I had retired softly open, and looking up, saw Mary standing on the threshold with the light of true humility on her face. I owned that I was surprised at the softening which had taken place in her haughty beauty. Blessed is the shame that purifies I inwardly murmured, and advancing held out my hand with the respect and sympathy I never thought to feel for her again. The action seemed to touch her. Blushing deeply she came and stood by my side. I thank you, said she. I have much to be grateful for. How much I never realize till to-night, but I cannot speak of it now. What I wish is for you to come in and help me persuade Eleanor to accept this fortune from my hands. It is hers, you know. Was willed to her, or would have been if—wait, said I—in the trepidation which this appeal to me on such a subject somehow awakened. Have you weighed this matter well? Is it your determined purpose to transfer your fortune into your cousin's hands? Her look was enough, without the low—how can you ask me—that followed it. Mr. Clavering was sitting by the side of Eleanor when we entered the drawing-room. He immediately rose, and drawing me to one side earnestly said, Before the courtesies of the hour pass between us, Mr. Raymond, allow me to tender you my apology. You have in your possession a document which ought never to have been forced upon you. Founded upon a mistake, the act was an insult which I bitterly regret. If, in consideration of my mental misery at that time you can pardon it, I shall forever feel indebted to you. If not? Mr. Clavering say no more. The occurrences of that day belong to a past which I, for one, have made up my mind to forget as soon as possible. The future promises too richly for us to dwell on bygone miseries. And with a look of mutual understanding and friendship we hastened to rejoin the ladies. Of the conversation that followed it is only necessary to state the result. Eleanor, remaining firm in her refusal to accept property so stained by guilt, it was finally agreed upon that it should be devoted to the erection and sustainment of some charitable institution of magnitude sufficient to be a recognized benefit to the city and its unfortunate poor. This settled our thoughts returned to our friends, especially to Mr. Veely. He ought to know, said Mary, he has grieved like a father over us, and in her spirit of penitence she would have undertaken the unhappy task of telling him the truth. But Eleanor, with her accustomed generosity, would not hear of this. No, Mary, said she, you have suffered enough. Mr. Raymond and I will go. And leaving them there with the light of growing hope and confidence on their faces, we went out again into the night, and so into a dream from which I have never waked, though the shine of her dear eyes have now been the lodestar of my life for many happy, happy months.


It's my pleasure to introduce Janine Delaney who's going to speak to us about the evolution of a Facebook page. So Janine is the manager of Recollect, a software designed and managed by New Zealand Micrographic Systems and as such Janine really works across lots of different communities up and down New Zealand. She's also a professional archivist and has worked on major system projects for the Hocken Library and Archive New Zealand and according to New Zealand Micrographic Systems websites, Janine loves metadata at the Muppets which is a good alliterative combination and her favourite doctor is the Tenth. So please join me in welcoming Janine to present. Thanks. Thanks very much. I'm going to cough and I apologise for that because I'm just getting over what everybody else has had for this entire winter. Despite the title, this is not actually a case study of Facebook but it's more about a digital initiative that is purely community and collaboratively driven. It started out in Facebook but that's really just the beginning of this tale. Firstly, I'd like to acknowledge Heather Newby who's been the drive and heart behind this project. Heather is in the audience. I wish she was here standing giving this presentation but I'm really doing it on her behalf and it's really quite an inspirational tale. So Heather prefers to stay out of the limelight but she has helped me with the content on this and I appreciate that. Heather was born on the West Coast and brought up in Greymouth. She's always been interested in the West Coast and its history and she started a personal Facebook page in May 2014, posting her own photos to it. So that's Heather. I think it's the only photo I managed to find of you on your page and this is some of the content from her personal collection. So the Facebook page got a following. People started commenting and sharing so it became a Facebook group. It was open. It became very popular very fast. The group had 1200 members within a month. People were posting photos. They were sharing stuff from their own pages as you do and the comments were starting to build around it in a big way but it actually got so big that it became a problem. It started to clog up people's news feeds. The decision was made to make the group private which meant you had to join in. You had to ask to join but that didn't stop the numbers growing. It got up to 7,000 members at the beginning of this year but other problems were emerging with so much activity on this site. People weren't seeing stuff or finding things that they'd seen before. As you'll know Facebook works on an infinite scroll so there was no way to sort of track or catalogue or organise this stuff and there's been some amazing content through here. So there were thousands of entries to sift through and that's sort of the task at hand. So the group had built a considerable digital archive and a strong community in less than a year. Facebook isn't an archival platform in any sense. I don't know why I've got that photo there. I let Cameron help me with it so I think he's just picked random photos but that was kind of a cool one. So where do you go after Facebook? The group considered sites like Kete and Flickr but what Heather Soren wanted was recollect as a platform which would retain the collaborative approach of Facebook but ensure that the content and the contextual metadata was managed and accessible. So there's a long term preservation aspect to this. This is the ambition whereas Facebook tends to be a very ephemeral medium even if it's stored behind there you've effectively lost that access to it. So this is where my team came in at NZMS but I don't want to make a story about recollect. This is really a story about the West Coast. Just a point, there is no West Coast group. In the formal sense they're a bunch of interested individuals. They're not a society, they're not formally constituted, they have no legal standing. So they don't have any affiliation with another heritage organisation. No elected officers, no money, no assets. So how do you get things going? Crowdfunding seemed a really real prospect so this is timely, thank you Jackson. After all with 7000 Facebook members could they each come up with about a dollar per annum just to support the site? Heather floated the idea in the Facebook group of shifting the heritage content to a permanent managed site. We had immediate success with a private donation of $3000, just one interested individual. So we set up a site for her because it's much easier to actually get funding if you've got something that you can see and it looks a little bit like that. We also helped out with investigating the funding sites available. We came back with a recommendation of give a little, sorry Jackson, simply because they didn't charge any fees and this group doesn't actually have any money. I also have to say we did quite a bit of pro bono work on this one but Heather is like family so that's what you do for family. So setting up was actually a bit of a challenge. Give a little were really helpful but they hadn't encountered anything like this before. West Coast was not a legal entity so it didn't have a bank account and Heather didn't want to have to handle the money so she wanted the money paid directly to NZMS as the service provider. That took a bit of shoehorning to register both West Coast and NZMS and sort of merged them together in a transparent sort of way. Give a little have nice little widgets so you can drop in there so we did that. And Heather set the target of $25,000, that's quite a lot of money but it was to provide a buffer of at least three years before they had to go looking for more funding. So we got the tool set up and the group set around fundraising and again the Facebook site has been a big part of this. So the two are really running in conjunction so I'm fine if I have it myself. So that's the give a little site there. So yeah on Facebook they started to yeah start putting out the police for money. As you can see from this screen here the campaign is chugging along it's actually up to about $5,500 now but that doesn't include the original donation nor a successful grant application that Heather got of $2,000 from Black Aditrust in the West Coast. There was no plane sailing about the time West Coast launched its appeal. Former Allback Jerry Collins died in a car crash if you remember.  The consequent for us was that the give a little site kept crashing regularly just as our campaign was getting going so people were trying to donate to the West Coast site but couldn't so they were getting a bit frustrated so we had to build alternative links and a way to give donations. Most tragic for Heather's group of volunteers who were working hard on the publicity was that crash the day that they got this feature published in the Grey Mouth Star but to be fair you get what you pay for and we would actually pay and give a little anything. Migrating the content from a technical point of view also had its frustrations. Anyone who has a personal Facebook page will know that you can archive it. It turns out with a Facebook group you can't. The logic is I understand that the group isn't owned by one person so there's no facility to export your data out and I'd just like to underline that there is no facility for you to export your data out. One of our developers eventually built a script and managed to harvest the bulk of the content that was about 10,000 items plus all the associated comments and metadata. It took them about a week to basically nail down the API on that one. We probably also broke Section 2.C of Facebook's pages' tombs of conditions in the process and I think they just underlined the troubling part of your relationship with Facebook is that you don't have clear ownership of your content or full rights over your disposition. So that's my favourite one there. You have just granted them non-exclusive transferable, sub-licensible, royalty-free, worldwide license to use any IP content that you post. And of course you all read the fine print on these things. Interestingly, just as a side issue, one of those happy moments where something pops up in your email at a timely case. This is also a concern for the Society of American Archivists who wrote to Mark Zuckerberg and Facebook in August this year concerning the ability to download archives for pages created on Facebook. So, not just a problem for us, recognised as a problem by the Society of Archivists in America and obviously trying to do something about that. So they can see a lot of history and heritage disappearing. But back to the West Coast. We managed to salvage what in the internet to be 8,000 unique items once we removed the duplicates and the related discretion threads which was a critical part of it. A group of volunteers set up by Heather commenced work on actually starting to put some metadata against them. So, actually putting some titles and some description and some keyword search terms against it. Plus a whole bunch of geotags as you'll find out. They completed 80% of this in an amazing two and a half weeks. And I think this one's a really inspiring story about what a passionate bunch of people can do with really no budget, no money, but just the desire to do something. The description is not shabby. I'm an A&D archivist, so I have an opinion on the matter. The description is controlled by a template that my team set up for them. It's not that different in templates. We've set up for other sites or have worked with on other libraries for their sites. The fields include the core information such as the title, a broader description, who the contributor of the image was, and it is mostly photos. The provenance of this is known and there's the ability to put in a attribution link if the image was sourced from another online collection. And so, big thanks there and hello to National Library and to Papa for really making this content available because groups like this one thoroughly appreciate it and they are making use of it and they love sort of being able to gather that legally and they're returning the compliment to you by actually putting the links back to your site. And a lot of geolocation, so I'm linking up to Google Maps and Street View. So I just thought I'd chuck in a few examples of what some of these records are looking like and showing off some cool photos at the same time. So this one's got the contributor for the Merchison Museum and this is all volunteer work. This one, the photographer is known and there's actually a page about who James Ring was. So they've actually got quite a lot of his content where the contributor was. They've actually pinned it to Google Maps where that shipwrecker occurred and they put on a copyright statement using Creative Commons license. This is really just a chance to show off some cool images and I think you've probably worked that one out by now. They actually put the Street View in on that one. Sometimes the building's not any different from the old version to the new version. And this one's my personal favorite. I think this is just awesome. Heather has actually put a YouTube video in as the context on what this Pixie Town greymouth industry's fair was. And if you watch that YouTube video, you will totally understand what the whole thing's about. They're also using link data. Through control terms and other connections, they can make connections between images and a broader context of them. So this one, Biddy the Buller, is an early goal prospector. But you can see there's a link to a story about Biddy there. And again, the story links back to the photograph. But there's also a link to a place and there's the information about Westport. So the system's set up to make these connections between things, where connections can be made and they're making use of it. So I mentioned the copyright statements are also being added. This is the contribution page for the community to offer up photographs. And what we did was we put down some quite sort of simple statements. Creative Commons is not a difficult concept to get your head around, but we just wanted to sort of drop the options down to something really simple that people could select from. And the important thing was Facebook comments were all harvested as well and clearly attributed as such. And I think these sort of comments show what a wonderful thing Facebook is. It's the spontaneity of people just having a conversation about something in the detail that comes up. This is about two actors Ian Watkin and Bruno Lawrence and Blurta, which some of you may remember. And this one, a personal favour. I just love the photo of this abandoned tractor and it's got quite a good description about it. It's Stafford Bay in South Westland. But the real detail is in the posting and this one's from Heather again. Quite a poignant story because the tractor really tells the story of an attempt by Polish families to settle in smooth water. And it failed due to a whole range of things. But the worst event was basically one of the men was chopping down a tree and it fell on the house, killed his wife. And the settlement was eventually abandoned. So that tells you a lot more than just it's an old rusting tractor. This is my favourite, so I've just thrown that in for gratuitous use. So I mentioned a team of volunteers and this has actually settled down to a core of seven who are administering the site. Mae Claire, Brian, Christine, Rowena, Laura and Heather are the site administrators. It's a collaborative effort, none of them are paid and they're putting it up to as much as four hours a day each. So it's a really big effort. They're scanning and uploading new content directly. They're responding to email postings and I just took a few snippets out of that one. So there's quite a lot of activity about this site and there's comments coming back from people and questions. And that ability for the community to actually offer content as well. They're reviewing that and improving the description of that. So here the Invisager site is the West Coast wide resource for schools and that libraries could use a two wrangle YY for West Coasters. The team stressed they're not in it for the money or the glory. They didn't set out to compete with anybody or prove anything. But the change of platform from Facebook and the overall popularity of the site has brought about some tension with the local cultural institutions which is an unfortunate thing. There seems to be three themes about this. The first is a perceived threat to revenue. Many of the museums on the coast have photographic collections but you have to turn up to look at them. So there's often a admittance charge to access them. That can be as high as $26. So it's a revenue maker for the museums. They may also work on reduced hours and they may get a little bit of income from selling low resolution copies of the photographs. The West Coast site by contrast, they're not selling anything. I stress that. They're not making money in any way. But the content can be freely downloaded and as a web service, they're effectively open 24 seven. So instead of the collaboration and mutual benefit, you'd like to see the site driving traffic to the museums and the museums getting their material publicised and identified. There is sort of a more of an uneasy standoff at the moment. Other element to this one is, I think a perceived challenge to professional standing. The group has come in for criticism by some museum staff for their lack of professional training or understanding of museum ethics. Yes, they're all volunteers. The irony is that some of them are also volunteers at the museums. And I'd have to say, I don't think lack of professional training does mean irresponsible. Heather and the team have mechanisms in place for dealing with issues and complaints. They're procedures to redact or remove material if required. And they're actually having to deal with quite a lot of this because the legacy of moving stuff from Facebook is actually having to deal with that on a more permanent basis with people saying, why is that up there? I want that taken down. So there's actually quite a lot of maintenance and management around having pulled that data through. And the last point I think is just a personality thing by the sounds of it. What Heather calls Planet Graymouth. And it's just perhaps a character of places where everyone knows everyone and everybody knows everyone's business. But it sounds like it's led to an unfortunate element of suspicion and mudslinging from some individuals. So, unfortunately, this characteristic is also played out in the Facebook rate with a backlash from some of the Facebook members who were not enamored with the idea of paying for anything when Facebook was free. Don't actually realise Facebook is getting your money somewhere else. Heather has had to handle some fairly wild accusations. The example of recollectors ripping off vulnerable West Coasters and the odd act of petty rebellion by some of her Facebook administrators. So if anything, this is a case study of group dynamics and people being people, I think. But onto happier things, how is the site doing? Well, they've got over 9,000 images now uploaded and a whopping 8,442 have been geotagged. So, these people really know their subject matter. For September alone, there were 9,882 visitors and quite a lot of page views. And just as a point of concept, Karasen, I went back and looked at some of the other sites that we host and these are public library ones. Some of them are actually got very active campaigns around driving traffic to their sites. This West Coast one is three times as busy as the nearest one that I could find. That's, yeah. There's 365 registered members, not so good as 7,000 for Facebook, but if you remember that most of the visitors are going to be anonymous people because coming in, browsing, looking at the content, these 365 have registered for a purpose which is to contribute something, to tag something or to upload something. And they've had 197 photos that haven't come from the team that actually come from the community itself. And proof of the pudding, I just picked this one because I thought it's a nice to end with a bouquet rather than a few brick bats. People are really appreciative of it. And if you read down to the bottom, that really sense of that socialness of the site and it's informality. So that's it. Do go and have a look, there's some fantastic content on there. HTTP, westcoast.recollect.co.nz. And if you'd like to join that Facebook group, there's the URL for that one too. Thank you. Thanks so much, Janine. We've got about five minutes so we can take some questions if anybody has anything to ask Janine about the process or the project. So I'm just going to repeat the questions just for the sake of the video that's going to go online after. So the question was, is the API available? Hi, Sarah, yes, there is an API. What do you mean? I suppose it's a question of what you mean by availability. Yes, yes it can be downloaded. It's also, it's not quite there yet but this is going to connect up to digital New Zealand so the westcoast content will be available through digital New Zealand as well. Anybody else? I had a quick question actually, Janine, about the user contributed content. So how does that process work? Do people, does it still go through Facebook and then onto the recollect? Oh, there's, yeah, I missed that but there's actually quite a bit, it's still a bit of interchange there but both sites are working in parallel. So here there's trying to push the more sort of determinant content down to recollect and get people to add it there, preferably with a better quality image but there's quite a bit of cross-pillination as stuff is tweeted up from recollect to Facebook and some content is copied back down from Facebook to recollect. Right, right, so it's kind of a two-way street now in a way, they're both speaking to each other. And Facebook still has its own distinct audience and its own distinct purpose and it is different, it is a different medium. Like you say that almost real-time conversation is something that Facebook facilitates really well. Yeah, I think the gold standard is to be able to emulate that sort of spontaneity and on chat on a sort of heritage site like this one. Yeah, yeah. Cool, well, unless if we don't have anything else, any other questions, we can wrap up a bit early and you can make your way to the next session but let's thank Janine again. Thank you.