Book + 

II + 

Henry Clavering + 

That the guilty person for whom Eleanore Leavenworth stood ready to sacrifice herself was one for whom she had formerly cherished affection, I could no longer doubt; love, or the strong sense of duty growing out of love, being alone sufficient to account for such determined action. Obnoxious as it was to all my prejudices, one name alone, that of the commonplace secretary, with his sudden heats and changeful manners, his odd ways and studied self-possession, would recur to my mind whenever I asked myself who this person could be. + 

Not that, without the light which had been thrown upon the affair by Eleanore’s strange behavior, I should have selected this man as one in any way open to suspicion; the peculiarity of his manner at the inquest not being marked enough to counteract the improbability of one in his relations to the deceased finding sufficient motive for a crime so manifestly without favorable results to himself. But if love had entered as a factor into the affair, what might not be expected? James Harwell, simple amanuensis to a retired tea-merchant, was one man; James Harwell, swayed by passion for a woman beautiful as Eleanore Leavenworth, was another; and in placing him upon the list of those parties open to suspicion I felt I was only doing what was warranted by a proper consideration of probabilities. + 

But, between casual suspicion and actual proof, what a gulf! To believe James Harwell capable of guilt, and to find evidence enough to accuse him of it, were two very different things. I felt myself instinctively shrink from the task, before I had fully made up my mind to attempt it; some relenting thought of his unhappy position, if innocent, forcing itself upon me, and making my very distrust of him seem personally ungenerous if not absolutely unjust. If I had liked the man better, I should not have been so ready to look upon him with doubt. + 

But Eleanore must be saved at all hazards. Once delivered up to the blight of suspicion, who could tell what the result might be; the arrest of her person perhaps⁠—a thing which, once accomplished, would cast a shadow over her young life that it would take more than time to dispel. The accusation of an impecunious secretary would be less horrible than this. I determined to make an early call upon Mr. Gryce. + 

Meanwhile the contrasted pictures of Eleanore standing with her hand upon the breast of the dead, her face upraised and mirroring a glory, I could not recall without emotion; and Mary, fleeing a short half-hour later indignantly from her presence, haunted me and kept me awake long after midnight. It was like a double vision of light and darkness that, while contrasting, neither assimilated nor harmonized. I could not flee from it. Do what I would, the two pictures followed me, filling my soul with alternate hope and distrust, till I knew not whether to place my hand with Eleanore on the breast of the dead, and swear implicit faith in her truth and purity, or to turn my face like Mary, and fly from what I could neither comprehend nor reconcile. + 

Expectant of difficulty, I started next morning upon my search for Mr. Gryce, with strong determination not to allow myself to become flurried by disappointment nor discouraged by premature failure. My business was to save Eleanore Leavenworth; and to do that, it was necessary for me to preserve, not only my equanimity, but my self-possession. The worst fear I anticipated was that matters would reach a crisis before I could acquire the right, or obtain the opportunity, to interfere. However, the fact of Mr. Leavenworth’s funeral being announced for that day gave me some comfort in that direction; my knowledge of Mr. Gryce being sufficient, as I thought, to warrant me in believing he would wait till after that ceremony before proceeding to extreme measures. + 

I do not know that I had any very definite ideas of what a detective’s home should be; but when I stood before the neat three-story brick house to which I had been directed, I could not but acknowledge there was something in the aspect of its half-open shutters, over closely drawn curtains of spotless purity, highly suggestive of the character of its inmate. + 

A pale-looking youth, with vivid locks of red hair hanging straight down over either ear, answered my rather nervous ring. To my inquiry as to whether Mr. Gryce was in, he gave a kind of snort which might have meant no, but which I took to mean yes. + 

“My name is Raymond, and I wish to see him.” + 

He gave me one glance that took in every detail of my person and apparel, and pointed to a door at the head of the stairs. Not waiting for further directions, I hastened up, knocked at the door he had designated, and went in. The broad back of Mr. Gryce, stooping above a desk that might have come over in the Mayflower, confronted me. + 

“Well!” he exclaimed; “this is an honor.” And rising, he opened with a squeak and shut with a bang the door of an enormous stove that occupied the centre of the room. “Rather chilly day, eh?” + 

“Yes,” I returned, eyeing him closely to see if he was in a communicative mood. “But I have had but little time to consider the state of the weather. My anxiety in regard to this murder⁠—” + 

“To be sure,” he interrupted, fixing his eyes upon the poker, though not with any hostile intention, I am sure. “A puzzling piece of business enough. But perhaps it is an open book to you. I see you have something to communicate.” + 

“I have, though I doubt if it is of the nature you expect. Mr. Gryce, since I saw you last, my convictions upon a certain point have been strengthened into an absolute belief. The object of your suspicions is an innocent woman.” + 

If I had expected him to betray any surprise at this, I was destined to be disappointed. “That is a very pleasing belief,” he observed. “I honor you for entertaining it, Mr. Raymond.” + 

I suppressed a movement of anger. “So thoroughly is it mine,” I went on, in the determination to arouse him in some way, “that I have come here today to ask you in the name of justice and common humanity to suspend action in that direction till we can convince ourselves there is no truer scent to go upon.” + 

But there was no more show of curiosity than before. “Indeed!” he cried; “that is a singular request to come from a man like you.” + 

I was not to be discomposed, “Mr. Gryce,” I went on, “a woman’s name, once tarnished, remains so forever. Eleanore Leavenworth has too many noble traits to be thoughtlessly dealt with in so momentous a crisis. If you will give me your attention, I promise you shall not regret it.” + 

He smiled, and allowed his eyes to roam from the poker to the arm of my chair. “Very well,” he remarked; “I hear you; say on.” + 

I drew my notes from my pocketbook, and laid them on the table. + 

“What! memoranda?” he exclaimed. “Unsafe, very; never put your plans on paper.” + 

Taking no heed of the interruption, I went on. + 

“Mr. Gryce, I have had fuller opportunities than yourself for studying this woman. I have seen her in a position which no guilty person could occupy, and I am assured, beyond all doubt, that not only her hands, but her heart, are pure from this crime. She may have some knowledge of its secrets; that I do not presume to deny. The key seen in her possession would refute me if I did. But what if she has? You can never wish to see so lovely a being brought to shame for withholding information which she evidently considers it her duty to keep back, when by a little patient finesse we may succeed in our purposes without it.” + 

“But,” interposed the detective, “say this is so; how are we to arrive at the knowledge we want without following out the only clue which has yet been given us?” + 

“You will never reach it by following out any clue given you by Eleanore Leavenworth.” + 

His eyebrows lifted expressively, but he said nothing. + 

“Miss Eleanore Leavenworth has been used by someone acquainted with her firmness, generosity, and perhaps love. Let us discover who possesses sufficient power over her to control her to this extent, and we find the man we seek.” + 

“Humph!” came from Mr. Gryce’s compressed lips, and no more. + 

Determined that he should speak, I waited. + 

“You have, then, someone in your mind”; he remarked at last, almost flippantly. + 

“I mention no names,” I returned. “All I want is further time.” + 

“You are, then, intending to make a personal business of this matter?” + 

“I am.” + 

He gave a long, low whistle. “May I ask,” he inquired at length, “whether you expect to work entirely by yourself; or whether, if a suitable coadjutor were provided, you would disdain his assistance and slight his advice?” + 

“I desire nothing more than to have you for my colleague.” + 

The smile upon his face deepened ironically. “You must feel very sure of yourself!” said he. + 

“I am very sure of Miss Leavenworth.” + 

The reply seemed to please him. “Let us hear what you propose doing.” + 

I did not immediately answer. The truth was, I had formed no plans. + 

“It seems to me,” he continued, “that you have undertaken a rather difficult task for an amateur. Better leave it to me, Mr. Raymond; better leave it to me.” + 

“I am sure,” I returned, “that nothing would please me better⁠—” + 

“Not,” he interrupted, “but that a word from you now and then would be welcome. I am not an egotist. I am open to suggestions: as, for instance, now, if you could conveniently inform me of all you have yourself seen and heard in regard to this matter, I should be most happy to listen.” + 

Relieved to find him so amenable, I asked myself what I really had to tell; not so much that he would consider vital. However, it would not do to hesitate now. + 

“Mr. Gryce,” said I, “I have but few facts to add to those already known to you. Indeed, I am more moved by convictions than facts. That Eleanore Leavenworth never committed this crime, I am assured. That, on the other hand, the real perpetrator is known to her, I am equally certain; and that for some reason she considers it a sacred duty to shield the assassin, even at the risk of her own safety, follows as a matter of course from the facts. Now, with such data, it cannot be a very difficult task for you or me to work out satisfactorily, to our own minds at least, who this person can be. A little more knowledge of the family⁠—” + 

“You know nothing of its secret history, then?” + 

“Nothing.” + 

“Do not even know whether either of these girls is engaged to be married?” + 

“I do not,” I returned, wincing at this direct expression of my own thoughts. + 

He remained a moment silent. “Mr. Raymond,” he cried at last, “have you any idea of the disadvantages under which a detective labors? For instance, now, you imagine I can insinuate myself into all sorts of society, perhaps; but you are mistaken. Strange as it may appear, I have never by any possibility of means succeeded with one class of persons at all. I cannot pass myself off for a gentleman. Tailors and barbers are no good; I am always found out.” + 

He looked so dejected I could scarcely forbear smiling, notwithstanding my secret care and anxiety. + 

“I have even employed a French valet, who understood dancing and whiskers; but it was all of no avail. The first gentleman I approached stared at me⁠—real gentleman, I mean, none of your American dandies⁠—and I had no stare to return; I had forgotten that emergency in my confabs with Pierre Catnille Marie Make-face.” + 

Amused, but a little discomposed by this sudden turn in the conversation, I looked at Mr. Gryce inquiringly. + 

“Now you, I dare say, have no trouble? Was born one, perhaps. Can even ask a lady to dance without blushing, eh?” + 

“Well⁠—” I commenced. + 

“Just so,” he replied; “now, I can’t. I can enter a house, bow to the mistress of it, let her be as elegant as she will, so long as I have a writ of arrest in my hand, or some such professional matter upon my mind; but when it comes to visiting in kid gloves, raising a glass of champagne in response to a toast⁠—and suchlike, I am absolutely good for nothing.” And he plunged his two hands into his hair, and looked dolefully at the head of the cane I carried in my hand. “But it is much the same with the whole of us. When we are in want of a gentleman to work for us, we have to go outside of our profession.” + 

I began to see what he was driving at; but held my peace, vaguely conscious I was likely to prove a necessity to him, after all. + 

“Mr. Raymond,” he now said, almost abruptly; “do you know a gentleman by the name of Clavering residing at present at the Hoffman House?” + 

“Not that I am aware of.” + 

“He is very polished in his manners; would you mind making his acquaintance?” + 

I followed Mr. Gryce’s example, and stared at the chimneypiece. “I cannot answer till I understand matters a little better,” I returned at length. + 

“There is not much to understand. Mr. Henry Clavering, a gentleman and a man of the world, resides at the Hoffman House. He is a stranger in town, without being strange; drives, walks, smokes, but never visits; looks at the ladies, but is never seen to bow to one. In short, a person whom it is desirable to know; but whom, being a proud man, with something of the old-world prejudice against Yankee freedom and forwardness, I could no more approach in the way of acquaintance than I could the Emperor of Austria.” + 

“And you wish⁠—” + 

“He would make a very agreeable companion for a rising young lawyer of good family and undoubted respectability. I have no doubt, if you undertook to cultivate him, you would find him well worth the trouble.” + 

“But⁠—” + 

“Might even desire to take him into familiar relations; to confide in him, and⁠—” + 

“Mr. Gryce,” I hastily interrupted; “I can never consent to plot for any man’s friendship for the sake of betraying him to the police.” + 

“It is essential to your plans to make the acquaintance of Mr. Clavering,” he dryly replied. + 

“Oh!” I returned, a light breaking in upon me; “he has some connection with this case, then?” + 

Mr. Gryce smoothed his coat-sleeve thoughtfully. “I don’t know as it will be necessary for you to betray him. You wouldn’t object to being introduced to him?” + 

“No.” + 

“Nor, if you found him pleasant, to converse with him?” + 

“No.” + 

“Not even if, in the course of conversation, you should come across something that might serve as a clue in your efforts to save Eleanore Leavenworth?” + 

The no I uttered this time was less assured; the part of a spy was the very last one I desired to play in the coming drama. + 

“Well, then,” he went on, ignoring the doubtful tone in which my assent had been given, “I advise you to immediately take up your quarters at the Hoffman House.” + 

“I doubt if that would do,” I said. “If I am not mistaken, I have already seen this gentleman, and spoken to him.” + 

“Where?” + 

“Describe him first.” + 

“Well, he is tall, finely formed, of very upright carriage, with a handsome dark face, brown hair streaked with gray, a piercing eye, and a smooth address. A very imposing personage, I assure you.” + 

“I have reason to think I have seen him,” I returned; and in a few words told him when and where. + 

“Humph!” said he at the conclusion; “he is evidently as much interested in you as we are in him. How’s that? I think I see,” he added, after a moment’s thought. “Pity you spoke to him; may have created an unfavorable impression; and everything depends upon your meeting without any distrust.” + 

He rose and paced the floor. + 

“Well, we must move slowly, that is all. Give him a chance to see you in other and better lights. Drop into the Hoffman House reading-room. Talk with the best men you meet while there; but not too much, or too indiscriminately. Mr. Clavering is fastidious, and will not feel honored by the attentions of one who is hail-fellow-well-met with everybody. Show yourself for what you are, and leave all advances to him; he’ll make them.” + 

“Supposing we are under a mistake, and the man I met on the corner of Thirty-seventh Street was not Mr. Clavering?” + 

“I should be greatly surprised, that’s all.” + 

Not knowing what further objection to make, I remained silent. + 

“And this head of mine would have to put on its thinking-cap,” he pursued jovially. + 

“Mr. Gryce,” I now said, anxious to show that all this talk about an unknown party had not served to put my own plans from my mind, “there is one person of whom we have not spoken.” + 

“No?” he exclaimed softly, wheeling around until his broad back confronted me. “And who may that be?” + 

“Why, who but Mr.⁠—” I could get no further. What right had I to mention any man’s name in this connection, without possessing sufficient evidence against him to make such mention justifiable? “I beg your pardon,” said I; “but I think I will hold to my first impulse, and speak no names.” + 

“Harwell?” he ejaculated easily. + 

The quick blush rising to my face gave an involuntary assent. + 

“I see no reason why we shouldn’t speak of him,” he went on; “that is, if there is anything to be gained by it.” + 

“His testimony at the inquest was honest, you think?” + 

“It has not been disproved.” + 

“He is a peculiar man.” + 

“And so am I.” + 

I felt myself slightly nonplussed; and, conscious of appearing at a disadvantage, lifted my hat from the table and prepared to take my leave; but, suddenly thinking of Hannah, turned and asked if there was any news of her. + 

He seemed to debate with himself, hesitating so long that I began to doubt if this man intended to confide in me, after all, when suddenly he brought his two hands down before him and exclaimed vehemently: + 

“The evil one himself is in this business! If the earth had opened and swallowed up this girl, she couldn’t have more effectually disappeared.” + 

I experienced a sinking of the heart. Eleanore had said: “Hannah can do nothing for me.” Could it be that the girl was indeed gone, and forever? + 

“I have innumerable agents at work, to say nothing of the general public; and yet not so much as a whisper has come to me in regard to her whereabouts or situation. I am only afraid we shall find her floating in the river some fine morning, without a confession in her pocket.” + 

“Everything hangs upon that girl’s testimony,” I remarked. + 

He gave a short grunt. “What does Miss Leavenworth say about it?” + 

“That the girl cannot help her.” + 

I thought he looked a trifle surprised at this, but he covered it with a nod and an exclamation. “She must be found for all that,” said he, “and shall, if I have to send out Q.” + 

“Q?” + 

“An agent of mine who is a living interrogation point; so we call him Q, which is short for query.” Then, as I turned again to go: “When the contents of the will are made known, come to me.” + 

The will! I had forgotten the will. + 

I attended the funeral of Mr. Leavenworth, but did not see the ladies before or after the ceremony. I, however, had a few moments’ conversation with Mr. Harwell; which, without eliciting anything new, provided me with food for abundant conjecture. For he had asked, almost at first greeting, if I had seen the Telegram of the night before; and when I responded in the affirmative, turned such a look of mingled distress and appeal upon me, I was tempted to ask how such a frightful insinuation against a young lady of reputation and breeding could ever have got into the papers. It was his reply that struck me. + 

“That the guilty party might be driven by remorse to own himself the true culprit.” + 

A curious remark to come from a person who had no knowledge or suspicion of the criminal and his character; and I would have pushed the conversation further, but the secretary, who was a man of few words, drew off at this, and could be induced to say no more. Evidently it was my business to cultivate Mr. Clavering, or anyone else who could throw any light upon the secret history of these girls. + 

That evening I received notice that Mr. Veeley had arrived home, but was in no condition to consult with me upon so painful a subject as the murder of Mr. Leavenworth. Also a line from Eleanore, giving me her address, but requesting me at the same time not to call unless I had something of importance to communicate, as she was too ill to receive visitors. The little note affected me. Ill, alone, and in a strange home⁠—’twas pitiful! + 

The next day, pursuant to the wishes of Mr. Gryce, in I stepped into the Hoffman House, and took a seat in the reading room. I had been there but a few moments when a gentleman entered whom I immediately recognized as the same I had spoken to on the corner of Thirty-seventh Street and Sixth Avenue. He must have remembered me also, for he seemed to be slightly embarrassed at seeing me; but, recovering himself, took up a paper and soon became to all appearance lost in its contents, though I could feel his handsome black eye upon me, studying my features, figure, apparel, and movements with a degree of interest which equally astonished and disconcerted me. I felt that it would be injudicious on my part to return his scrutiny, anxious as I was to meet his eye and learn what emotion had so fired his curiosity in regard to a perfect stranger; so I rose, and, crossing to an old friend of mine who sat at a table opposite, commenced a desultory conversation, in the course of which I took occasion to ask if he knew who the handsome stranger was. Dick Furbish was a society man, and knew everybody. + 

“His name is Clavering, and he comes from London. I don’t know anything more about him, though he is to be seen everywhere except in private houses. He has not been received into society yet; waiting for letters of introduction, perhaps.” + 

“A gentleman?” + 

“Undoubtedly.” + 

“One you speak to?” + 

“Oh, yes; I talk to him, but the conversation is very one-sided.” + 

I could not help smiling at the grimace with which Dick accompanied this remark. “Which same goes to prove,” he went on, “that he is the real thing.” + 

Laughing outright this time, I left him, and in a few minutes sauntered from the room. + 

As I mingled again with the crowd on Broadway, I found myself wondering immensely over this slight experience. That this unknown gentleman from London, who went everywhere except into private houses, could be in any way connected with the affair I had so at heart, seemed not only improbable but absurd; and for the first time I felt tempted to doubt the sagacity of Mr. Gryce in recommending him to my attention. + 

The next day I repeated the experiment, but with no greater success than before. Mr. Clavering came into the room, but, seeing me, did not remain. I began to realize it was no easy matter to make his acquaintance. To atone for my disappointment, I called on Mary Leavenworth in the evening. She received me with almost a sister-like familiarity. + 

“Ah,” she cried, after introducing me to an elderly lady at her side⁠—some connection of the family, I believe, who had come to remain with her for a while⁠—“you are here to tell me Hannah is found; is it not so?” + 

I shook my head, sorry to disappoint her. “No,” said I; “not yet.” + 

“But Mr. Gryce was here today, and he told me he hoped she would be heard from within twenty-four hours.” + 

“Mr. Gryce here!” + 

“Yes; came to report how matters were progressing⁠—not that they seemed to have advanced very far.” + 

“You could hardly have expected that yet. You must not be so easily discouraged.” + 

“But I cannot help it; every day, every hour that passes in this uncertainty, is like a mountain weight here”; and she laid one trembling hand upon her bosom. “I would have the whole world at work. I would leave no stone unturned; I⁠—” + 

“What would you do?” + 

“Oh, I don’t know,” she cried, her whole manner suddenly changing; “nothing, perhaps.” Then, before I could reply to this: “Have you seen Eleanore today?” + 

I answered in the negative. + 

She did not seem satisfied, but waited till her friend left the room before saying more. Then, with an earnest look, inquired if I knew whether Eleanore was well. + 

“I fear she is not,” I returned. + 

“It is a great trial to me, Eleanore being away. Not,” she resumed, noting, perhaps, my incredulous look, “that I would have you think I wish to disclaim my share in bringing about the present unhappy state of things. I am willing to acknowledge I was the first to propose a separation. But it is none the easier to bear on that account.” + 

“It is not as hard for you as for her,” said I. + 

“Not as hard? Why? because she is left comparatively poor, while I am rich⁠—is that what you would say? Ah,” she went on, without waiting for my answer, “would I could persuade Eleanore to share my riches with me! Willingly would I bestow upon her the half I have received; but I fear she could never be induced to accept so much as a dollar from me.” + 

“Under the circumstances it would be better for her not to.” + 

“Just what I thought; yet it would ease me of a great weight if she would. This fortune, suddenly thrown into my lap, sits like an incubus upon me, Mr. Raymond. When the will was read today which makes me possessor of so much wealth, I could not but feel that a heavy, blinding pall had settled upon me, spotted with blood and woven of horrors. Ah, how different from the feelings with which I have been accustomed to anticipate this day! For, Mr. Raymond,” she went on, with a hurried gasp, “dreadful as it seems now, I have been reared to look forward to this hour with pride, if not with actual longing. Money has been made so much of in my small world. Not that I wish in this evil time of retribution to lay blame upon anyone; least of all upon my uncle; but from the day, twelve years ago, when for the first time he took us in his arms, and looking down upon our childish faces, exclaimed: ‘The light-haired one pleases me best; she shall be my heiress,’ I have been petted, cajoled, and spoiled; called little princess, and uncle’s darling, till it is only strange I retain in this prejudiced breast any of the impulses of generous womanhood; yes, though I was aware from the first that whim alone had raised this distinction between myself and cousin; a distinction which superior beauty, worth, or accomplishments could never have drawn; Eleanore being more than my equal in all these things.” Pausing, she choked back the sudden sob that rose in her throat, with an effort at self-control which was at once touching and admirable. Then, while my eyes stole to her face, murmured in a low, appealing voice: “If I have faults, you see there is some slight excuse for them; arrogance, vanity, and selfishness being considered in the gay young heiress as no more than so many assertions of a laudable dignity. Ah! ah,” she bitterly exclaimed “money alone has been the ruin of us all!” Then, with a falling of her voice: “And now it has come to me with its heritage of evil, and I⁠—I would give it all for⁠—But this is weakness! I have no right to afflict you with my griefs. Pray forget all I have said, Mr. Raymond, or regard my complaints as the utterances of an unhappy girl loaded down with sorrows and oppressed by the weight of many perplexities and terrors.” + 

“But I do not wish to forget,” I replied. “You have spoken some good words, manifested much noble emotion. Your possessions cannot but prove a blessing to you if you enter upon them with such feelings as these.” + 

But, with a quick gesture, she ejaculated: “Impossible! they cannot prove a blessing.” Then, as if startled at her own words, bit her lip and hastily added: “Very great wealth is never a blessing. + 

“And now,” said she, with a total change of manner, “I wish to address you on a subject which may strike you as ill-timed, but which, nevertheless, I must mention, if the purpose I have at heart is ever to be accomplished. My uncle, as you know, was engaged at the time of his death in writing a book on Chinese customs and prejudices. It was a work which he was anxious to see published, and naturally I desire to carry out his wishes; but, in order to do so, I find it necessary not only to interest myself in the matter now⁠—Mr. Harwell’s services being required, and it being my wish to dismiss that gentleman as soon as possible⁠—but to find someone competent to supervise its completion. Now I have heard⁠—I have been told⁠—that you were the one of all others to do this; and though it is difficult if not improper for me to ask so great a favor of one who but a week ago was a perfect stranger to me, it would afford me the keenest pleasure if you would consent to look over this manuscript and tell me what remains to be done.” + 

The timidity with which these words were uttered proved her to be in earnest, and I could not but wonder at the strange coincidence of this request with my secret wishes; it having been a question with me for some time how I was to gain free access to this house without in any way compromising either its inmates or myself. I did not know then that Mr. Gryce had been the one to recommend me to her favor in this respect. But, whatever satisfaction I may have experienced, I felt myself in duty bound to plead my incompetence for a task so entirely out of the line of my profession, and to suggest the employment of someone better acquainted with such matters than myself. But she would not listen to me. + 

“Mr. Harwell has notes and memoranda in plenty,” she exclaimed, “and can give you all the information necessary. You will have no difficulty; indeed, you will not.” + 

“But cannot Mr. Harwell himself do all that is requisite? He seems to be a clever and diligent young man.” + 

But she shook her head. “He thinks he can; but I know uncle never trusted him with the composition of a single sentence.” + 

“But perhaps he will not be pleased⁠—Mr. Harwell, I mean⁠—with the intrusion of a stranger into his work.” + 

She opened her eyes with astonishment. “That makes no difference,” she cried. “Mr. Harwell is in my pay, and has nothing to say about it. But he will not object. I have already consulted him, and he expresses himself as satisfied with the arrangement.” + 

“Very well,” said I; “then I will promise to consider the subject. I can at any rate look over the manuscript and give you my opinion of its condition.” + 

“Oh, thank you,” said she, with the prettiest gesture of satisfaction. “How kind you are, and what can I ever do to repay you? But would you like to see Mr. Harwell himself?” and she moved towards the door; but suddenly paused, whispering, with a short shudder of remembrance: “He is in the library; do you mind?” + 

Crushing down the sick qualm that arose at the mention of that spot, I replied in the negative. + 

“The papers are all there, and he says he can work better in his old place than anywhere else; but if you wish, I can call him down.” + 

But I would not listen to this, and myself led the way to the foot of the stairs. + 

“I have sometimes thought I would lock up that room,” she hurriedly observed; “but something restrains me. I can no more do so than I can leave this house; a power beyond myself forces me to confront all its horrors. And yet I suffer continually from terror. Sometimes, in the darkness of the night⁠—But I will not distress you. I have already said too much; come,” and with a sudden lift of the head she mounted the stairs. + 

Mr. Harwell was seated, when we entered that fatal room, in the one chair of all others I expected to see unoccupied; and as I beheld his meagre figure bending where such a little while before his eyes had encountered the outstretched form of his murdered employer, I could not but marvel over the unimaginativeness of the man who, in the face of such memories, could not only appropriate that very spot for his own use, but pursue his avocations there with so much calmness and evident precision. But in another moment I discovered that the disposition of the light in the room made that one seat the only desirable one for his purpose; and instantly my wonder changed to admiration at this quiet surrender of personal feeling to the requirements of the occasion. + 

He looked up mechanically as we came in, but did not rise, his countenance wearing the absorbed expression which bespeaks the preoccupied mind. + 

“He is utterly oblivious,” Mary whispered; “that is a way of his. I doubt if he knows who or what it is that has disturbed him.” And, advancing into the room, she passed across his line of vision, as if to call attention to herself, and said: “I have brought Mr. Raymond upstairs to see you, Mr. Harwell. He has been so kind as to accede to my wishes in regard to the completion of the manuscript now before you.” + 

Slowly Mr. Harwell rose, wiped his pen, and put it away; manifesting, however, a reluctance in doing so that proved this interference to be in reality anything but agreeable to him. Observing this, I did not wait for him to speak, but took up the pile of manuscript, arranged in one mass on the table, saying: + 

“This seems to be very clearly written; if you will excuse me, I will glance over it and thus learn something of its general character.” + 

He bowed, uttered a word or so of acquiescence, then, as Mary left the room, awkwardly reseated himself, and took up his pen. + 

Instantly the manuscript and all connected with it vanished from my thoughts; and Eleanore, her situation, and the mystery surrounding this family, returned upon me with renewed force. Looking the secretary steadily in the face, I remarked: + 

“I am very glad of this opportunity of seeing you a moment alone, Mr. Harwell, if only for the purpose of saying⁠—” + 

“Anything in regard to the murder?” + 

“Yes,” I began. + 

“Then you must pardon me,” he respectfully but firmly replied. “It is a disagreeable subject which I cannot bear to think of, much less discuss.” + 

Disconcerted and, what was more, convinced of the impossibility of obtaining any information from this man, I abandoned the attempt; and, taking up the manuscript once more, endeavored to master in some small degree the nature of its contents. Succeeding beyond my hopes, I opened a short conversation with him in regard to it, and finally, coming to the conclusion I could accomplish what Miss Leavenworth desired, left him and descended again to the reception room. + 

When, an hour or so later, I withdrew from the house, it was with the feeling that one obstacle had been removed from my path. If I failed in what I had undertaken, it would not be from lack of opportunity of studying the inmates of this dwelling. + 

The next morning’s Tribune contained a synopsis of Mr. Leavenworth’s will. Its provisions were a surprise to me; for, while the bulk of his immense estate was, according to the general understanding, bequeathed to his niece, Mary, it appeared by a codicil, attached to his will some five years before, that Eleanore was not entirely forgotten, she having been made the recipient of a legacy which, if not large, was at least sufficient to support her in comfort. After listening to the various comments of my associates on the subject, I proceeded to the house of Mr. Gryce, in obedience to his request to call upon him as soon as possible after the publication of the will. + 

“Good morning,” he remarked as I entered, but whether addressing me or the frowning top of the desk before which he was sitting it would be difficult to say. “Won’t you sit?” nodding with a curious back movement of his head towards a chair in his rear. + 

I drew up the chair to his side. “I am curious to know,” I remarked, “what you have to say about this will, and its probable effect upon the matters we have in hand.” + 

“What is your own idea in regard to it?” + 

“Well, I think upon the whole it will make but little difference in public opinion. Those who thought Eleanore guilty before will feel that they possess now greater cause than ever to doubt her innocence; while those who have hitherto hesitated to suspect her will not consider that the comparatively small amount bequeathed her would constitute an adequate motive for so great a crime.” + 

“You have heard men talk; what seems to be the general opinion among those you converse with?” + 

“That the motive of the tragedy will be found in the partiality shown in so singular a will, though how, they do not profess to know.” + 

Mr. Gryce suddenly became interested in one of the small drawers before him. + 

“And all this has not set you thinking?” said he. + 

“Thinking,” returned I. “I don’t know what you mean. I am sure I have done nothing but think for the last three days. I⁠—” + 

“Of course⁠—of course,” he cried. “I didn’t mean to say anything disagreeable. And so you have seen Mr. Clavering?” + 

“Just seen him; no more.” + 

“And are you going to assist Mr. Harwell in finishing Mr. Leavenworth’s book?” + 

“How did you learn that?” + 

He only smiled. + 

“Yes,” said I; “Miss Leavenworth has requested me to do her that little favor.” + 

“She is a queenly creature!” he exclaimed in a burst of enthusiasm. Then, with an instant return to his businesslike tone: “You are going to have opportunities, Mr. Raymond. Now there are two things I want you to find out; first, what is the connection between these ladies and Mr. Clavering⁠—” + 

“There is a connection, then?” + 

“Undoubtedly. And secondly, what is the cause of the unfriendly feeling which evidently exists between the cousins.” + 

I drew back and pondered the position offered me. A spy in a fair woman’s house! How could I reconcile it with my natural instincts as a gentleman? + 

“Cannot you find someone better adapted to learn these secrets for you?” I asked at length. “The part of a spy is anything but agreeable to my feelings, I assure you.” + 

Mr. Gryce’s brows fell. + 

“I will assist Mr. Harwell in his efforts to arrange Mr. Leavenworth’s manuscript for the press,” I said; “I will give Mr. Clavering an opportunity to form my acquaintance; and I will listen, if Miss Leavenworth chooses to make me her confidant in any way. But any hearkening at doors, surprises, unworthy feints or ungentlemanly subterfuges, I herewith disclaim as outside of my province; my task being to find out what I can in an open way, and yours to search into the nooks and corners of this wretched business.” + 

“In other words, you are to play the hound, and I the mole; just so, I know what belongs to a gentleman.” + 

“And now,” said I, “what news of Hannah?” + 

He shook both hands high in the air. “None.” + 

I cannot say I was greatly surprised, that evening, when, upon descending from an hour’s labor with Mr. Harwell, I encountered Miss Leavenworth standing at the foot of the stairs. There had been something in her bearing, the night before, which prepared me for another interview this evening, though her manner of commencing it was a surprise. “Mr. Raymond,” said she, with an air of marked embarrassment, “I want to ask you a question. I believe you to be a good man, and I know you will answer me conscientiously. As a brother would,” she added, lifting her eyes for a moment to my face. “I know it will sound strange; but remember, I have no adviser but you, and I must ask someone. Mr. Raymond, do you think a person could do something that was very wrong, and yet grow to be thoroughly good afterwards?” + 

“Certainly,” I replied; “if he were truly sorry for his fault.” + 

“But say it was more than a fault; say it was an actual harm; would not the memory of that one evil hour cast a lasting shadow over one’s life?” + 

“That depends upon the nature of the harm and its effect upon others. If one had irreparably injured a fellow-being, it would be hard for a person of sensitive nature to live a happy life afterwards; though the fact of not living a happy life ought to be no reason why one should not live a good life.” + 

“But to live a good life would it be necessary to reveal the evil you had done? Cannot one go on and do right without confessing to the world a past wrong?” + 

“Yes, unless by its confession he can in some way make reparation.” + 

My answer seemed to trouble her. Drawing back, she stood for one moment in a thoughtful attitude before me, her beauty shining with almost a statuesque splendor in the glow of the porcelain-shaded lamp at her side. Nor, though she presently roused herself, leading the way into the drawing-room with a gesture that was allurement itself, did she recur to this topic again; but rather seemed to strive, in the conversation that followed, to make me forget what had already passed between us. That she did not succeed, was owing to my intense and unfailing interest in her cousin. + 

As I descended the stoop, I saw Thomas, the butler, leaning over the area gate. Immediately I was seized with an impulse to interrogate him in regard to a matter which had more or less interested me ever since the inquest; and that was, who was the Mr. Robbins who had called upon Eleanore the night of the murder? But Thomas was decidedly uncommunicative. He remembered such a person called, but could not describe his looks any further than to say that he was not a small man. + 

I did not press the matter. + 

And now followed days in which I seemed to make little or no progress. Mr. Clavering, disturbed perhaps by my presence, forsook his usual haunts, thus depriving me of all opportunity of making his acquaintance in any natural manner, while the evenings spent at Miss Leavenworth’s were productive of little else than constant suspense and uneasiness. + 

The manuscript required less revision than I supposed. But, in the course of making such few changes as were necessary, I had ample opportunity of studying the character of Mr. Harwell. I found him to be neither more nor less than an excellent amanuensis. Stiff, unbending, and sombre, but true to his duty and reliable in its performance, I learned to respect him, and even to like him; and this, too, though I saw the liking was not reciprocated, whatever the respect may have been. He never spoke of Eleanore Leavenworth or, indeed, mentioned the family or its trouble in any way; till I began to feel that all this reticence had a cause deeper than the nature of the man, and that if he did speak, it would be to some purpose. This suspicion, of course, kept me restlessly eager in his presence. I could not forbear giving him sly glances now and then, to see how he acted when he believed himself unobserved; but he was ever the same, a passive, diligent, unexcitable worker. + 

This continual beating against a stone wall, for thus I regarded it, became at last almost unendurable. Clavering shy, and the secretary unapproachable⁠—how was I to gain anything? The short interviews I had with Mary did not help matters. Haughty, constrained, feverish, pettish, grateful, appealing, everything at once, and never twice the same, I learned to dread, even while I coveted, an interview. She appeared to be passing through some crisis which occasioned her the keenest suffering. I have seen her, when she thought herself alone, throw up her hands with the gesture which we use to ward off a coming evil or shut out some hideous vision. I have likewise beheld her standing with her proud head abased, her nervous hands drooping, her whole form sinking and inert, as if the pressure of a weight she could neither upbear nor cast aside had robbed her even of the show of resistance. But this was only once. Ordinarily she was at least stately in her trouble. Even when the softest appeal came into her eyes she stood erect, and retained her expression of conscious power. Even the night she met me in the hall, with feverish cheeks and lips trembling with eagerness, only to turn and fly again without giving utterance to what she had to say, she comported herself with a fiery dignity that was well nigh imposing. + 

That all this meant something, I was sure; and so I kept my patience alive with the hope that some day she would make a revelation. Those quivering lips would not always remain closed; the secret involving Eleanore’s honor and happiness would be divulged by this restless being, if by no one else. Nor was the memory of that extraordinary, if not cruel, accusation I had heard her make enough to destroy this hope⁠—for hope it had grown to be⁠—so that I found myself insensibly shortening my time with Mr. Harwell in the library, and extending my tête-à-tête visits with Mary in the reception room, till the imperturbable secretary was forced to complain that he was often left for hours without work. + 

But, as I say, days passed, and a second Monday evening came round without seeing me any further advanced upon the problem I had set myself to solve than when I first started upon it two weeks before. The subject of the murder had not even been broached; nor was Hannah spoken of, though I observed the papers were not allowed to languish an instant upon the stoop; mistress and servants betraying equal interest in their contents. All this was strange to me. It was as if you saw a group of human beings eating, drinking, and sleeping upon the sides of a volcano hot with a late eruption and trembling with the birth of a new one. I longed to break this silence as we shiver glass: by shouting the name of Eleanore through those gilded rooms and satin-draped vestibules. But this Monday evening I was in a calmer mood. I was determined to expect nothing from my visits to Mary Leavenworth’s house; and entered it upon the eve in question with an equanimity such as I had not experienced since the first day I passed under its unhappy portals. + 

But when, upon nearing the reception room, I saw Mary pacing the floor with the air of one who is restlessly awaiting something or somebody, I took a sudden resolution, and, advancing towards her, said: “Do I see you alone, Miss Leavenworth?” + 

She paused in her hurried action, blushed and bowed, but, contrary to her usual custom, did not bid me enter. + 

“Will it be too great an intrusion on my part, if I venture to come in?” I asked. + 

Her glance flashed uneasily to the clock, and she seemed about to excuse herself, but suddenly yielded, and, drawing up a chair before the fire, motioned me towards it. Though she endeavored to appear calm, I vaguely felt I had chanced upon her in one of her most agitated moods, and that I had only to broach the subject I had in mind to behold her haughtiness disappear before me like melting snow. I also felt that I had but few moments in which to do it. I accordingly plunged immediately into the subject. + 

“Miss Leavenworth,” said I, “in obtruding upon you tonight, I have a purpose other than that of giving myself a pleasure. I have come to make an appeal.” + 

Instantly I saw that in some way I had started wrong. “An appeal to make to me?” she asked, breathing coldness from every feature of her face. + 

“Yes,” I went on, with passionate recklessness. “Balked in every other endeavor to learn the truth, I have come to you, whom I believe to be noble at the core, for that help which seems likely to fail us in every other direction: for the word which, if it does not absolutely save your cousin, will at least put us upon the track of what will.” + 

“I do not understand what you mean,” she protested, slightly shrinking. + 

“Miss Leavenworth,” I pursued, “it is needless for me to tell you in what position your cousin stands. You, who remember both the form and drift of the questions put to her at the inquest, comprehend it all without any explanation from me. But what you may not know is this, that unless she is speedily relieved from the suspicion which, justly or not, has attached itself to her name, the consequences which such suspicion entails must fall upon her, and⁠—” + 

“Good God!” she cried; “you do not mean she will be⁠—” + 

“Subject to arrest? Yes.” + 

It was a blow. Shame, horror, and anguish were in every line of her white face. “And all because of that key!” she murmured. + 

“Key? How did you know anything about a key?” + 

“Why,” she cried, flushing painfully; “I cannot say; didn’t you tell me?” + 

“No,” I returned. + 

“The papers, then?” + 

“The papers have never mentioned it.” + 

She grew more and more agitated. “I thought everyone knew. No, I did not, either,” she avowed, in a sudden burst of shame and penitence. “I knew it was a secret; but⁠—oh, Mr. Raymond, it was Eleanore herself who told me.” + 

“Eleanore?” + 

“Yes, that last evening she was here; we were together in the drawing-room.” + 

“What did she tell?” + 

“That the key to the library had been seen in her possession.” + 

I could scarcely conceal my incredulity. Eleanore, conscious of the suspicion with which her cousin regarded her, inform that cousin of a fact calculated to add weight to that suspicion? I could not believe this. + 

“But you knew it?” Mary went on. “I have revealed nothing I ought to have kept secret?” + 

“No,” said I; “and, Miss Leavenworth, it is this thing which makes your cousin’s position absolutely dangerous. It is a fact that, left unexplained, must ever link her name with infamy; a bit of circumstantial evidence no sophistry can smother, and no denial obliterate. Only her hitherto spotless reputation, and the efforts of one who, notwithstanding appearances, believes in her innocence, keeps her so long from the clutch of the officers of justice. That key, and the silence preserved by her in regard to it, is sinking her slowly into a pit from which the utmost endeavors of her best friends will soon be inadequate to extricate her.” + 

“And you tell me this⁠—” + 

“That you may have pity on the poor girl, who will not have pity on herself, and by the explanation of a few circumstances, which cannot be mysteries to you, assist in bringing her from under the dreadful shadow that threatens to overwhelm her.” + 

“And would you insinuate, sir,” she cried, turning upon me with a look of great anger, “that I know any more than you do of this matter? that I possess any knowledge which I have not already made public concerning the dreadful tragedy which has transformed our home into a desert, our existence into a lasting horror? Has the blight of suspicion fallen upon me, too; and have you come to accuse me in my own house⁠—” + 

“Miss Leavenworth,” I entreated; “calm yourself. I accuse you of nothing. I only desire you to enlighten me as to your cousin’s probable motive for this criminating silence. You cannot be ignorant of it. You are her cousin, almost her sister, have been at all events her daily companion for years, and must know for whom or for what she seals her lips, and conceals facts which, if known, would direct suspicion to the real criminal⁠—that is, if you really believe what you have hitherto stated, that your cousin is an innocent woman.” + 

She not making any answer to this, I rose and confronted her. “Miss Leavenworth, do you believe your cousin guiltless of this crime, or not?” + 

“Guiltless? Eleanore? Oh! my God; if all the world were only as innocent as she!” + 

“Then,” said I, “you must likewise believe that if she refrains from speaking in regard to matters which to ordinary observers ought to be explained, she does it only from motives of kindness towards one less guiltless than herself.” + 

“What? No, no; I do not say that. What made you think of any such explanation?” + 

“The action itself. With one of Eleanore’s character, such conduct as hers admits of no other construction. Either she is mad, or she is shielding another at the expense of herself.” + 

Mary’s lip, which had trembled, slowly steadied itself. “And whom have you settled upon, as the person for whom Eleanore thus sacrifices herself?” + 

“Ah,” said I, “there is where I seek assistance from you. With your knowledge of her history⁠—” + 

But Mary Leavenworth, sinking haughtily back into her chair, stopped me with a quiet gesture. “I beg your pardon,” said she; “but you make a mistake. I know little or nothing of Eleanore’s personal feelings. The mystery must be solved by someone besides me.” + 

I changed my tactics. + 

“When Eleanore confessed to you that the missing key had been seen in her possession, did she likewise inform you where she obtained it, and for what reason she was hiding it?” + 

“No.” + 

“Merely told you the fact, without any explanation?” + 

“Yes.” + 

“Was not that a strange piece of gratuitous information for her to give one who, but a few hours before, had accused her to the face of committing a deadly crime?” + 

“What do you mean?” she asked, her voice suddenly sinking. + 

“You will not deny that you were once, not only ready to believe her guilty, but that you actually charged her with having perpetrated this crime.” + 

“Explain yourself!” she cried. + 

“Miss Leavenworth, do you not remember what you said in that room upstairs, when you were alone with your cousin on the morning of the inquest, just before Mr. Gryce and myself entered your presence?” + 

Her eyes did not fall, but they filled with sudden terror. + 

“You heard?” she whispered. + 

“I could not help it. I was just outside the door, and⁠—” + 

“What did you hear?” + 

I told her. + 

“And Mr. Gryce?” + 

“He was at my side.” + 

It seemed as if her eyes would devour my face. “Yet nothing was said when you came in?” + 

“No.” + 

“You, however, have never forgotten it?” + 

“How could we, Miss Leavenworth?” + 

Her head fell forward in her hands, and for one wild moment she seemed lost in despair. Then she roused, and desperately exclaimed: + 

“And that is why you come here tonight. With that sentence written upon your heart, you invade my presence, torture me with questions⁠—” + 

“Pardon me,” I broke in; “are my questions such as you, with reasonable regard for the honor of one with whom you are accustomed to associate, should hesitate to answer? Do I derogate from my manhood in asking you how and why you came to make an accusation of so grave a nature, at a time when all the circumstances of the case were freshly before you, only to insist fully as strongly upon your cousin’s innocence when you found there was even more cause for your imputation than you had supposed?” + 

She did not seem to hear me. “Oh, my cruel fate!” she murmured. “Oh, my cruel fate!” + 

“Miss Leavenworth,” said I, rising, and taking my stand before her; “although there is a temporary estrangement between you and your cousin, you cannot wish to seem her enemy. Speak, then; let me at least know the name of him for whom she thus immolates herself. A hint from you⁠—” + 

But rising, with a strange look, to her feet, she interrupted me with a stern remark: “If you do not know, I cannot inform you; do not ask me, Mr. Raymond.” And she glanced at the clock for the second time. + 

I took another turn. + 

“Miss Leavenworth, you once asked me if a person who had committed a wrong ought necessarily to confess it; and I replied no, unless by the confession reparation could be made. Do you remember?” + 

Her lips moved, but no words issued from them. + 

“I begin to think,” I solemnly proceeded, following the lead of her emotion, “that confession is the only way out of this difficulty: that only by the words you can utter Eleanore can be saved from the doom that awaits her. Will you not then show yourself a true woman by responding to my earnest entreaties?” + 

I seemed to have touched the right chord; for she trembled, and a look of wistfulness filled her eyes. “Oh, if I could!” she murmured. + 

“And why can you not? You will never be happy till you do. Eleanore persists in silence; but that is no reason why you should emulate her example. You only make her position more doubtful by it.” + 

“I know it; but I cannot help myself. Fate has too strong a hold upon me; I cannot break away.” + 

“That is not true. Anyone can escape from bonds imaginary as yours.” + 

“No, no,” she protested; “you do not understand.” + 

“I understand this: that the path of rectitude is a straight one, and that he who steps into devious byways is going astray.” + 

A flicker of light, pathetic beyond description, flashed for a moment across her face; her throat rose as with one wild sob; her lips opened; she seemed yielding, when⁠—A sharp ring at the front doorbell! + 

“Oh,” she cried, sharply turning, “tell him I cannot see him; tell him⁠—” + 

“Miss Leavenworth,” said I, taking her by both hands, “never mind the door; never mind anything but this. I have asked you a question which involves the mystery of this whole affair; answer me, then, for your soul’s sake; tell me, what the unhappy circumstances were which could induce you⁠—” + 

But she tore her hands from mine. “The door!” she cried; “it will open, and⁠—” + 

Stepping into the hall, I met Thomas coming up the basement stairs. “Go back,” said I; “I will call you when you are wanted.” + 

With a bow he disappeared. + 

“You expect me to answer,” she exclaimed, when I reentered, “now, in a moment? I cannot.” + 

“But⁠—” + 

“Impossible!” fastening her gaze upon the front door. + 

“Miss Leavenworth!” + 

She shuddered. + 

“I fear the time will never come, if you do not speak now.” + 

“Impossible,” she reiterated. + 

Another twang at the bell. + 

“You hear!” said she. + 

I went into the hall and called Thomas. “You may open the door now,” said I, and moved to return to her side. + 

But, with a gesture of command, she pointed upstairs. “Leave me!” and her glance passed on to Thomas, who stopped where he was. + 

“I will see you again before I go,” said I, and hastened upstairs. + 

Thomas opened the door. “Is Miss Leavenworth in?” I heard a rich, tremulous voice inquire. + 

“Yes, sir,” came in the butler’s most respectful and measured accents, and, leaning over the banisters I beheld, to my amazement, the form of Mr. Clavering enter the front hall and move towards the reception room. + 

Excited, tremulous, filled with wonder at this unlooked-for event, I paused for a moment to collect my scattered senses, when the sound of a low, monotonous voice breaking upon my ear from the direction of the library, I approached and found Mr. Harwell reading aloud from his late employer’s manuscript. It would be difficult for me to describe the effect which this simple discovery made upon me at this time. There, in that room of late death, withdrawn from the turmoil of the world, a hermit in his skeleton-lined cell, this man employed himself in reading and rereading, with passive interest, the words of the dead, while above and below, human beings agonized in doubt and shame. Listening, I heard these words: + 

“By these means their native rulers will not only lose their jealous terror of our institutions, but acquire an actual curiosity in regard to them.” + 

Opening the door I went in. + 

“Ah! you are late, sir,” was the greeting with which he rose and brought forward a chair. + 

My reply was probably inaudible, for he added, as he passed to his own seat: + 

“I am afraid you are not well.” + 

I roused myself. + 

“I am not ill.” And, pulling the papers towards me, I began looking them over. But the words danced before my eyes, and I was obliged to give up all attempt at work for that night. + 

“I fear I am unable to assist you this evening, Mr. Harwell. The fact is, I find it difficult to give proper attention to this business while the man who by a dastardly assassination has made it necessary goes unpunished.” + 

The secretary in his turn pushed the papers aside, as if moved by a sudden distaste of them, but gave me no answer. + 

“You told me, when you first came to me with news of this fearful tragedy, that it was a mystery; but it is one which must be solved, Mr. Harwell; it is wearing out the lives of too many whom we love and respect.” + 

The secretary gave me a look. “Miss Eleanore?” he murmured. + 

“And Miss Mary,” I went on; “myself, you, and many others.” + 

“You have manifested much interest in the matter from the beginning,”⁠—he said, methodically dipping his pen into the ink. + 

I stared at him in amazement. + 

“And you,” said I; “do you take no interest in that which involves not only the safety, but the happiness and honor, of the family in which you have dwelt so long?” + 

He looked at me with increased coldness. “I have no wish to discuss this subject. I believe I have before prayed you to spare me its introduction.” And he arose. + 

“But I cannot consider your wishes in this regard,” I persisted. “If you know any facts, connected with this affair, which have not yet been made public, it is manifestly your duty to state them. The position which Miss Eleanore occupies at this time is one which should arouse the sense of justice in every true breast; and if you⁠—” + 

“If I knew anything which would serve to release her from her unhappy position, Mr. Raymond, I should have spoken long ago.” + 

I bit my lip, weary of these continual bafflings, and rose also. + 

“If you have nothing more to say,” he went on, “and feel utterly disinclined to work, why, I should be glad to excuse myself, as I have an engagement out.” + 

“Do not let me keep you,” I said, bitterly. “I can take care of myself.” + 

He turned upon me with a short stare, as if this display of feeling was well nigh incomprehensible to him; and then, with a quiet, almost compassionate bow left the room. I heard him go upstairs, felt the jar when his room door closed, and sat down to enjoy my solitude. But solitude in that room was unbearable. By the time Mr. Harwell again descended, I felt I could remain no longer, and, stepping into the hall, told him that if he had no objection I would accompany him for a short stroll. + 

He bowed a stiff assent, and hastened before me down the stairs. By the time I had closed the library door, he was halfway to the foot, and I was just remarking to myself upon the unpliability of his figure and the awkwardness of his carriage, as seen from my present standpoint, when suddenly I saw him stop, clutch the banister at his side, and hang there with a startled, deathly expression upon his half-turned countenance, which fixed me for an instant where I was in breathless astonishment, and then caused me to rush down to his side, catch him by the arm, and cry: + 

“What is it? what is the matter?” + 

But, thrusting out his hand, he pushed me upwards. “Go back!” he whispered, in a voice shaking with intensest emotion, “go back.” And catching me by the arm, he literally pulled me up the stairs. Arrived at the top, he loosened his grasp, and leaning, quivering from head to foot, over the banisters, glared below. + 

“Who is that?” he cried. “Who is that man? What is his name?” + 

Startled in my turn, I bent beside him, and saw Henry Clavering come out of the reception room and cross the hall. + 

“That is Mr. Clavering,” I whispered, with all the self-possession I could muster; “do you know him?” + 

Mr. Harwell fell back against the opposite wall. “Clavering, Clavering,” he murmured with quaking lips; then, suddenly bounding forward, clutched the railing before him, and fixing me with his eyes, from which all the stoic calmness had gone down forever in flame and frenzy, gurgled into my ear: “You want to know who the assassin of Mr. Leavenworth is, do you? Look there, then: that is the man, Clavering!” And with a leap, he bounded from my side, and, swaying like a drunken man, disappeared from my gaze in the hall above. + 

My first impulse was to follow him. Rushing upstairs, I knocked at the door of his room, but no response came to my summons. I then called his name in the hall, but without avail; he was determined not to show himself. Resolved that he should not thus escape me, I returned to the library, and wrote him a short note, in which I asked for an explanation of his tremendous accusation, saying I would be in my rooms the next evening at six, when I should expect to see him. This done I descended to rejoin Mary. + 

But the evening was destined to be full of disappointments. She had retired to her room while I was in the library, and I lost the interview from which I expected so much. “The woman is slippery as an eel,” I inwardly commented, pacing the hall in my chagrin. “Wrapped in mystery, she expects me to feel for her the respect due to one of frank and open nature.” + 

I was about to leave the house, when I saw Thomas descending the stairs with a letter in his hand. + 

“Miss Leavenworth’s compliments, sir, and she is too fatigued to remain below this evening.” + 

I moved aside to read the note he handed me, feeling a little conscience-stricken as I traced the hurried, trembling handwriting through the following words: + 

“You ask more than I can give. Matters must be received as they are without explanation from me. It is the grief of my life to deny you; but I have no choice. God forgive us all and keep us from despair. + 

And below: + 

“As we cannot meet now without embarrassment, it is better we should bear our burdens in silence and apart. Mr. Harwell will visit you. Farewell!” + 

As I was crossing Thirty-second Street, I heard a quick footstep behind me, and turning, saw Thomas at my side. “Excuse me, sir,” said he, “but I have something a little particular to say to you. When you asked me the other night what sort of a person the gentleman was who called on Miss Eleanore the evening of the murder, I didn’t answer you as I should. The fact is, the detectives had been talking to me about that very thing, and I felt shy; but, sir, I know you are a friend of the family, and I want to tell you now that that same gentleman, whoever he was⁠—Mr. Robbins, he called himself then⁠—was at the house again tonight, sir, and the name he gave me this time to carry to Miss Leavenworth was Clavering. Yes, sir,” he went on, seeing me start; “and, as I told Molly, he acts queer for a stranger. When he came the other night, he hesitated a long time before asking for Miss Eleanore, and when I wanted his name, took out a card and wrote on it the one I told you of, sir, with a look on his face a little peculiar for a caller; besides⁠—” + 

“Well?” + 

“Mr. Raymond,” the butler went on, in a low, excited voice, edging up very closely to me in the darkness. “There is something I have never told any living being but Molly, sir, which may be of use to those as wishes to find out who committed this murder.” + 

“A fact or a suspicion?” I inquired. + 

“A fact, sir; which I beg your pardon for troubling you with at this time; but Molly will give me no rest unless I speak of it to you or Mr. Gryce; her feelings being so worked up on Hannah’s account, whom we all know is innocent, though folks do dare to say as how she must be guilty just because she is not to be found the minute they want her.” + 

“But this fact?” I urged. + 

“Well, the fact is this. You see⁠—I would tell Mr. Gryce,” he resumed, unconscious of my anxiety, “but I have my fears of detectives, sir; they catch you up so quick at times, and seem to think you know so much more than you really do.” + 

“But this fact,” I again broke in. + 

“O yes, sir; the fact is, that that night, the one of the murder you know, I saw Mr. Clavering, Robbins, or whatever his name is, enter the house, but neither I nor anyone else saw him go out of it; nor do I know that he did.” + 

“What do you mean?” + 

“Well, sir, what I mean is this. When I came down from Miss Eleanore and told Mr. Robbins, as he called himself at that time, that my mistress was ill and unable to see him (the word she gave me, sir, to deliver) Mr. Robbins, instead of bowing and leaving the house like a gentleman, stepped into the reception room and sat down. He may have felt sick, he looked pale enough; at any rate, he asked me for a glass of water. Not knowing any reason then for suspicionating anyone’s actions, I immediately went down to the kitchen for it, leaving him there in the reception room alone. But before I could get it, I heard the front door close. ‘What’s that?’ said Molly, who was helping me, sir. ‘I don’t know,’ said I, ‘unless it’s the gentleman has got tired of waiting and gone.’ ‘If he’s gone, he won’t want the water,’ she said. So down I set the pitcher, and upstairs I come; and sure enough he was gone, or so I thought then. But who knows, sir, if he was not in that room or the drawing-room, which was dark that night, all the time I was a-shutting up of the house?” + 

I made no reply to this; I was more startled than I cared to reveal. + 

“You see, sir, I wouldn’t speak of such a thing about any person that comes to see the young ladies; but we all know someone who was in the house that night murdered my master, and as it was not Hannah⁠—” + 

“You say that Miss Eleanore refused to see him,” I interrupted, in the hope that the simple suggestion would be enough to elicitate further details of his interview with Eleanore. + 

“Yes, sir. When she first looked at the card, she showed a little hesitation; but in a moment she grew very flushed in the face, and bade me say what I told you. I should never have thought of it again if I had not seen him come blazoning and bold into the house this evening, with a new name on his tongue. Indeed, and I do not like to think any evil of him now; but Molly would have it I should speak to you, sir, and ease my mind⁠—and that is all, sir.” + 

When I arrived home that night, I entered into my memorandum-book a new list of suspicious circumstances, but this time they were under the caption “C” instead of “E.” + 

The next day as, with nerves unstrung and an exhausted brain, I entered my office, I was greeted by the announcement: + 

“A gentleman, sir, in your private room⁠—been waiting some time, very impatient.” + 

Weary, in no mood to hold consultation with clients new or old, I advanced with anything but an eager step towards my room, when, upon opening the door, I saw⁠—Mr. Clavering. + 

Too much astounded for the moment to speak, I bowed to him silently, whereupon he approached me with the air and dignity of a highly bred gentleman, and presented his card, on which I saw written, in free and handsome characters, his whole name, Henry Ritchie Clavering. After this introduction of himself, he apologized for making so unceremonious a call, saying, in excuse, that he was a stranger in town; that his business was one of great urgency; that he had casually heard honorable mention of me as a lawyer and a gentleman, and so had ventured to seek this interview on behalf of a friend who was so unfortunately situated as to require the opinion and advice of a lawyer upon a question which not only involved an extraordinary state of facts, but was of a nature peculiarly embarrassing to him, owing to his ignorance of American laws, and the legal bearing of these facts upon the same. + 

Having thus secured my attention, and awakened my curiosity, he asked me if I would permit him to relate his story. Recovering in a measure from my astonishment, and subduing the extreme repulsion, almost horror, I felt for the man, I signified my assent; at which he drew from his pocket a memorandum-book from which he read in substance as follows: + 

“An Englishman travelling in this country meets, at a fashionable watering-place, an American girl, with whom he falls deeply in love, and whom, after a few days, he desires to marry. Knowing his position to be good, his fortune ample, and his intentions highly honorable, he offers her his hand, and is accepted. But a decided opposition arising in the family to the match, he is compelled to disguise his sentiments, though the engagement remained unbroken. While matters were in this uncertain condition, he received advices from England demanding his instant return, and, alarmed at the prospect of a protracted absence from the object of his affections, he writes to the lady, informing her of the circumstances, and proposing a secret marriage. She consents with stipulations; the first of which is, that he should leave her instantly upon the conclusion of the ceremony, and the second, that he should entrust the public declaration of the marriage to her. It was not precisely what he wished, but anything which served to make her his own was acceptable at such a crisis. He readily enters into the plans proposed. Meeting the lady at a parsonage, some twenty miles from the watering-place at which she was staying, he stands up with her before a Methodist preacher, and the ceremony of marriage is performed. There were two witnesses, a hired man of the minister, called in for the purpose, and a lady friend who came with the bride; but there was no license, and the bride had not completed her twenty-first year. Now, was that marriage legal? If the lady, wedded in good faith upon that day by my friend, chooses to deny that she is his lawful wife, can he hold her to a compact entered into in so informal a manner? In short, Mr. Raymond, is my friend the lawful husband of that girl or not?” + 

While listening to this story, I found myself yielding to feelings greatly in contrast to those with which I greeted the relator but a moment before. I became so interested in his “friend’s” case as to quite forget, for the time being, that I had ever seen or heard of Henry Clavering; and after learning that the marriage ceremony took place in the State of New York, I replied to him, as near as I can remember, in the following words: + 

“In this State, and I believe it to be American law, marriage is a civil contract, requiring neither license, priest, ceremony, nor certificate⁠—and in some cases witnesses are not even necessary to give it validity. Of old, the modes of getting a wife were the same as those of acquiring any other species of property, and they are not materially changed at the present time. It is enough that the man and woman say to each other, ‘From this time we are married,’ or, ‘You are now my wife,’ or, ‘my husband,’ as the case may be. The mutual consent is all that is necessary. In fact, you may contract marriage as you contract to lend a sum of money, or to buy the merest trifle.” + 

“Then your opinion is⁠—” + 

“That upon your statement, your friend is the lawful husband of the lady in question; presuming, of course, that no legal disabilities of either party existed to prevent such a union. As to the young lady’s age, I will merely say that any fourteen-year-old girl can be a party to a marriage contract.” + 

Mr. Clavering bowed, his countenance assuming a look of great satisfaction. “I am very glad to hear this,” said he; “my friend’s happiness is entirely involved in the establishment of his marriage.” + 

He appeared so relieved, my curiosity was yet further aroused. I therefore said: “I have given you my opinion as to the legality of this marriage; but it may be quite another thing to prove it, should the same be contested.” + 

He started, cast me an inquiring look, and murmured: + 

“True.” + 

“Allow me to ask you a few questions. Was the lady married under her own name?” + 

“She was.” + 

“The gentleman?” + 

“Yes, sir.” + 

“Did the lady receive a certificate?” + 

“She did.” + 

“Properly signed by the minister and witnesses?” + 

He bowed his head in assent. + 

“Did she keep this?” + 

“I cannot say; but I presume she did.” + 

“The witnesses were⁠—” + 

“A hired man of the minister⁠—” + 

“Who can be found?” + 

“Who cannot be found.” + 

“Dead or disappeared?” + 

“The minister is dead, the man has disappeared.” + 

“The minister dead!” + 

“Three months since.” + 

“And the marriage took place when?” + 

“Last July.” + 

“The other witness, the lady friend, where is she?” + 

“She can be found; but her action is not to be depended upon.” + 

“Has the gentleman himself no proofs of this marriage?” + 

Mr. Clavering shook his head. “He cannot even prove he was in the town where it took place on that particular day.” + 

“The marriage certificate was, however, filed with the clerk of the town?” said I. + 

“It was not, sir.” + 

“How was that?” + 

“I cannot say. I only know that my friend has made inquiry, and that no such paper is to be found.” + 

I leaned slowly back and looked at him. “I do not wonder your friend is concerned in regard to his position, if what you hint is true, and the lady seems disposed to deny that any such ceremony ever took place. Still, if he wishes to go to law, the Court may decide in his favor, though I doubt it. His sworn word is all he would have to go upon, and if she contradicts his testimony under oath, why the sympathy of a jury is, as a rule, with the woman.” + 

Mr. Clavering rose, looked at me with some earnestness, and finally asked, in a tone which, though somewhat changed, lacked nothing of its former suavity, if I would be kind enough to give him in writing that portion of my opinion which directly bore upon the legality of the marriage; that such a paper would go far towards satisfying his friend that his case had been properly presented; as he was aware that no respectable lawyer would put his name to a legal opinion without first having carefully arrived at his conclusions by a thorough examination of the law bearing upon the facts submitted. + 

This request seeming so reasonable, I unhesitatingly complied with it, and handed him the opinion. He took it, and, after reading it carefully over, deliberately copied it into his memorandum-book. This done, he turned towards me, a strong, though hitherto subdued, emotion showing itself in his countenance. + 

“Now, sir,” said he, rising upon me to the full height of his majestic figure, “I have but one more request to make; and that is, that you will receive back this opinion into your own possession, and in the day you think to lead a beautiful woman to the altar, pause and ask yourself: ‘Am I sure that the hand I clasp with such impassioned fervor is free? Have I any certainty for knowing that it has not already been given away, like that of the lady whom, in this opinion of mine, I have declared to be a wedded wife according to the laws of my country?’ ” + 

“Mr. Clavering!” + 

But he, with an urbane bow, laid his hand upon the knob of the door. “I thank you for your courtesy, Mr. Raymond, and I bid you good day. I hope you will have no need of consulting that paper before I see you again.” And with another bow, he passed out. + 

It was the most vital shock I had yet experienced; and for a moment I stood paralyzed. Me! me! Why should he mix me up with the affair unless⁠—but I would not contemplate that possibility. Eleanore married, and to this man? No, no; anything but that! And yet I found myself continually turning the supposition over in my mind until, to escape the torment of my own conjectures, I seized my hat, and rushed into the street in the hope of finding him again and extorting from him an explanation of his mysterious conduct. But by the time I reached the sidewalk, he was nowhere to be seen. A thousand busy men, with their various cares and purposes, had pushed themselves between us, and I was obliged to return to my office with my doubts unsolved. + 

I think I never experienced a longer day; but it passed, and at five o’clock I had the satisfaction of inquiring for Mr. Clavering at the Hoffman House. Judge of my surprise when I learned that his visit to my office was his last action before taking passage upon the steamer leaving that day for Liverpool; that he was now on the high seas, and all chance of another interview with him was at an end. I could scarcely believe the fact at first; but after a talk with the cabman who had driven him off to my office and thence to the steamer, I became convinced. My first feeling was one of shame. I had been brought face to face with the accused man, had received an intimation from him that he was not expecting to see me again for some time, and had weakly gone on attending to my own affairs and allowed him to escape, like the simple tyro that I was. My next, the necessity of notifying Mr. Gryce of this man’s departure. But it was now six o’clock, the hour set apart for my interview with Mr. Harwell. I could not afford to miss that, so merely stopping to despatch a line to Mr. Gryce, in which I promised to visit him that evening, I turned my steps towards home. I found Mr. Harwell there before me. + 

Instantly a great dread seized me. What revelations might not this man be going to make! But I subdued the feeling; and, greeting him with what cordiality I could, settled myself to listen to his explanations. + 

But Trueman Harwell had no explanations to give, or so it seemed; on the contrary, he had come to apologize for the very violent words he had used the evening before; words which, whatever their effect upon me, he now felt bound to declare had been used without sufficient basis in fact to make their utterance of the least importance. + 

“But you must have thought you had grounds for so tremendous an accusation, or your act was that of a madman.” + 

His brow wrinkled heavily, and his eyes assumed a very gloomy expression. “It does not follow,” he returned. “Under the pressure of surprise, I have known men utter convictions no better founded than mine without running the risk of being called mad.” + 

“Surprise? Mr. Clavering’s face or form must, then, have been known to you. The mere fact of seeing a strange gentleman in the hall would have been insufficient to cause you astonishment, Mr. Harwell.” + 

He uneasily fingered the back of the chair before which he stood, but made no reply. + 

“Sit down,” I again urged, this time with a touch of command in my voice. “This is a serious matter, and I intend to deal with it as it deserves. You once said that if you knew anything which might serve to exonerate Eleanore Leavenworth from the suspicion under which she stands, you would be ready to impart it.” + 

“Pardon me. I said that if I had ever known anything calculated to release her from her unhappy position, I would have spoken,” he coldly corrected. + 

“Do not quibble. You know, and I know, that you are keeping something back; and I ask you, in her behalf, and in the cause of justice, to tell me what it is.” + 

“You are mistaken,” was his dogged reply. “I have reasons, perhaps, for certain conclusions I may have drawn; but my conscience will not allow me in cold blood to give utterance to suspicions which may not only damage the reputation of an honest man, but place me in the unpleasant position of an accuser without substantial foundation for my accusations.” + 

“You occupy that position already,” I retorted, with equal coldness. “Nothing can make me forget that in my presence you have denounced Henry Clavering as the murderer of Mr. Leavenworth. You had better explain yourself, Mr. Harwell.” + 

He gave me a short look, but moved around and took the chair. “You have me at a disadvantage,” he said, in a lighter tone. “If you choose to profit by your position, and press me to disclose the little I know, I can only regret the necessity under which I lie, and speak.” + 

“Then you are deterred by conscientious scruples alone?” + 

“Yes, and by the meagreness of the facts at my command.” + 

“I will judge of the facts when I have heard them.” + 

He raised his eyes to mine, and I was astonished to observe a strange eagerness in their depths; evidently his convictions were stronger than his scruples. “Mr. Raymond,” he began, “you are a lawyer, and undoubtedly a practical man; but you may know what it is to scent danger before you see it, to feel influences working in the air over and about you, and yet be in ignorance of what it is that affects you so powerfully, till chance reveals that an enemy has been at your side, or a friend passed your window, or the shadow of death crossed your book as you read, or mingled with your breath as you slept?” + 

I shook my head, fascinated by the intensity of his gaze into some sort of response. + 

“Then you cannot understand me, or what I have suffered these last three weeks.” And he drew back with an icy reserve that seemed to promise but little to my now thoroughly awakened curiosity. + 

“I beg your pardon,” I hastened to say; “but the fact of my never having experienced such sensations does not hinder me from comprehending the emotions of others more affected by spiritual influences than myself.” + 

He drew himself slowly forward. “Then you will not ridicule me if I say that upon the eve of Mr. Leavenworth’s murder I experienced in a dream all that afterwards occurred; saw him murdered, saw”⁠—and he clasped his hands before him, in an attitude inexpressibly convincing, while his voice sank to a horrified whisper, “saw the face of his murderer!” + 

I started, looked at him in amazement, a thrill as at a ghostly presence running through me. + 

“And was that⁠—” I began. + 

“My reason for denouncing the man I beheld before me in the hall of Miss Leavenworth’s house last night? It was.” And, taking out his handkerchief, he wiped his forehead, on which the perspiration was standing in large drops. + 

“You would then intimate that the face you saw in your dream and the face you saw in the hall last night were the same?” + 

He gravely nodded his head. + 

I drew my chair nearer to his. “Tell me your dream,” said I. + 

“It was the night before Mr. Leavenworth’s murder. I had gone to bed feeling especially contented with myself and the world at large; for, though my life is anything but a happy one,” and he heaved a short sigh, “some pleasant words had been said to me that day, and I was revelling in the happiness they conferred, when suddenly a chill struck my heart, and the darkness which a moment before had appeared to me as the abode of peace thrilled to the sound of a supernatural cry, and I heard my name, ‘Trueman, Trueman, Trueman,’ repeated three times in a voice I did not recognize, and starting from my pillow beheld at my bedside a woman. Her face was strange to me,” he solemnly proceeded, “but I can give you each and every detail of it, as, bending above me, she stared into my eyes with a growing terror that seemed to implore help, though her lips were quiet, and only the memory of that cry echoed in my ears.” + 

“Describe the face,” I interposed. + 

“It was a round, fair, lady’s face. Very lovely in contour, but devoid of coloring; not beautiful, but winning from its childlike look of trust. The hair, banded upon the low, broad forehead, was brown; the eyes, which were very far apart, gray; the mouth, which was its most charming feature, delicate of make and very expressive. There was a dimple in the chin, but none in the cheeks. It was a face to be remembered.” + 

“Go on,” said I. + 

“Meeting the gaze of those imploring eyes, I started up. Instantly the face and all vanished, and I became conscious, as we sometimes do in dreams, of a certain movement in the hall below, and the next instant the gliding figure of a man of imposing size entered the library. I remember experiencing a certain thrill at this, half terror, half curiosity, though I seemed to know, as if by intuition, what he was going to do. Strange to say, I now seemed to change my personality, and to be no longer a third party watching these proceedings, but Mr. Leavenworth himself, sitting at his library table and feeling his doom crawling upon him without capacity for speech or power of movement to avert it. Though my back was towards the man, I could feel his stealthy form traverse the passage, enter the room beyond, pass to that stand where the pistol was, try the drawer, find it locked, turn the key, procure the pistol, weigh it in an accustomed hand, and advance again. I could feel each footstep he took as though his feet were in truth upon my heart, and I remember staring at the table before me as if I expected every moment to see it run with my own blood. I can see now how the letters I had been writing danced upon the paper before me, appearing to my eyes to take the phantom shapes of persons and things long ago forgotten; crowding my last moments with regrets and dead shames, wild longings, and unspeakable agonies, through all of which that face, the face of my former dream, mingled, pale, sweet, and searching, while closer and closer behind me crept that noiseless foot till I could feel the glaring of the assassin’s eyes across the narrow threshold separating me from death and hear the click of his teeth as he set his lips for the final act. Ah!” and the secretary’s livid face showed the touch of awful horror, “what words can describe such an experience as that? In one moment, all the agonies of hell in the heart and brain, the next a blank through which I seemed to see afar, and as if suddenly removed from all this, a crouching figure looking at its work with starting eyes and pallid back-drawn lips; and seeing, recognize no face that I had ever known, but one so handsome, so remarkable, so unique in its formation and character, that it would be as easy for me to mistake the countenance of my father as the look and figure of the man revealed to me in my dream.” + 

“And this face?” said I, in a voice I failed to recognize as my own. + 

“Was that of him whom we saw leave Mary Leavenworth’s presence last night and go down the hall to the front door.” + 

For one moment I sat a prey to superstitious horror; then, my natural incredulity asserting itself, I looked up and remarked: + 

“You say that all this took place the night previous to the actual occurrence?” + 

He bowed his head. “For a warning,” he declared. + 

“But you did not seem to take it as such?” + 

“No; I am subject to horrible dreams. I thought but little of it in a superstitious way till I looked next day upon Mr. Leavenworth’s dead body.” + 

“I do not wonder you behaved strangely at the inquest.” + 

“Ah, sir,” he returned, with a slow, sad smile; “no one knows what I suffered in my endeavors not to tell more than I actually knew, irrespective of my dream, of this murder and the manner of its accomplishment.” + 

“You believe, then, that your dream foreshadowed the manner of the murder as well as the fact?” + 

“I do.” + 

“It is a pity it did not go a little further, then, and tell us how the assassin escaped from, if not how he entered, a house so securely fastened.” + 

His face flushed. “That would have been convenient,” he repeated. “Also, if I had been informed where Hannah was, and why a stranger and a gentleman should have stooped to the committal of such a crime.” + 

Seeing that he was nettled, I dropped my bantering vein. “Why do you say a stranger?” I asked; “are you so well acquainted with all who visit that house as to be able to say who are and who are not strangers to the family? + 

“I am well acquainted with the faces of their friends, and Henry Clavering is not amongst the number; but⁠—” + 

“Were you ever with Mr. Leavenworth,” I interrupted, “when he has been away from home; in the country, for instance, or upon his travels?” + 

“No.” But the negative came with some constraint. + 

“Yet I suppose he was in the habit of absenting himself from home?” + 

“Certainly.” + 

“Can you tell me where he was last July, he and the ladies?” + 

“Yes, sir; they went to R⁠⸺. The famous watering-place, you know. Ah,” he cried, seeing a change in my face, “do you think he could have met them there?” + 

I looked at him for a moment, then, rising in my turn, stood level with him, and exclaimed: + 

“You are keeping something back, Mr. Harwell; you have more knowledge of this man than you have hitherto given me to understand. What is it?” + 

He seemed astonished at my penetration, but replied: “I know no more of the man than I have already informed you; but”⁠—and a burning flush crossed his face, “if you are determined to pursue this matter⁠—” and he paused, with an inquiring look. + 

“I am resolved to find out all I can about Henry Clavering,” was my decided answer. + 

“Then,” said he, “I can tell you this much. Henry Clavering wrote a letter to Mr. Leavenworth a few days before the murder, which I have some reason to believe produced a marked effect upon the household.” And, folding his arms, the secretary stood quietly awaiting my next question. + 

“How do you know?” I asked. + 

“I opened it by mistake. I was in the habit of reading Mr. Leavenworth’s business letters, and this, being from one unaccustomed to write to him, lacked the mark which usually distinguished those of a private nature.” + 

“And you saw the name of Clavering?” + 

“I did; Henry Ritchie Clavering.” + 

“Did you read the letter?” I was trembling now. + 

The secretary did not reply. + 

“Mr. Harwell,” I reiterated, “this is no time for false delicacy. Did you read that letter?” + 

“I did; but hastily, and with an agitated conscience.” + 

“You can, however, recall its general drift?” + 

“It was some complaint in regard to the treatment received by him at the hand of one of Mr. Leavenworth’s nieces. I remember nothing more.” + 

“Which niece?” + 

“There were no names mentioned.” + 

“But you inferred⁠—” + 

“No, sir; that is just what I did not do. I forced myself to forget the whole thing.” + 

“And yet you say it produced an effect upon the family?” + 

“I can see now that it did. None of them have ever appeared quite the same as before.” + 

“Mr. Harwell,” I gravely continued; “when you were questioned as to the receipt of any letter by Mr. Leavenworth, which might seem in any manner to be connected with this tragedy, you denied having seen any such; how was that?” + 

“Mr. Raymond, you are a gentleman; have a chivalrous regard for the ladies; do you think you could have brought yourself (even if in your secret heart you considered some such result possible, which I am not ready to say I did) to mention, at such a time as that, the receipt of a letter complaining of the treatment received from one of Mr. Leavenworth’s nieces, as a suspicious circumstance worthy to be taken into account by a coroner’s jury?” + 

I shook my head. I could not but acknowledge the impossibility. + 

“What reason had I for thinking that letter was one of importance? I knew of no Henry Ritchie Clavering.” + 

“And yet you seemed to think it was. I remember you hesitated before replying.” + 

“It is true; but not as I should hesitate now, if the question were put to me again.” + 

Silence followed these words, during which I took two or three turns up and down the room. + 

“This is all very fanciful,” I remarked, laughing in the vain endeavor to throw off the superstitious horror his words had awakened. + 

He bent his head in assent. “I know it,” said he. “I am practical myself in broad daylight, and recognize the flimsiness of an accusation based upon a poor, hardworking secretary’s dream, as plainly as you do. This is the reason I desired to keep from speaking at all; but, Mr. Raymond,” and his long, thin hand fell upon my arm with a nervous intensity which gave me almost the sensation of an electrical shock, “if the murderer of Mr. Leavenworth is ever brought to confess his deed, mark my words, he will prove to be the man of my dream.” + 

I drew a long breath. For a moment his belief was mine; and a mingled sensation of relief and exquisite pain swept over me as I thought of the possibility of Eleanore being exonerated from crime only to be plunged into fresh humiliation and deeper abysses of suffering. + 

“He stalks the streets in freedom now,” the secretary went on, as if to himself; “even dares to enter the house he has so woefully desecrated; but justice is justice and, sooner or later, something will transpire which will prove to you that a premonition so wonderful as that I received had its significance; that the voice calling ‘Trueman, Trueman,’ was something more than the empty utterances of an excited brain; that it was Justice itself, calling attention to the guilty.” + 

I looked at him in wonder. Did he know that the officers of justice were already upon the track of this same Clavering? I judged not from his look, but felt an inclination to make an effort and see. + 

“You speak with strange conviction,” I said; “but in all probability you are doomed to be disappointed. So far as we know, Mr. Clavering is a respectable man.” + 

He lifted his hat from the table. “I do not propose to denounce him; I do not even propose to speak his name again. I am not a fool, Mr. Raymond. I have spoken thus plainly to you only in explanation of last night’s most unfortunate betrayal; and while I trust you will regard what I have told you as confidential, I also hope you will give me credit for behaving, on the whole, as well as could be expected under the circumstances.” And he held out his hand. + 

“Certainly,” I replied as I took it. Then, with a sudden impulse to test the accuracy of this story of his, inquired if he had any means of verifying his statement of having had this dream at the time spoken of: that is, before the murder and not afterwards. + 

“No, sir; I know myself that I had it the night previous to that of Mr. Leavenworth’s death; but I cannot prove the fact.” + 

“Did not speak of it next morning to anyone?” + 

“O no, sir; I was scarcely in a position to do so.” + 

“Yet it must have had a great effect upon you, unfitting you for work⁠—” + 

“Nothing unfits me for work,” was his bitter reply. + 

“I believe you,” I returned, remembering his diligence for the last few days. “But you must at least have shown some traces of having passed an uncomfortable night. Have you no recollection of anyone speaking to you in regard to your appearance the next morning?” + 

“Mr. Leavenworth may have done so; no one else would be likely to notice.” There was sadness in the tone, and my own voice softened as I said: + 

“I shall not be at the house tonight, Mr. Harwell; nor do I know when I shall return there. Personal considerations keep me from Miss Leavenworth’s presence for a time, and I look to you to carry on the work we have undertaken without my assistance, unless you can bring it here⁠—” + 

“I can do that.” + 

“I shall expect you, then, tomorrow evening.” + 

“Very well, sir”; and he was going, when a sudden thought seemed to strike him. “Sir,” he said, “as we do not wish to return to this subject again, and as I have a natural curiosity in regard to this man, would you object to telling me what you know of him? You believe him to be a respectable man; are you acquainted with him, Mr. Raymond?” + 

“I know his name, and where he resides.” + 

“And where is that?” + 

“In London; he is an Englishman.” + 

“Ah!” he murmured, with a strange intonation. + 

“Why do you say that?” + 

He bit his lip, looked down, then up, finally fixed his eyes on mine, and returned, with marked emphasis: “I used an exclamation, sir, because I was startled.” + 

“Startled?” + 

“Yes; you say he is an Englishman. Mr. Leavenworth had the most bitter antagonism to the English. It was one of his marked peculiarities. He would never be introduced to one if he could help it.” + 

It was my turn to look thoughtful. + 

“You know,” continued the secretary, “that Mr. Leavenworth was a man who carried his prejudices to the extreme. He had a hatred for the English race amounting to mania. If he had known the letter I have mentioned was from an Englishman, I doubt if he would have read it. He used to say he would sooner see a daughter of his dead before him than married to an Englishman.” + 

I turned hastily aside to hide the effect which this announcement made upon me. + 

“You think I am exaggerating,” he said. “Ask Mr. Veeley.” + 

“No,” I replied. “I have no reason for thinking so.” + 

“He had doubtless some cause for hating the English with which we are unacquainted,” pursued the secretary. “He spent some time in Liverpool when young, and had, of course, many opportunities for studying their manners and character.” And the secretary made another movement, as if to leave. + 

But it was my turn to detain him now. “Mr. Harwell, you must excuse me. You have been on familiar terms with Mr. Leavenworth for so long. Do you think that, in the case of one of his nieces, say, desiring to marry a gentleman of that nationality, his prejudice was sufficient to cause him to absolutely forbid the match?” + 

“I do.” + 

I moved back. I had learned what I wished, and saw no further reason for prolonging the interview. + 

Starting with the assumption that Mr. Clavering in his conversation of the morning had been giving me, with more or less accuracy, a detailed account of his own experience and position regarding Eleanore Leavenworth, I asked myself what particular facts it would be necessary for me to establish in order to prove the truth of this assumption, and found them to be: + 

That Mr. Clavering had not only been in this country at the time designated, but that he had been located for some little time at a watering-place in New York State. + 

That this watering-place should correspond to the one in which Miss Eleanore Leavenworth was staying at the same time. + 

That they had been seen while there to hold more or less communication. + 

That they had both been absent from town, at some one time, long enough to have gone through the ceremony of marriage at a point twenty miles or so away. + 

That a Methodist clergyman, who has since died, lived at that time within a radius of twenty miles of said watering-place. + 

I next asked myself how I was to establish these facts. Mr. Clavering’s life was as yet too little known to me to offer me any assistance; so, leaving it for the present, I took up the thread of Eleanore’s history, and found that at the time given me she had been in R⁠⸺, a fashionable watering-place in this State. Now, if this was true, and my theory correct, he must have been there also. To prove this fact, became, consequently, my first business. I resolved to go to R⁠⸺ on the morrow. + 

But before proceeding in an undertaking of such importance, I considered it expedient to make such inquiries and collect such facts as the few hours I had left to work in rendered possible. I went first to the house of Mr. Gryce. + 

I found him lying upon a hard sofa, in the bare sitting-room I have before mentioned, suffering from a severe attack of rheumatism. His hands were done up in bandages, and his feet encased in multiplied folds of a dingy red shawl which looked as if it had been through the wars. Greeting me with a short nod that was both a welcome and an apology, he devoted a few words to an explanation of his unwonted position; and then, without further preliminaries, rushed into the subject which was uppermost in both our minds by inquiring, in a slightly sarcastic way, if I was very much surprised to find my bird flown when I returned to the Hoffman House that afternoon. + 

“I was astonished to find you allowed him to fly at this time,” I replied. “From the manner in which you requested me to make his acquaintance, I supposed you considered him an important character in the tragedy which has just been enacted.” + 

“And what makes you think I don’t? Oh, the fact that I let him go off so easily? That’s no proof. I never fiddle with the brakes till the car starts downhill. But let that pass for the present; Mr. Clavering, then, did not explain himself before going?” + 

“That is a question which I find it exceedingly difficult to answer. Hampered by circumstances, I cannot at present speak with the directness which is your due, but what I can say, I will. Know, then, that in my opinion Mr. Clavering did explain himself in an interview with me this morning. But it was done in so blind a way, it will be necessary for me to make a few investigations before I shall feel sufficiently sure of my ground to take you into my confidence. He has given me a possible clue⁠—” + 

“Wait,” said Mr. Gryce; “does he know this? Was it done intentionally and with sinister motive, or unconsciously and in plain good faith?” + 

“In good faith, I should say.” + 

Mr. Gryce remained silent for a moment. “It is very unfortunate you cannot explain yourself a little more definitely,” he said at last. “I am almost afraid to trust you to make investigations, as you call them, on your own hook. You are not used to the business, and will lose time, to say nothing of running upon false scents, and using up your strength on unprofitable details.” + 

“You should have thought of that when you admitted me into partnership.” + 

“And you absolutely insist upon working this mine alone?” + 

“Mr. Gryce, the matter stands just here. Mr. Clavering, for all I know, is a gentleman of untarnished reputation. I am not even aware for what purpose you set me upon his trail. I only know that in thus following it I have come upon certain facts that seem worthy of further investigation.” + 

“Well, well; you know best. But the days are slipping by. Something must be done, and soon. The public are becoming clamorous.” + 

“I know it, and for that reason I have come to you for such assistance as you can give me at this stage of the proceedings. You are in possession of certain facts relating to this man which it concerns me to know, or your conduct in reference to him has been purposeless. Now, frankly, will you make me master of those facts: in short, tell me all you know of Mr. Clavering, without requiring an immediate return of confidence on my part?” + 

“That is asking a great deal of a professional detective.” + 

“I know it, and under other circumstances I should hesitate long before preferring such a request; but as things are, I don’t see how I am to proceed in the matter without some such concession on your part. At all events⁠—” + 

“Wait a moment! Is not Mr. Clavering the lover of one of the young ladies?” + 

Anxious as I was to preserve the secret of my interest in that gentleman, I could not prevent the blush from rising to my face at the suddenness of this question. + 

“I thought as much,” he went on. “Being neither a relative nor acknowledged friend, I took it for granted he must occupy some such position as that in the family.” + 

“I do not see why you should draw such an inference,” said I, anxious to determine how much he knew about him. “Mr. Clavering is a stranger in town; has not even been in this country long; has indeed had no time to establish himself upon any such footing as you suggest.” + 

“This is not the only time Mr. Clavering has been in New York. He was here a year ago to my certain knowledge.” + 

“You know that?” + 

“Yes.” + 

“How much more do you know? Can it be possible I am groping blindly about for facts which are already in your possession? I pray you listen to my entreaties, Mr. Gryce, and acquaint me at once with what I want to know. You will not regret it. I have no selfish motive in this matter. If I succeed, the glory shall be yours; it I fail, the shame of the defeat shall be mine.” + 

“That is fair,” he muttered. “And how about the reward?” + 

“My reward will be to free an innocent woman from the imputation of crime which hangs over her.” + 

This assurance seemed to satisfy him. His voice and appearance changed; for a moment he looked quite confidential. “Well, well,” said he; “and what is it you want to know?” + 

“I should first like to know how your suspicions came to light on him at all. What reason had you for thinking a gentleman of his bearing and position was in any way connected with this affair?” + 

“That is a question you ought not to be obliged to put,” he returned. + 

“How so?” + 

“Simply because the opportunity of answering it was in your hands before ever it came into mine.” + 

“What do you mean?” + 

“Don’t you remember the letter mailed in your presence by Miss Mary Leavenworth during your drive from her home to that of her friend in Thirty-seventh Street?” + 

“On the afternoon of the inquest?” + 

“Yes.” + 

“Certainly, but⁠—” + 

“You never thought to look at its superscription before it was dropped into the box.” + 

“I had neither opportunity nor right to do so.” + 

“Was it not written in your presence?” + 

“It was.” + 

“And you never regarded the affair as worth your attention?” + 

“However I may have regarded it, I did not see how I could prevent Miss Leavenworth from dropping a letter into a box if she chose to do so.” + 

“That is because you are a gentleman. Well, it has its disadvantages,” he muttered broodingly. + 

“But you,” said I; “how came you to know anything about this letter? Ah, I see,” remembering that the carriage in which we were riding at the time had been procured for us by him. “The man on the box was in your pay, and informed, as you call it.” + 

Mr. Gryce winked at his muffled toes mysteriously. “That is not the point,” he said. “Enough that I heard that a letter, which might reasonably prove to be of some interest to me, had been dropped at such an hour into the box on the corner of a certain street. That, coinciding in the opinion of my informant, I telegraphed to the station connected with that box to take note of the address of a suspicious-looking letter about to pass through their hands on the way to the General Post-Office, and following up the telegram in person, found that a curious epistle addressed in lead pencil and sealed with a stamp, had just arrived, the address of which I was allowed to see⁠—” + 

“And which was?” + 

“Henry R. Clavering, Hoffman House, New York.” + 

I drew a deep breath. “And so that is how your attention first came to be directed to this man?” + 

“Yes.” + 

“Strange. But go on⁠—what next?” + 

“Why, next I followed up the clue by going to the Hoffman House and instituting inquiries. I learned that Mr. Clavering was a regular guest of the hotel. That he had come there, direct from the Liverpool steamer, about three months since, and, registering his name as Henry R. Clavering, Esq., London, had engaged a first-class room which he had kept ever since. That, although nothing definite was known concerning him, he had been seen with various highly respectable people, both of his own nation and ours, by all of whom he was treated with respect. And lastly, that while not liberal, he had given many evidences of being a man of means. So much done, I entered the office, and waited for him to come in, in the hope of having an opportunity to observe his manner when the clerk handed him that strange-looking letter from Mary Leavenworth.” + 

“And did you succeed?” + 

“No; an awkward gawk of a fellow stepped between us just at the critical moment, and shut off my view. But I heard enough that evening from the clerk and servants, of the agitation he had shown on receiving it, to convince me I was upon a trail worth following. I accordingly put on my men, and for two days Mr. Clavering was subjected to the most rigid watch a man ever walked under. But nothing was gained by it; his interest in the murder, if interest at all, was a secret one; and though he walked the streets, studied the papers, and haunted the vicinity of the house in Fifth Avenue, he not only refrained from actually approaching it, but made no attempt to communicate with any of the family. Meanwhile, you crossed my path, and with your determination incited me to renewed effort. Convinced from Mr. Clavering’s bearing, and the gossip I had by this time gathered in regard to him, that no one short of a gentleman and a friend could succeed in getting at the clue of his connection with this family, I handed him over to you, and⁠—” + 

“Found me rather an unmanageable colleague.” + 

Mr. Gryce smiled very much as if a sour plum had been put in his mouth, but made no reply; and a momentary pause ensued. + 

“Did you think to inquire,” I asked at last, “if anyone knew where Mr. Clavering had spent the evening of the murder?” + 

“Yes; but with no good result. It was agreed he went out during the evening; also that he was in his bed in the morning when the servant came in to make his fire; but further than this no one seemed posted.” + 

“So that, in fact, you gleaned nothing that would in any way connect this man with the murder except his marked and agitated interest in it, and the fact that a niece of the murdered man had written a letter to him?” + 

“That is all.” + 

“Another question; did you hear in what manner and at what time he procured a newspaper that evening?” + 

“No; I only learned that he was observed, by more than one, to hasten out of the dining-room with the Post in his hand, and go immediately to his room without touching his dinner.” + 

“Humph! that does not look⁠—” + 

“If Mr. Clavering had had a guilty knowledge of the crime, he would either have ordered dinner before opening the paper, or, having ordered it, he would have eaten it.” + 

“Then you do not believe, from what you have learned, that Mr. Clavering is the guilty party?” + 

Mr. Gryce shifted uneasily, glanced at the papers protruding from my coat pocket and exclaimed: “I am ready to be convinced by you that he is.” + 

That sentence recalled me to the business in hand. Without appearing to notice his look, I recurred to my questions. + 

“How came you to know that Mr. Clavering was in this city last summer? Did you learn that, too, at the Hoffman House?” + 

“No; I ascertained that in quite another way. In short, I have had a communication from London in regard to the matter. + 

“From London?” + 

“Yes; I’ve a friend there in my own line of business, who sometimes assists me with a bit of information, when requested.” + 

“But how? You have not had time to write to London, and receive an answer since the murder.” + 

“It is not necessary to write. It is enough for me to telegraph him the name of a person, for him to understand that I want to know everything he can gather in a reasonable length of time about that person.” + 

“And you sent the name of Mr. Clavering to him?” + 

“Yes, in cipher.” + 

“And have received a reply?” + 

“This morning.” + 

I looked towards his desk. + 

“It is not there,” he said; “if you will be kind enough to feel in my breast pocket you will find a letter⁠—” + 

It was in my hand before he finished his sentence. “Excuse my eagerness,” I said. “This kind of business is new to me, you know.” + 

He smiled indulgently at a very old and faded picture hanging on the wall before him. “Eagerness is not a fault; only the betrayal of it. But read out what you have there. Let us hear what my friend Brown has to tell us of Mr. Henry Ritchie Clavering, of Portland Place, London.” + 

I took the paper to the light and read as follows: + 

“Henry Ritchie Clavering, Gentleman, aged 43. Born in ⸻, Hertfordshire, England. His father was Chas. Clavering, for short time in the army. Mother was Helen Ritchie, of Dumfriesshire, Scotland; she is still living. Home with H. R. C., in Portland Place, London. H. R. C. is a bachelor, 6 ft. high, squarely built, weight about 12 stone. Dark complexion, regular features. Eyes dark brown; nose straight. Called a handsome man; walks erect and rapidly. In society is considered a good fellow; rather a favorite, especially with ladies. Is liberal, not extravagant; reported to be worth about £5,000 per year, and appearances give color to this statement. Property consists of a small estate in Hertfordshire, and some funds, amount not known. Since writing this much, a correspondent sends the following in regard to his history. In ’46 went from uncle’s house to Eton. From Eton went to Oxford, graduating in ’56. Scholarship good. In 1855 his uncle died, and his father succeeded to the estates. Father died in ’57 by a fall from his horse or a similar accident. Within a very short time H. R. C. took his mother to London, to the residence named, where they have lived to the present time. + 

“Travelled considerably in 1860; part of the time was with ⸻ ⸻, of Munich; also in party of Vandervorts from New York; went as far east as Cairo. Went to America in 1875 alone, but at end of three months returned on account of mother’s illness. Nothing is known of his movements while in America. + 

“From servants learn that he was always a favorite from a boy. More recently has become somewhat taciturn. Toward last of his stay watched the post carefully, especially foreign ones. Posted scarcely anything but newspapers. Has written to Munich. Have seen, from wastepaper basket, torn envelope directed to Amy Belden, no address. American correspondents mostly in Boston; two in New York. Names not known, but supposed to be bankers. Brought home considerable luggage, and fitted up part of house, as for a lady. This was closed soon afterwards. Left for America two months since. Has been, I understand, travelling in the south. Has telegraphed twice to Portland Place. His friends hear from him but rarely. Letters rec’d recently, posted in New York. One by last steamer posted in F⁠⸺, NY. + 

“Business here conducted by ⸻. In the country, ⸻ of ⸻ has charge of the property. + 

The document fell from my hands. + 

F⁠⸺, NY, was a small town near R⁠⸺. + 

“Your friend is a trump,” I declared. “He tells me just what I wanted most to know.” And, taking out my book, I made memoranda of the facts which had most forcibly struck me during my perusal of the communication before me. “With the aid of what he tells me, I shall ferret out the mystery of Henry Clavering in a week; see if I do not.” + 

“And how soon,” inquired Mr. Gryce, “may I expect to be allowed to take a hand in the game?” + 

“As soon as I am reasonably assured I am upon the right tack.” + 

“And what will it take to assure you of that?” + 

“Not much; a certain point settled, and⁠—” + 

“Hold on; who knows but what I can do that for you?” And, looking towards the desk which stood in the corner, Mr. Gryce asked me if I would be kind enough to open the top drawer and bring him the bits of partly-burned paper I would find there. + 

Hastily complying, I brought three or four strips of ragged paper, and laid them on the table at his side. + 

“Another result of Fobbs’ researches under the coal on the first day of the inquest,” Mr. Gryce abruptly explained. “You thought the key was all he found. Well, it wasn’t. A second turning over of the coal brought these to light, and very interesting they are, too.” + 

I immediately bent over the torn and discolored scraps with great anxiety. They were four in number, and appeared at first glance to be the mere remnants of a sheet of common writing-paper, torn lengthwise into strips, and twisted up into lighters; but, upon closer inspection, they showed traces of writing upon one side, and, what was more important still, the presence of one or more drops of spattered blood. This latter discovery was horrible to me, and so overcame me for the moment that I put the scraps down, and, turning towards Mr. Gryce, inquired: + 

“What do you make of them?” + 

“That is just the question I was going to put to you.” + 

Swallowing my disgust, I took them up again. “They look like the remnants of some old letter,” said I. + 

“They have that appearance,” Mr. Gryce grimly assented. + 

“A letter which, from the drop of blood observable on the written side, must have been lying face up on Mr. Leavenworth’s table at the time of the murder⁠—” + 

“Just so.” + 

“And from the uniformity in width of each of these pieces, as well as their tendency to curl up when left alone, must first have been torn into even strips, and then severally rolled up, before being tossed into the grate where they were afterwards found.” + 

“That is all good,” said Mr. Gryce; “go on.” + 

“The writing, so far as discernible, is that of a cultivated gentleman. It is not that of Mr. Leavenworth; for I have studied his chirography too much lately not to know it at a glance; but it may be⁠—Hold!” I suddenly exclaimed, “have you any mucilage handy? I think, if I could paste these strips down upon a piece of paper, so that they would remain flat, I should be able to tell you what I think of them much more easily.” + 

“There is mucilage on the desk,” signified Mr. Gryce. + 

Procuring it, I proceeded to consult the scraps once more for evidence to guide me in their arrangement. These were more marked than I expected; the longer and best preserved strip, with its “Mr. Hor” at the top, showing itself at first blush to be the left-hand margin of the letter, while the machine-cut edge of the next in length presented tokens fully as conclusive of its being the right-hand margin of the same. Selecting these, then, I pasted them down on a piece of paper at just the distance they would occupy if the sheet from which they were torn was of the ordinary commercial note size. Immediately it became apparent: first, that it would take two other strips of the same width to fill up the space left between them; and secondly, that the writing did not terminate at the foot of the sheet, but was carried on to another page. + 

Taking up the third strip, I looked at its edge; it was machine-cut at the top, and showed by the arrangement of its words that it was the margin strip of a second leaf. Pasting that down by itself, I scrutinized the fourth, and finding it also machine-cut at the top but not on the side, endeavored to fit it to the piece already pasted down, but the words would not match. Moving it along to the position it would hold if it were the third strip, I fastened it down; the whole presenting, when completed, the appearance seen on the opposite page. + 

“Well!” exclaimed Mr. Gryce, “that’s business.” Then, as I held it up before his eyes: “But don’t show it to me. Study it yourself, and tell me what you think of it.” + 

“Well,” said I, “this much is certain: that it is a letter directed to Mr. Leavenworth from some House, and dated⁠—let’s see; that is an h, isn’t it?” And I pointed to the one letter just discernible on the line under the word House. + 

“I should think so; but don’t ask me.” + 

“It must be an h. The year is 1875, and this is not the termination of either January or February. Dated, then, March 1st, 1876, and signed⁠—” + 

Mr. Gryce rolled his eyes in anticipatory ecstasy towards the ceiling. + 

“By Henry Clavering,” I announced without hesitation. + 

Mr. Gryce’s eyes returned to his swathed finger-ends. “Humph! how do you know that?” + 

“Wait a moment, and I’ll show you”; and, taking out of my pocket the card which Mr. Clavering had handed me as an introduction at our late interview, I laid it underneath the last line of writing on the second page. One glance was sufficient. Henry Ritchie Clavering on the card; H⁠⸺⁠chie⁠—in the same handwriting on the letter. + 

“Clavering it is,” said he, “without a doubt.” But I saw he was not surprised. + 

“And now,” I continued, “for its general tenor and meaning.” And, commencing at the beginning, I read aloud the words as they came, with pauses at the breaks, something as follows: + 

“Mr. Hor⁠—Dear⁠—a niece whom yo⁠—one too who see⁠—the love and trus⁠—any other man ca⁠—autiful, so char⁠——⁠——s she in face fo⁠——⁠——conversation. ery rose has its⁠——⁠——⁠——rose is no exception⁠——⁠——⁠—ely as she is, char⁠——⁠——⁠——tender as she is, s⁠——⁠——⁠——⁠—pable of tramplin⁠——⁠——⁠——⁠—one who trusted —⁠——⁠—heart —⁠——⁠——. —⁠——⁠——⁠——⁠——⁠—him to⁠——⁠——⁠—he owes a⁠——⁠——⁠—honor⁠——⁠——⁠——ance. + 

“If⁠——⁠——⁠——t believe —⁠——⁠——⁠—her to⁠—cruel⁠—face, —⁠——⁠——⁠—what is⁠——⁠——⁠——ble serv⁠—yours + 

“It reads like a complaint against one of Mr. Leavenworth’s nieces,” I said, and started at my own words. + 

“What is it?” cried Mr. Gryce; “what is the matter?” + 

“Why,” said I, “the fact is I have heard this very letter spoken of. It is a complaint against one of Mr. Leavenworth’s nieces, and was written by Mr. Clavering.” And I told him of Mr. Harwell’s communication in regard to the matter. + 

“Ah! then Mr. Harwell has been talking, has he? I thought he had forsworn gossip.” + 

“Mr. Harwell and I have seen each other almost daily for the last two weeks,” I replied. “It would be strange if he had nothing to tell me.” + 

“And he says he has read a letter written to Mr. Leavenworth by Mr. Clavering?” + 

“Yes; but the particular words of which he has now forgotten.” + 

“These few here may assist him in recalling the rest.” + 

“I would rather not admit him to a knowledge of the existence of this piece of evidence. I don’t believe in letting anyone into our confidence whom we can conscientiously keep out.” + 

“I see you don’t,” dryly responded Mr. Gryce. + 

Not appearing to notice the fling conveyed by these words, I took up the letter once more, and began pointing out such half-formed words in it as I thought we might venture to complete, as the Hor⁠—, yo⁠—, see⁠—utiful⁠—, har⁠—, for⁠—, tramplin⁠—, pable⁠—, serv⁠—. + 

This done, I next proposed the introduction of such others as seemed necessary to the sense, as “Leavenworth” after “Horatio”; “Sir” after “Dear”; “have” with a possible “you” before “a niece”; “thorn” after “its” in the phrase “rose has its”; “on” after “trampling”; “whom” after “to”; “debt” after “a”; “you” after “If”; “me ask” after “believe”; “beautiful” after “cruel.” + 

Between the columns of words thus furnished I interposed a phrase or two, here and there, the whole reading upon its completion as follows: + 

“Dear Sir: + 

“(You) have a niece whom you one too who seems worthy the love and trust of any other man ca so beautiful, so charming is she in face form and conversation. But every rose has its thorn and (this) rose is no exception lovely as she is, char ming (as she is,) tender as she is, she is capable of trampling on one who trusted her + 

heart a + 

him to whom she owes a debt of honor a ance + 

“If you don’t believe me ask her to her cruel beautiful face what is (her) humble servant yours: + 

“I think that will do,” said Mr. Gryce. “Its general tenor is evident, and that is all we want at this time.” + 

“The whole tone of it is anything but complimentary to the lady it mentions,” I remarked. “He must have had, or imagined he had, some desperate grievance, to provoke him to the use of such plain language in regard to one he can still characterize as tender, charming, beautiful.” + 

“Grievances are apt to lie back of mysterious crimes.” + 

“I think I know what this one was,” I said; “but”⁠—seeing him look up⁠—“must decline to communicate my suspicion to you for the present. My theory stands unshaken, and in some degree confirmed; and that is all I can say.” + 

“Then this letter does not supply the link you wanted?” + 

“No: it is a valuable bit of evidence; but it is not the link I am in search of just now.” + 

“Yet it must be an important clue, or Eleanore Leavenworth would not have been to such pains, first to take it in the way she did from her uncle’s table, and secondly⁠—” + 

“Wait! what makes you think this is the paper she took, or was believed to have taken, from Mr. Leavenworth’s table on that fatal morning?” + 

“Why, the fact that it was found together with the key, which we know she dropped into the grate, and that there are drops of blood on it.” + 

I shook my head. + 

“Why do you shake your head?” asked Mr. Gryce. + 

“Because I am not satisfied with your reason for believing this to be the paper taken by her from Mr. Leavenworth’s table.” + 

“And why?” + 

“Well, first, because Fobbs does not speak of seeing any paper in her hand, when she bent over the fire; leaving us to conclude that these pieces were in the scuttle of coal she threw upon it; which surely you must acknowledge to be a strange place for her to have put a paper she took such pains to gain possession of; and, secondly, for the reason that these scraps were twisted as if they had been used for curl papers, or something of that kind; a fact hard to explain by your hypothesis.” + 

The detective’s eye stole in the direction of my necktie, which was as near as he ever came to a face. “You are a bright one,” said he; “a very bright one. I quite admire you, Mr. Raymond.” + 

A little surprised, and not altogether pleased with this unexpected compliment, I regarded him doubtfully for a moment and then asked: + 

“What is your opinion upon the matter?” + 

“Oh, you know I have no opinion. I gave up everything of that kind when I put the affair into your hands.” + 

“Still⁠—” + 

“That the letter of which these scraps are the remnant was on Mr. Leavenworth’s table at the time of the murder is believed. That upon the body being removed, a paper was taken from the table by Miss Eleanore Leavenworth, is also believed. That, when she found her action had been noticed, and attention called to this paper and the key, she resorted to subterfuge in order to escape the vigilance of the watch that had been set over her, and, partially succeeding in her endeavor, flung the key into the fire from which these same scraps were afterwards recovered, is also known. The conclusion I leave to your judgment.” + 

“Very well, then,” said I, rising; “we will let conclusions go for the present. My mind must be satisfied in regard to the truth or falsity of a certain theory of mine, for my judgment to be worth much on this or any other matter connected with the affair.” + 

And, only waiting to get the address of his subordinate P., in case I should need assistance in my investigations, I left Mr. Gryce, and proceeded immediately to the house of Mr. Veeley. + 

“You have never heard, then, the particulars of Mr. Leavenworth’s marriage?” + 

It was my partner who spoke. I had been asking him to explain to me Mr. Leavenworth’s well-known antipathy to the English race. + 

“No.” + 

“If you had, you would not need to come to me for this explanation. But it is not strange you are ignorant of the matter. I doubt if there are half a dozen persons in existence who could tell you where Horatio Leavenworth found the lovely woman who afterwards became his wife, much less give you any details of the circumstances which led to his marriage.” + 

“I am very fortunate, then, in being in the confidence of one who can. What were those circumstances, Mr. Veeley?” + 

“It will aid you but little to hear. Horatio Leavenworth, when a young man, was very ambitious; so much so, that at one time he aspired to marry a wealthy lady of Providence. But, chancing to go to England, he there met a young woman whose grace and charm had such an effect upon him that he relinquished all thought of the Providence lady, though it was some time before he could face the prospect of marrying the one who had so greatly interested him; as she was not only in humble circumstances, but was encumbered with a child concerning whose parentage the neighbors professed ignorance, and she had nothing to say. But, as is very apt to be the case in an affair like this, love and admiration soon got the better of worldly wisdom. Taking his future in his hands, he offered himself as her husband, when she immediately proved herself worthy of his regard by entering at once into those explanations he was too much of a gentleman to demand. + 

“The story she told was pitiful. She proved to be an American by birth, her father having been a well-known merchant of Chicago. While he lived, her home was one of luxury, but just as she was emerging into womanhood he died. It was at his funeral she met the man destined to be her ruin. How he came there she never knew; he was not a friend of her father’s. It is enough he was there, and saw her, and that in three weeks⁠—don’t shudder, she was such a child⁠—they were married. In twenty-four hours she knew what that word meant for her; it meant blows. Everett, I am telling no fanciful story. In twenty-four hours after that girl was married, her husband, coming drunk into the house, found her in his way, and knocked her down. It was but the beginning. Her father’s estate, on being settled up, proving to be less than expected, he carried her off to England, where he did not wait to be drunk in order to maltreat her. She was not free from his cruelty night or day. Before she was sixteen, she had run the whole gamut of human suffering; and that, not at the hands of a coarse, common ruffian, but from an elegant, handsome, luxury-loving gentleman, whose taste in dress was so nice he would sooner fling a garment of hers into the fire than see her go into company clad in a manner he did not consider becoming. She bore it till her child was born, then she fled. Two days after the little one saw the light, she rose from her bed and, taking her baby in her arms, ran out of the house. The few jewels she had put into her pocket supported her till she could set up a little shop. As for her husband, she neither saw him, nor heard from him, from the day she left him till about two weeks before Horatio Leavenworth first met her, when she learned from the papers that he was dead. She was, therefore, free; but though she loved Horatio Leavenworth with all her heart, she would not marry him. She felt herself forever stained and soiled by the one awful year of abuse and contamination. Nor could he persuade her. Not till the death of her child, a month or so after his proposal, did she consent to give him her hand and what remained of her unhappy life. He brought her to New York, surrounded her with luxury and every tender care, but the arrow had gone too deep; two years from the day her child breathed its last, she too died. It was the blow of his life to Horatio Leavenworth; he was never the same man again. Though Mary and Eleanore shortly after entered his home, he never recovered his old lightheartedness. Money became his idol, and the ambition to make and leave a great fortune behind him modified all his views of life. But one proof remained that he never forgot the wife of his youth, and that was, he could not bear to have the word ‘Englishman’ uttered in his hearing.” + 

Mr. Veeley paused, and I rose to go. “Do you remember how Mrs. Leavenworth looked?” I asked. “Could you describe her to me?” + 

He seemed a little astonished at my request, but immediately replied: “She was a very pale woman; not strictly beautiful, but of a contour and expression of great charm. Her hair was brown, her eyes gray⁠—” + 

“And very wide apart?” + 

He nodded, looking still more astonished. “How came you to know? Have you seen her picture?” + 

I did not answer that question. + 

On my way downstairs, I bethought me of a letter which I had in my pocket for Mr. Veeley’s son Fred, and, knowing of no surer way of getting it to him that night than by leaving it on the library table, I stepped to the door of that room, which in this house was at the rear of the parlors, and receiving no reply to my knock, opened it and looked in. + 

The room was unlighted, but a cheerful fire was burning in the grate, and by its glow I espied a lady crouching on the hearth, whom at first glance I took for Mrs. Veeley. But, upon advancing and addressing her by that name, I saw my mistake; for the person before me not only refrained from replying, but, rising at the sound of my voice, revealed a form of such noble proportions that all possibility of its being that of the dainty little wife of my partner fled. + 

“I see I have made a mistake,” said I. “I beg your pardon”; and would have left the room, but something in the general attitude of the lady before me restrained me, and, believing it to be Mary Leavenworth, I inquired: + 

“Can it be this is Miss Leavenworth?” + 

The noble figure appeared to droop, the gently lifted head to fall, and for a moment I doubted if I had been correct in my supposition. Then form and head slowly erected themselves, a soft voice spoke, and I heard a low “yes,” and hurriedly advancing, confronted⁠—not Mary, with her glancing, feverish gaze, and scarlet, trembling lips⁠—but Eleanore, the woman whose faintest look had moved me from the first, the woman whose husband I believed myself to be even then pursuing to his doom! + 

The surprise was too great; I could neither sustain nor conceal it. Stumbling slowly back, I murmured something about having believed it to be her cousin; and then, conscious only of the one wish to fly a presence I dared not encounter in my present mood, turned, when her rich, heart-full voice rose once more and I heard: + 

“You will not leave me without a word, Mr. Raymond, now that chance has thrown us together?” Then, as I came slowly forward: “Were you so very much astonished to find me here?” + 

“I do not know⁠—I did not expect⁠—” was my incoherent reply. “I had heard you were ill; that you went nowhere; that you had no wish to see your friends.” + 

“I have been ill,” she said; “but I am better now, and have come to spend the night with Mrs. Veeley, because I could not endure the stare of the four walls of my room any longer.” + 

This was said without any effort at plaintiveness, but rather as if she thought it necessary to excuse herself for being where she was. + 

“I am glad you did so,” said I. “You ought to be here all the while. That dreary, lonesome boardinghouse is no place for you, Miss Leavenworth. It distresses us all to feel that you are exiling yourself at this time.” + 

“I do not wish anybody to be distressed,” she returned. “It is best for me to be where I am. Nor am I altogether alone. There is a child there whose innocent eyes see nothing but innocence in mine. She will keep me from despair. Do not let my friends be anxious; I can bear it.” Then, in a lower tone: “There is but one thing which really unnerves me; and that is my ignorance of what is going on at home. Sorrow I can bear, but suspense is killing me. Will you not tell me something of Mary and home? I cannot ask Mrs. Veeley; she is kind, but has no real knowledge of Mary or me, nor does she know anything of our estrangement. She thinks me obstinate, and blames me for leaving my cousin in her trouble. But you know I could not help it. You know⁠—” her voice wavered off into a tremble, and she did not conclude. + 

“I cannot tell you much,” I hastened to reply; “but whatever knowledge is at my command is certainly yours. Is there anything in particular you wish to know?” + 

“Yes, how Mary is; whether she is well, and⁠—and composed.” + 

“Your cousin’s health is good,” I returned; “but I fear I cannot say she is composed. She is greatly troubled about you.” + 

“You see her often, then?” + 

“I am assisting Mr. Harwell in preparing your uncle’s book for the press, and necessarily am there much of the time.” + 

“My uncle’s book!” The words came in a tone of low horror. + 

“Yes, Miss Leavenworth. It has been thought best to bring it before the world, and⁠—” + 

“And Mary has set you at the task?” + 

“Yes.” + 

It seemed as if she could not escape from the horror which this caused. “How could she? Oh, how could she!” + 

“She considers herself as fulfilling her uncle’s wishes. He was very anxious, as you know, to have the book out by July.” + 

“Do not speak of it!” she broke in, “I cannot bear it.” Then, as if she feared she had hurt my feelings by her abruptness, lowered her voice and said: “I do not, however, know of anyone I should be better pleased to have charged with the task than yourself. With you it will be a work of respect and reverence; but a stranger⁠—Oh, I could not have endured a stranger touching it.” + 

She was fast falling into her old horror; but rousing herself, murmured: “I wanted to ask you something; ah, I know”⁠—and she moved so as to face me. “I wish to inquire if everything is as before in the house; the servants the same and⁠—and other things?” + 

“There is a Mrs. Darrell there; I do not know of any other change.” + 

“Mary does not talk of going away?” + 

“I think not.” + 

“But she has visitors? Someone besides Mrs. Darrell to help her bear her loneliness?” + 

I knew what was coming, and strove to preserve my composure. + 

“Yes,” I replied; “a few.” + 

“Would you mind naming them?” How low her tones were, but how distinct! + 

“Certainly not. Mrs. Veeley, Mrs. Gilbert, Miss Martin, and a⁠—a⁠—” + 

“Go on,” she whispered. + 

“A gentleman by the name of Clavering.” + 

“You speak that name with evident embarrassment,” she said, after a moment of intense anxiety on my part. “May I inquire why?” + 

Astounded, I raised my eyes to her face. It was very pale, and wore the old look of self-repressed calm I remembered so well. I immediately dropped my gaze. + 

“Why? because there are some circumstances surrounding him which have struck me as peculiar.” + 

“How so?” she asked. + 

“He appears under two names. Today it is Clavering; a short time ago it was⁠—” + 

“Go on.” + 

“Robbins.” + 

Her dress rustled on the hearth; there was a sound of desolation in it; but her voice when she spoke was expressionless as that of an automaton. + 

“How many times has this person, of whose name you do not appear to be certain, been to see Mary?” + 

“Once.” + 

“When was it?” + 

“Last night.” + 

“Did he stay long?” + 

“About twenty minutes, I should say.” + 

“And do you think he will come again?” + 

“No.” + 

“Why?” + 

“He has left the country.” + 

A short silence followed this, I felt her eyes searching my face, but doubt whether, if I had known she held a loaded pistol, I could have looked up at that moment. + 

“Mr. Raymond,” she at length observed, in a changed tone, “the last time I saw you, you told me you were going to make some endeavor to restore me to my former position before the world. I did not wish you to do so then; nor do I wish you to do so now. Can you not make me comparatively happy, then, by assuring me you have abandoned or will abandon a project so hopeless?” + 

“It is impossible,” I replied with emphasis. “I cannot abandon it. Much as I grieve to be a source of sorrow to you, it is best you should know that I can never give up the hope of righting you while I live.” + 

She put out her hand in a sort of hopeless appeal inexpressibly touching to behold in the fast waning firelight. But I was relentless. + 

“I should never be able to face the world or my own conscience if, through any weakness of my own, I should miss the blessed privilege of setting the wrong right, and saving a noble woman from unmerited disgrace.” And then, seeing she was not likely to reply to this, drew a step nearer and said: “Is there not some little kindness I can show you, Miss Leavenworth? Is there no message you would like taken, or act it would give you pleasure to see performed?” + 

She stopped to think. “No,” said she; “I have only one request to make, and that you refuse to grant.” + 

“For the most unselfish of reasons,” I urged. + 

She slowly shook her head. “You think so”; then, before I could reply, “I could desire one little favor shown me, however.” + 

“What is that?” + 

“That if anything should transpire; if Hannah should be found, or⁠—or my presence required in any way⁠—you will not keep me in ignorance. That you will let me know the worst when it comes, without fail.” + 

“I will.” + 

“And now, good night. Mrs. Veeley is coming back, and you would scarcely wish to be found here by her.” + 

“No,” said I. + 

And yet I did not go, but stood watching the firelight flicker on her black dress till the thought of Clavering and the duty I had for the morrow struck coldly to my heart, and I turned away towards the door. But at the threshold I paused again, and looked back. Oh, the flickering, dying fire flame! Oh, the crowding, clustering shadows! Oh, that drooping figure in their midst, with its clasped hands and its hidden face! I see it all again; I see it as in a dream; then darkness falls, and in the glare of gas-lighted streets, I am hastening along, solitary and sad, to my lonely home. + 

When I told Mr. Gryce I only waited for the determination of one fact, to feel justified in throwing the case unreservedly into his hands, I alluded to the proving or disproving of the supposition that Henry Clavering had been a guest at the same watering-place with Eleanore Leavenworth the summer before. + 

When, therefore, I found myself the next morning with the Visitor Book of the Hotel Union at R⁠⸺ in my hands, it was only by the strongest effort of will I could restrain my impatience. The suspense, however, was short. Almost immediately I encountered his name, written not half a page below those of Mr. Leavenworth and his nieces, and, whatever may have been my emotion at finding my suspicions thus confirmed, I recognized the fact that I was in the possession of a clue which would yet lead to the solving of the fearful problem which had been imposed upon me. + 

Hastening to the telegraph office, I sent a message for the man promised me by Mr. Gryce, and receiving for an answer that he could not be with me before three o’clock, started for the house of Mr. Monell, a client of ours, living in R⁠⸺. I found him at home and, during our interview of two hours, suffered the ordeal of appearing at ease and interested in what he had to say, while my heart was heavy with its first disappointment and my brain on fire with the excitement of the work then on my hands. + 

I arrived at the depot just as the train came in. There was but one passenger for R⁠⸺, a brisk young man, whose whole appearance differed so from the description which had been given me of Q that I at once made up my mind he could not be the man I was looking for, and was turning away disappointed, when he approached, and handed me a card on which was inscribed the single character “?” Even then I could not bring myself to believe that the slyest and most successful agent in Mr. Gryce’s employ was before me, till, catching his eye, I saw such a keen, enjoyable twinkle sparkling in its depths that all doubt fled, and, returning his bow with a show of satisfaction, I remarked: + 

“You are very punctual. I like that.” + 

He gave another short, quick nod. “Glad, sir, to please you. Punctuality is too cheap a virtue not to be practised by a man on the lookout for a rise. But what orders, sir? Down train due in ten minutes; no time to spare.” + 

“Down train? What have we to do with that?” + 

“I thought you might wish to take it, sir. Mr. Brown”⁠—winking expressively at the name, “always checks his carpetbag for home when he sees me coming. But that is your affair; I am not particular.” + 

“I wish to do what is wisest under the circumstances.” + 

“Go home, then, as speedily as possible.” And he gave a third sharp nod exceedingly businesslike and determined. + 

“If I leave you, it is with the understanding that you bring your information first to me; that you are in my employ, and in that of no one else for the time being; and that mum is the word till I give you liberty to speak.” + 

“Yes, sir. When I work for Brown & Co. I do not work for Smith & Jones. That you can count on.” + 

“Very well then, here are your instructions.” + 

He looked at the paper I handed him with a certain degree of care, then stepped into the waiting-room and threw it into the stove, saying in a low tone: “So much in case I should meet with some accident: have an apoplectic fit, or anything of that sort.” + 

“But⁠—” + 

“Oh, don’t worry; I shan’t forget. I’ve a memory, sir. No need of anybody using pen and paper with me.” + 

And laughing in the short, quick way one would expect from a person of his appearance and conversation, he added: “You will probably hear from me in a day or so,” and bowing, took his brisk, free way down the street just as the train came rushing in from the West. + 

My instructions to Q were as follows: + 

To find out on what day, and in whose company, the Misses Leavenworth arrived at R⁠⸺ the year before. What their movements had been while there, and in whose society they were oftenest to be seen. Also the date of their departure, and such facts as could be gathered in regard to their habits, etc. + 

Ditto in respect to a Mr. Henry Clavering, fellow-guest and probable friend of said ladies. + 

Name of individual fulfilling the following requirements: Clergyman, Methodist, deceased since last December or thereabouts, who in July of Seventy-five was located in some town not over twenty miles from R⁠⸺. + 

Also name and present whereabouts of a man at that time in service of the above. + 

To say that the interval of time necessary to a proper inquiry into these matters was passed by me in any reasonable frame of mind, would be to give myself credit for an equanimity of temper which I unfortunately do not possess. Never have days seemed so long as the two which interposed between my return from R⁠⸺ and the receipt of the following letter: + 

“Sir: + 

“Individuals mentioned arrived in R⁠⸺ July 3, 1875. Party consisted of four; the two ladies, their uncle, and the girl named Hannah. Uncle remained three days, and then left for a short tour through Massachusetts. Gone two weeks, during which ladies were seen more or less with the gentleman named between us, but not to an extent sufficient to excite gossip or occasion remark, when said gentleman left R⁠⸺ abruptly, two days after uncle’s return. Date July 19. As to habits of ladies, more or less social. They were always to be seen at picnics, rides, etc., and in the ballroom. M⁠⸺ liked best. E⁠⸺ considered grave, and, towards the last of her stay, moody. It is remembered now that her manner was always peculiar, and that she was more or less shunned by her cousin. However, in the opinion of one girl still to be found at the hotel, she was the sweetest lady that ever breathed. No particular reason for this opinion. Uncle, ladies, and servants left R⁠⸺ for New York, August 7, 1875. + 

“H. C. arrived at the hotel in R⁠⸺ July 6, 1875, in company with Mr. and Mrs. Vandervort, friends of the above. Left July 19, two weeks from day of arrival. Little to be learned in regard to him. Remembered as the handsome gentleman who was in the party with the L. girls, and that is all. + 

“F⁠⸺, a small town, some sixteen or seventeen miles from R⁠⸺, had for its Methodist minister, in July of last year, a man who has since died, Samuel Stebbins by name. Date of decease, Jan. 7 of this year. + 

“Name of man in employ of S. S. at that time is Timothy Cook. He has been absent, but returned to F⁠⸺ two days ago. Can be seen if required.” + 

“Ah, ha!” I cried aloud at this point, in my sudden surprise and satisfaction; “now we have something to work upon!” And sitting down I penned the following reply: + 

“T. C. wanted by all means. Also any evidence going to prove that H. C. and E. L. were married at the house of Mr. S. on any day of July or August last.” + 

Next morning came the following telegram: + 

“T. C. on the road. Remembers a marriage. Will be with you by 2 p.m.” + 

At three o’clock of that same day, I stood before Mr. Gryce. “I am here to make my report,” I announced. + 

The flicker of a smile passed over his face, and he gazed for the first time at his bound-up finger-ends with a softening aspect which must have done them good. “I’m ready,” said he. + 

“Mr. Gryce,” I began, “do you remember the conclusion we came to at our first interview in this house?” + 

“I remember the one you came to.” + 

“Well, well,” I acknowledged a little peevishly, “the one I came to, then. It was this: that if we could find to whom Eleanore Leavenworth felt she owed her best duty and love, we should discover the man who murdered her uncle.” + 

“And do you imagine you have done this?” + 

“I do.” + 

His eyes stole a little nearer my face. “Well! that is good; go on.” + 

“When I undertook this business of clearing Eleanore Leavenworth from suspicion,” I resumed, “it was with the premonition that this person would prove to be her lover; but I had no idea he would prove to be her husband.” + 

Mr. Gryce’s gaze flashed like lightning to the ceiling. + 

“What!” he ejaculated with a frown. + 

“The lover of Eleanore Leavenworth is likewise her husband,” I repeated. “Mr. Clavering holds no lesser connection to her than that.” + 

“How have you found that out?” demanded Mr. Gryce, in a harsh tone that argued disappointment or displeasure. + 

“That I will not take time to state. The question is not how I became acquainted with a certain thing, but is what I assert in regard to it true. If you will cast your eye over this summary of events gleaned by me from the lives of these two persons, I think you will agree with me that it is.” And I held up before his eyes the following: + 

“During the two weeks commencing July 6, of the year 1875, and ending July 19, of the same year, Henry R. Clavering, of London, and Eleanore Leavenworth, of New York, were guests of the same hotel. Fact proved by Visitor Book of the Hotel Union at R⁠⸺, New York. + 

“They were not only guests of the same hotel, but are known to have held more or less communication with each other. Fact proved by such servants now employed in R⁠⸺ as were in the hotel at that time. + 

“July 19. Mr. Clavering left R⁠⸺ abruptly, a circumstance that would not be considered remarkable if Mr. Leavenworth, whose violent antipathy to Englishmen as husbands is publicly known, had not just returned from a journey. + 

“July 30. Mr. Clavering was seen in the parlor of Mr. Stebbins, the Methodist minister at F⁠⸺, a town about sixteen miles from R⁠⸺, where he was married to a lady of great beauty. Proved by Timothy Cook, a man in the employ of Mr. Stebbins, who was called in from the garden to witness the ceremony and sign a paper supposed to be a certificate. + 

“July 31. Mr. Clavering takes steamer for Liverpool. Proved by newspapers of that date. + 

“September. Eleanore Leavenworth in her uncle’s house in New York, conducting herself as usual, but pale of face and preoccupied in manner. Proved by servants then in her service. Mr. Clavering in London; watches the United States mails with eagerness, but receives no letters. Fits up room elegantly, as for a lady. Proved by secret communication from London. + 

“November. Miss Leavenworth still in uncle’s house. No publication of her marriage ever made. Mr. Clavering in London; shows signs of uneasiness; the room prepared for lady closed. Proved as above. + 

“January 17, 1876. Mr. Clavering, having returned to America, engages room at Hoffman House, New York. + 

“March 1 or 2. Mr. Leavenworth receives a letter signed by Henry Clavering, in which he complains of having been ill-used by one of that gentleman’s nieces. A manifest shade falls over the family at this time. + 

“March 4. Mr. Clavering under a false name inquires at the door of Mr. Leavenworth’s house for Miss Eleanore Leavenworth. Proved by Thomas.” + 

“March 4th?” exclaimed Mr. Gryce at this point. “That was the night of the murder.” + 

“Yes; the Mr. Le Roy Robbins said to have called that evening was none other than Mr. Clavering.” + 

“March 19. Miss Mary Leavenworth, in a conversation with me, acknowledges that there is a secret in the family, and is just upon the point of revealing its nature, when Mr. Clavering enters the house. Upon his departure she declares her unwillingness ever to mention the subject again.” + 

Mr. Gryce slowly waved the paper aside. “And from these facts you draw the inference that Eleanore Leavenworth is the wife of Mr. Clavering?” + 

“I do.” + 

“And that, being his wife⁠—” + 

“It would be natural for her to conceal anything she knew likely to criminate him.” + 

“Always supposing Clavering himself had done anything criminal!” + 

“Of course.” + 

“Which latter supposition you now propose to justify!” + 

“Which latter supposition it is left for us to justify.” + 

A peculiar gleam shot over Mr. Gryce’s somewhat abstracted countenance. “Then you have no new evidence against Mr. Clavering?” + 

“I should think the fact just given, of his standing in the relation of unacknowledged husband to the suspected party was something.” + 

“No positive evidence as to his being the assassin of Mr. Leavenworth, I mean?” + 

I was obliged to admit I had none which he would consider positive. “But I can show the existence of motive; and I can likewise show it was not only possible, but probable, he was in the house at the time of the murder.” + 

“Ah, you can!” cried Mr. Gryce, rousing a little from his abstraction. + 

“The motive was the usual one of self-interest. Mr. Leavenworth stood in the way of Eleanore’s acknowledging him as a husband, and he must therefore be put out of the way.” + 

“Weak!” + 

“Motives for murders are sometimes weak.” + 

“The motive for this was not. Too much calculation was shown for the arm to have been nerved by anything short of the most deliberate intention, founded upon the deadliest necessity of passion or avarice.” + 

“Avarice?” + 

“One should never deliberate upon the causes which have led to the destruction of a rich man without taking into account that most common passion of the human race.” + 

“But⁠—” + 

“Let us hear what you have to say of Mr. Clavering’s presence in the house at the time of the murder.” + 

I related what Thomas the butler had told me in regard to Mr. Clavering’s call upon Miss Leavenworth that night, and the lack of proof which existed as to his having left the house when supposed to do so. + 

“That is worth remembering,” said Mr. Gryce at the conclusion. “Valueless as direct evidence, it might prove of great value as corroborative.” Then, in a graver tone, he went on to say: “Mr. Raymond, are you aware that in all this you have been strengthening the case against Eleanore Leavenworth instead of weakening it?” + 

I could only ejaculate, in my sudden wonder and dismay. + 

“You have shown her to be secret, sly, and unprincipled; capable of wronging those to whom she was most bound, her uncle and her husband.” + 

“You put it very strongly,” said I, conscious of a shocking discrepancy between this description of Eleanore’s character and all that I had preconceived in regard to it. + 

“No more so than your own conclusions from this story warrant me in doing.” Then, as I sat silent, murmured low, and as if to himself: “If the case was dark against her before, it is doubly so with this supposition established of her being the woman secretly married to Mr. Clavering.” + 

“And yet,” I protested, unable to give up my hope without a struggle; “you do not, cannot, believe the noble-looking Eleanore guilty of this horrible crime?” + 

“No,” he slowly said; “you might as well know right here what I think about that. I believe Eleanore Leavenworth to be an innocent woman.” + 

“You do? Then what,” I cried, swaying between joy at this admission and doubt as to the meaning of his former expressions, “remains to be done?” + 

Mr. Gryce quietly responded: “Why, nothing but to prove your supposition a false one.” + 

I stared at him in amazement. “I doubt if it will be so very difficult,” said he. Then, in a sudden burst, “Where is the man Cook?” + 

“He is below with Q.” + 

“That was a wise move; let us see the boys; have them up.” + 

Stepping to the door I called them. + 

“I expected, of course, you would want to question them,” said I, coming back. + 

In another moment the spruce Q and the shock-headed Cook entered the room. + 

“Ah,” said Mr. Gryce, directing his attention at the latter in his own whimsical, noncommittal way; “this is the deceased Mr. Stebbins’ hired man, is it? Well, you look as though you could tell the truth.” + 

“I usually calculate to do that thing, sir; at all events, I was never called a liar as I can remember.” + 

“Of course not, of course not,” returned the affable detective. Then, without any further introduction: “What was the first name of the lady you saw married in your master’s house last summer?” + 

“Bless me if I know! I don’t think I heard, sir.” + 

“But you recollect how she looked?” + 

“As well as if she was my own mother. No disrespect to the lady, sir, if you know her,” he made haste to add, glancing hurriedly at me. “What I mean is, she was so handsome, I could never forget the look of her sweet face if I lived a hundred years.” + 

“Can you describe her?” + 

“I don’t know, sirs; she was tall and grand-looking, had the brightest eyes and the whitest hand, and smiled in a way to make even a common man like me wish he had never seen her.” + 

“Would you know her in a crowd?” + 

“I would know her anywhere.” + 

“Very well; now tell us all you can about that marriage.” + 

“Well, sirs, it was something like this. I had been in Mr. Stebbins’ employ about a year, when one morning as I was hoeing in the garden I saw a gentleman walk rapidly up the road to our gate and come in. I noticed him particularly, because he was so fine-looking; unlike anybody in F⁠⸺, and, indeed, unlike anybody I had ever seen, for that matter; but I shouldn’t have thought much about that if there hadn’t come along, not five minutes after, a buggy with two ladies in it, which stopped at our gate, too. I saw they wanted to get out, so I went and held their horse for them, and they got down and went into the house.” + 

“Did you see their faces?” + 

“No, sir; not then. They had veils on.” + 

“Very well, go on.” + 

“I hadn’t been to work long, before I heard someone calling my name, and looking up, saw Mr. Stebbins standing in the doorway beckoning. I went to him, and he said, ‘I want you, Tim; wash your hands and come into the parlor.’ I had never been asked to do that before, and it struck me all of a heap; but I did what he asked, and was so taken aback at the looks of the lady I saw standing up on the floor with the handsome gentleman, that I stumbled over a stool and made a great racket, and didn’t know much where I was or what was going on, till I heard Mr. Stebbins say ‘man and wife’; and then it came over me in a hot kind of way that it was a marriage I was seeing.” + 

Timothy Cook stopped to wipe his forehead, as if overcome with the very recollection, and Mr. Gryce took the opportunity to remark: + 

“You say there were two ladies; now where was the other one at this time?” + 

“She was there, sir; but I didn’t mind much about her, I was so taken up with the handsome one and the way she had of smiling when anyone looked at her. I never saw the beat.” + 

I felt a quick thrill go through me. + 

“Can you remember the color of her hair or eyes?” + 

“No, sir; I had a feeling as if she wasn’t dark, and that is all I know.” + 

“But you remember her face?” + 

“Yes, sir!” + 

Mr. Gryce here whispered me to procure two pictures which I would find in a certain drawer in his desk, and set them up in different parts of the room unbeknown to the man. + 

“You have before said,” pursued Mr. Gryce, “that you have no remembrance of her name. Now, how was that? Weren’t you called upon to sign the certificate?” + 

“Yes, sir; but I am most ashamed to say it; I was in a sort of maze, and didn’t hear much, and only remember it was a Mr. Clavering she was married to, and that someone called someone else Elner, or something like that. I wish I hadn’t been so stupid, sir, if it would have done you any good.” + 

“Tell us about the signing of the certificate,” said Mr. Gryce. + 

“Well, sir, there isn’t much to tell. Mr. Stebbins asked me to put my name down in a certain place on a piece of paper he pushed towards me, and I put it down there; that is all.” + 

“Was there no other name there when you wrote yours?” + 

“No, sir. Afterwards Mr. Stebbins turned towards the other lady, who now came forward, and asked her if she wouldn’t please sign it, too; and she said, ‘yes,’ and came very quickly and did so.” + 

“And didn’t you see her face then?” + 

“No, sir; her back was to me when she threw by her veil, and I only saw Mr. Stebbins staring at her as she stooped, with a kind of wonder on his face, which made me think she might have been something worth looking at too; but I didn’t see her myself.” + 

“Well, what happened then?” + 

“I don’t know, sir. I went stumbling out of the room, and didn’t see anything more.” + 

“Where were you when the ladies went away?” + 

“In the garden, sir. I had gone back to my work.” + 

“You saw them, then. Was the gentleman with them?” + 

“No, sir; that was the queer part of it all. They went back as they came, and so did he; and in a few minutes Mr. Stebbins came out where I was, and told me I was to say nothing about what I had seen, for it was a secret.” + 

“Were you the only one in the house who knew anything about it? Weren’t there any women around?” + 

“No, sir; Miss Stebbins had gone to the sewing circle.” + 

I had by this time some faint impression of what Mr. Gryce’s suspicions were, and in arranging the pictures had placed one, that of Eleanore, on the mantelpiece, and the other, which was an uncommonly fine photograph of Mary, in plain view on the desk. But Mr. Cook’s back was as yet towards that part of the room, and, taking advantage of the moment, I returned and asked him if that was all he had to tell us about this matter. + 

“Yes, sir.” + 

“Then,” said Mr. Gryce, with a glance at Q, “isn’t there something you can give Mr. Cook in payment for his story? Look around, will you?” + 

Q nodded, and moved towards a cupboard in the wall at the side of the mantelpiece; Mr. Cook following him with his eyes, as was natural, when, with a sudden start, he crossed the room and, pausing before the mantelpiece, looked at the picture of Eleanore which I had put there, gave a low grunt of satisfaction or pleasure, looked at it again, and walked away. I felt my heart leap into my throat, and, moved by what impulse of dread or hope I cannot say, turned my back, when suddenly I heard him give vent to a startled exclamation, followed by the words: “Why! here she is; this is her, sirs,” and turning around saw him hurrying towards us with Mary’s picture in his hands. + 

I do not know as I was greatly surprised. I was powerfully excited, as well as conscious of a certain whirl of thought, and an unsettling of old conclusions that was very confusing; but surprised? No. Mr. Gryce’s manner had too well prepared me. + 

“This the lady who was married to Mr. Clavering, my good man? I guess you are mistaken,” cried the detective, in a very incredulous tone. + 

“Mistaken? Didn’t I say I would know her anywhere? This is the lady, if she is the president’s wife herself.” And Mr. Cook leaned over it with a devouring look that was not without its element of homage. + 

“I am very much astonished,” Mr. Gryce went on, winking at me in a slow, diabolical way which in another mood would have aroused my fiercest anger. “Now, if you had said the other lady was the one”⁠—pointing to the picture on the mantelpiece, “I shouldn’t have wondered.” + 

“She? I never saw that lady before; but this one⁠—would you mind telling me her name, sirs?” + 

“If what you say is true, her name is Mrs. Clavering.” + 

“Clavering? Yes, that was his name.” + 

“And a very lovely lady,” said Mr. Gryce. “Morris, haven’t you found anything yet?” + 

Q, for answer, brought forward glasses and a bottle. + 

But Mr. Cook was in no mood for liquor. I think he was struck with remorse; for, looking from the picture to Q, and from Q to the picture, he said: + 

“If I have done this lady wrong by my talk, I’ll never forgive myself. You told me I would help her to get her rights; if you have deceived me⁠—” + 

“Oh, I haven’t deceived you,” broke in Q, in his short, sharp way. “Ask that gentleman there if we are not all interested in Mrs. Clavering getting her due.” + 

He had designated me; but I was in no mood to reply. I longed to have the man dismissed, that I might inquire the reason of the great complacency which I now saw overspreading Mr. Gryce’s frame, to his very finger-ends. + 

“Mr. Cook needn’t be concerned,” remarked Mr. Gryce. “If he will take a glass of warm drink to fortify him for his walk, I think he may go to the lodgings Mr. Morris has provided for him without fear. Give the gent a glass, and let him mix for himself.” + 

But it was full ten minutes before we were delivered of the man and his vain regrets. Mary’s image had called up every latent feeling in his heart, and I could but wonder over a loveliness capable of swaying the low as well as the high. But at last he yielded to the seductions of the now wily Q, and departed. + 

Left alone with Mr. Gryce, I must have allowed some of the confused emotions which filled my breast to become apparent on my countenance; for after a few minutes of ominous silence, he exclaimed very grimly, and yet with a latent touch of that complacency I had before noticed: + 

“This discovery rather upsets you, doesn’t it? Well, it don’t me,” shutting his mouth like a trap. “I expected it.” + 

“Your conclusions must differ very materially from mine,” I returned; “or you would see that this discovery alters the complexion of the whole affair.” + 

“It does not alter the truth.” + 

“What is the truth?” + 

Mr. Gryce’s very legs grew thoughtful; his voice sank to its deepest tone. “Do you very much want to know?” + 

“Want to know the truth? What else are we after?” + 

“Then,” said he, “to my notion, the complexion of things has altered, but very much for the better. As long as Eleanore was believed to be the wife, her action in this matter was accounted for; but the tragedy itself was not. Why should Eleanore or Eleanore’s husband wish the death of a man whose bounty they believed would end with his life? But with Mary, the heiress, proved the wife!⁠—I tell you, Mr. Raymond, it all hangs together now. You must never, in reckoning up an affair of murder like this, forget who it is that most profits by the deceased man’s death.” + 

“But Eleanore’s silence? her concealment of certain proofs and evidences in her own breast⁠—how will you account for that? I can imagine a woman devoting herself to the shielding of a husband from the consequences of crime; but a cousin’s husband, never.” + 

Mr. Gryce put his feet very close together, and softly grunted. “Then you still think Mr. Clavering the assassin of Mr. Leavenworth?” + 

I could only stare at him in my sudden doubt and dread. “Still think?” I repeated. + 

“Mr. Clavering the murderer of Mr. Leavenworth?” + 

“Why, what else is there to think? You don’t⁠—you can’t⁠—suspect Eleanore of having deliberately undertaken to help her cousin out of a difficulty by taking the life of their mutual benefactor?” + 

“No,” said Mr. Gryce; “no, I do not think Eleanore Leavenworth had any hand in the business.” + 

“Then who⁠—” I began, and stopped, lost in the dark vista that was opening before me. + 

“Who? Why, who but the one whose past deceit and present necessity demanded his death as a relief? Who but the beautiful, money-loving, man-deceiving goddess⁠—” + 

I leaped to my feet in my sudden horror and repugnance. “Do not mention the name! You are wrong; but do not speak the name.” + 

“Excuse me,” said he; “but it will have to be spoken many times, and we may as well begin here and now⁠—who then but Mary Leavenworth; or, if you like it better, Mrs. Henry Clavering? Are you so much surprised? It has been my thought from the beginning.” + 

I do not propose to enter into a description of the mingled feelings aroused in me by this announcement. As a drowning man is said to live over in one terrible instant the events of a lifetime, so each word uttered in my hearing by Mary, from her first introduction to me in her own room, on the morning of the inquest, to our final conversation on the night of Mr. Clavering’s call, swept in one wild phantasmagoria through my brain, leaving me aghast at the signification which her whole conduct seemed to acquire from the lurid light which now fell upon it. + 

“I perceive that I have pulled down an avalanche of doubts about your ears,” exclaimed my companion from the height of his calm superiority. “You never thought of this possibility, then, yourself?” + 

“Do not ask me what I have thought. I only know I will never believe your suspicions true. That, however much Mary may have been benefited by her uncle’s death, she never had a hand in it; actual hand, I mean.” + 

“And what makes you so sure of this?” + 

“And what makes you so sure of the contrary? It is for you to prove, not for me to prove her innocence.” + 

“Ah,” said Mr. Gryce, in his slow, sarcastic way, “you recollect that principle of law, do you? If I remember rightly, you have not always been so punctilious in regarding it, or wishing to have it regarded, when the question was whether Mr. Clavering was the assassin or not.” + 

“But he is a man. It does not seem so dreadful to accuse a man of a crime. But a woman! and such a woman! I cannot listen to it; it is horrible. Nothing short of absolute confession on her part will ever make me believe Mary Leavenworth, or any other woman, committed this deed. It was too cruel, too deliberate, too⁠—” + 

“Read the criminal records,” broke in Mr. Gryce. + 

But I was obstinate. “I do not care for the criminal records. All the criminal records in the world would never make me believe Eleanore perpetrated this crime, nor will I be less generous towards her cousin. Mary Leavenworth is a faulty woman, but not a guilty one.” + 

“You are more lenient in your judgment of her than her cousin was, it appears.” + 

“I do not understand you,” I muttered, feeling a new and yet more fearful light breaking upon me. + 

“What! have you forgotten, in the hurry of these late events, the sentence of accusation which we overheard uttered between these ladies on the morning of the inquest?” + 

“No, but⁠—” + 

“You believed it to have been spoken by Mary to Eleanore?” + 

“Of course; didn’t you?” + 

Oh, the smile which crossed Mr. Gryce’s face! “Scarcely. I left that baby-play for you. I thought one was enough to follow on that tack.” + 

The light, the light that was breaking upon me! “And do you mean to say it was Eleanore who was speaking at that time? That I have been laboring all these weeks under a terrible mistake, and that you could have righted me with a word, and did not?” + 

“Well, as to that, I had a purpose in letting you follow your own lead for a while. In the first place, I was not sure myself which spoke; though I had but little doubt about the matter. The voices are, as you must have noticed, very much alike, while the attitudes in which we found them upon entering were such as to be explainable equally by the supposition that Mary was in the act of launching a denunciation, or in that of repelling one. So that, while I did not hesitate myself as to the true explanation of the scene before me, I was pleased to find you accept a contrary one; as in this way both theories had a chance of being tested; as was right in a case of so much mystery. You accordingly took up the affair with one idea for your starting-point, and I with another. You saw every fact as it developed through the medium of Mary’s belief in Eleanore’s guilt, and I through the opposite. And what has been the result? With you, doubt, contradiction, constant unsettlement, and unwarranted resorts to strange sources for reconcilement between appearances and your own convictions; with me, growing assurance, and a belief which each and every development so far has but served to strengthen and make more probable.” + 

Again that wild panorama of events, looks, and words swept before me. Mary’s reiterated assertions of her cousin’s innocence, Eleanore’s attitude of lofty silence in regard to certain matters which might be considered by her as pointing towards the murderer. + 

“Your theory must be the correct one,” I finally admitted; “it was undoubtedly Eleanore who spoke. She believes in Mary’s guilt, and I have been blind, indeed, not to have seen it from the first.” + 

“If Eleanore Leavenworth believes in her cousin’s criminality, she must have some good reasons for doing so.” + 

I was obliged to admit that too. “She did not conceal in her bosom that telltale key⁠—found who knows where?⁠—and destroy, or seek to destroy, it and the letter which introduced her cousin to the public as the unprincipled destroyer of a trusting man’s peace, for nothing.” + 

“No, no.” + 

“And yet you, a stranger, a young man who have never seen Mary Leavenworth in any other light than that in which her coquettish nature sought to display itself, presume to say she is innocent, in the face of the attitude maintained from the first by her cousin!” + 

“But,” said I, in my great unwillingness to accept his conclusions, “Eleanore Leavenworth is but mortal. She may have been mistaken in her inferences. She has never stated what her suspicion was founded upon; nor can we know what basis she has for maintaining the attitude you speak of. Clavering is as likely as Mary to be the assassin, for all we know, and possibly for all she knows.” + 

“You seem to be almost superstitious in your belief in Clavering’s guilt.” + 

I recoiled. Was I? Could it be that Mr. Harwell’s fanciful conviction in regard to this man had in any way influenced me to the detriment of my better judgment? + 

“And you may be right,” Mr. Gryce went on. “I do not pretend to be set in my notions. Future investigation may succeed in fixing something upon him; though I hardly think it likely. His behavior as the secret husband of a woman possessing motives for the commission of a crime has been too consistent throughout.” + 

“All except his leaving her.” + 

“No exception at all; for he hasn’t left her.” + 

“What do you mean?” + 

“I mean that, instead of leaving the country, Mr. Clavering has only made pretence of doing so. That, in place of dragging himself off to Europe at her command, he has only changed his lodgings, and can now be found, not only in a house opposite to hers, but in the window of that house, where he sits day after day watching who goes in and out of her front door.” + 

I remembered his parting injunction to me, in that memorable interview we had in my office, and saw myself compelled to put a new construction upon it. + 

“But I was assured at the Hoffman House that he had sailed for Europe, and myself saw the man who professes to have driven him to the steamer.” + 

“Just so.” + 

“And Mr. Clavering returned to the city after that?” + 

“In another carriage, and to another house.” + 

“And you tell me that man is all right?” + 

“No; I only say there isn’t the shadow of evidence against him as the person who shot Mr. Leavenworth.” + 

Rising, I paced the floor, and for a few minutes silence fell between us. But the clock, striking, recalled me to the necessity of the hour, and, turning, I asked Mr. Gryce what he proposed to do now. + 

“There is but one thing I can do,” said he. + 

“And that is?” + 

“To go upon such lights as I have, and cause the arrest of Miss Leavenworth.” + 

I had by this time schooled myself to endurance, and was able to hear this without uttering an exclamation. But I could not let it pass without making one effort to combat his determination. + 

“But,” said I, “I do not see what evidence you have, positive enough in its character, to warrant extreme measures. You have yourself intimated that the existence of motive is not enough, even though taken with the fact of the suspected party being in the house at the time of the murder; and what more have you to urge against Miss Leavenworth?” + 

“Pardon me. I said ‘Miss Leavenworth’; I should have said ‘Eleanore Leavenworth.’ ” + 

“Eleanore? What! when you and all unite in thinking that she alone of all these parties to the crime is utterly guiltless of wrong?” + 

“And yet who is the only one against whom positive testimony of any kind can be brought.” + 

I could but acknowledge that. + 

“Mr. Raymond,” he remarked very gravely; “the public is becoming clamorous; something must be done to satisfy it, if only for the moment. Eleanore has laid herself open to the suspicion of the police, and must take the consequences of her action. I am sorry; she is a noble creature; I admire her; but justice is justice, and though I think her innocent, I shall be forced to put her under arrest unless⁠—” + 

“But I cannot be reconciled to it. It is doing an irretrievable injury to one whose only fault is an undue and mistaken devotion to an unworthy cousin. If Mary is the⁠—.” + 

“Unless something occurs between now and tomorrow morning,” Mr. Gryce went on, as if I had not spoken. + 

“Tomorrow morning?” + 

“Yes.” + 

I tried to realize it; tried to face the fact that all my efforts had been for nothing, and failed. + 

“Will you not grant me one more day?” I asked in my desperation. + 

“What to do?” + 

Alas, I did not know. “To confront Mr. Clavering, and force from him the truth.” + 

“To make a mess of the whole affair!” he growled. “No, sir; the die is cast. Eleanore Leavenworth knows the one point which fixes this crime upon her cousin, and she must tell us that point or suffer the consequences of her refusal.” + 

I made one more effort. + 

“But why tomorrow? Having exhausted so much time already in our inquiries, why not take a little more; especially as the trail is constantly growing warmer? A little more moleing⁠—” + 

“A little more folderol!” exclaimed Mr. Gryce, losing his temper. “No, sir; the hour for moleing has passed; something decisive has got to be done now; though, to be sure, if I could find the one missing link I want⁠—” + 

“Missing link? What is that?” + 

“The immediate motive of the tragedy; a bit of proof that Mr. Leavenworth threatened his niece with his displeasure, or Mr. Clavering with his revenge, would place me on the vantage-point at once; no arresting of Eleanore then! No, my lady! I would walk right into your own gilded parlors, and when you asked me if I had found the murderer yet, say ‘yes,’ and show you a bit of paper which would surprise you! But missing links are not so easily found. This has been moled for, and moled for, as you are pleased to call our system of investigation, and totally without result. Nothing but the confession of some one of these several parties to the crime will give us what we want. I will tell you what I will do,” he suddenly cried. “Miss Leavenworth has desired me to report to her; she is very anxious for the detection of the murderer, you know, and offers an immense reward. Well, I will gratify this desire of hers. The suspicions I have, together with my reasons for them, will make an interesting disclosure. I should not greatly wonder if they produced an equally interesting confession.” + 

I could only jump to my feet in my horror. + 

“At all events, I propose to try it. Eleanore is worth that much risk anyway.” + 

“It will do no good,” said I. “If Mary is guilty, she will never confess it. If not⁠—” + 

“She will tell us who is.” + 

“Not if it is Clavering, her husband.” + 

“Yes; even if it is Clavering, her husband. She has not the devotion of Eleanore.” + 

That I could but acknowledge. She would hide no keys for the sake of shielding another: no, if Mary were accused, she would speak. The future opening before us looked sombre enough. And yet when, in a short time from that, I found myself alone in a busy street, the thought that Eleanore was free rose above all others, filling and moving me till my walk home in the rain that day has become a marked memory of my life. It was only with nightfall that I began to realize the truly critical position in which Mary stood if Mr. Gryce’s theory was correct. But, once seized with this thought, nothing could drive it from my mind. Shrink as I would, it was ever before me, haunting me with the direst forebodings. Nor, though I retired early, could I succeed in getting either sleep or rest. All night I tossed on my pillow, saying over to myself with dreary iteration: “Something must happen, something will happen, to prevent Mr. Gryce doing this dreadful thing.” Then I would start up and ask what could happen; and my mind would run over various contingencies, such as⁠—Mr. Clavering might confess; Hannah might come back; Mary herself wake up to her position and speak the word I had more than once seen trembling on her lips. But further thought showed me how unlikely any of these things were to happen, and it was with a brain utterly exhausted that I fell asleep in the early dawn, to dream I saw Mary standing above Mr. Gryce with a pistol in her hand. I was awakened from this pleasing vision by a heavy knock at the door. Hastily rising, I asked who was there. The answer came in the shape of an envelope thrust under the door. Raising it, I found it to be a note. It was from Mr. Gryce, and ran thus: + 

“Come at once; Hannah Chester is found.” + 

“Hannah found?” + 

“So we have reason to think.” + 

“When? where? by whom?” + 

“Sit down, and I will tell you.” + 

Drawing up a chair in a flurry of hope and fear, I sat down by Mr. Gryce’s side. + 

“She is not in the cupboard,” that person dryly assured me, noting without doubt how my eyes went travelling about the room in my anxiety and impatience. “We are not absolutely sure that she is anywhere. But word has come to us that a girl’s face believed to be Hannah’s has been seen at the upper window of a certain house in⁠—don’t start⁠—R⁠⸺, where a year ago she was in the habit of visiting while at the hotel with the Misses Leavenworth. Now, as it has already been determined that she left New York the night of the murder, by the ⸻ ⸻ Railroad, though for what point we have been unable to ascertain, we consider the matter worth inquiring into.” + 

“But⁠—” + 

“If she is there,” resumed Mr. Gryce, “she is secreted; kept very close. No one except the informant has ever seen her, nor is there any suspicion among the neighbors of her being in town.” + 

“Hannah secreted at a certain house in R⁠⸺? Whose house?” + 

Mr. Gryce honored me with one of his grimmest smiles. “The name of the lady she’s with is given in the communication as Belden; Mrs. Amy Belden.” + 

“Amy Belden! the name found written on a torn envelope by Mr. Clavering’s servant girl in London?” + 

“Yes.” + 

I made no attempt to conceal my satisfaction. “Then we are upon the verge of some discovery; Providence has interfered, and Eleanore will be saved! But when did you get this word?” + 

“Last night, or rather this morning; Q brought it.” + 

“It was a message, then, to Q?” + 

“Yes, the result of his moleings while in R⁠⸺, I suppose.” + 

“Whom was it signed by?” + 

“A respectable tinsmith who lives next door to Mrs. B.” + 

“And is this the first you knew of an Amy Belden living in R⁠⸺?” + 

“Yes.” + 

“Widow or wife?” + 

“Don’t know; don’t know anything about her but her name.” + 

“But you have already sent Q to make inquiries?” + 

“No; the affair is a little too serious for him to manage alone. He is not equal to great occasions, and might fail just for the lack of a keen mind to direct him.” + 

“In short⁠—” + 

“I wish you to go. Since I cannot be there myself, I know of no one else sufficiently up in the affair to conduct it to a successful issue. You see, it is not enough to find and identify the girl. The present condition of things demands that the arrest of so important a witness should be kept secret. Now, for a man to walk into a strange house in a distant village, find a girl who is secreted there, frighten her, cajole her, force her, as the case may be, from her hiding-place to a detective’s office in New York, and all without the knowledge of the next-door neighbor, if possible, requires judgment, brains, genius. Then the woman who conceals her! She must have her reasons for doing so; and they must be known. Altogether, the affair is a delicate one. Do you think you can manage it?” + 

“I should at least like to try.” + 

Mr. Gryce settled himself on the sofa. “To think what pleasure I am losing on your account!” he grumbled, gazing reproachfully at his helpless limbs. “But to business. How soon can you start?” + 

“Immediately.” + 

“Good! a train leaves the depot at 12:15. Take that. Once in R⁠⸺, it will be for you to decide upon the means of making Mrs. Belden’s acquaintance without arousing her suspicions. Q, who will follow you, will hold himself in readiness to render you any assistance you may require. Only this thing is to be understood: as he will doubtless go in disguise, you are not to recognize him, much less interfere with him and his plans, till he gives you leave to do so, by some preconcerted signal. You are to work in your way, and he in his, till circumstances seem to call for mutual support and countenance. I cannot even say whether you will see him or not; he may find it necessary to keep out of the way; but you may be sure of one thing, that he will know where you are, and that the display of, well, let us say a red silk handkerchief⁠—have you such a thing?” + 

“I will get one.” + 

“Will be regarded by him as a sign that you desire his presence or assistance, whether it be shown about your person or at the window of your room.” + 

“And these are all the instructions you can give me?” I said, as he paused. + 

“Yes, I don’t know of anything else. You must depend largely upon your own discretion, and the exigencies of the moment. I cannot tell you now what to do. Your own wit will be the best guide. Only, if possible, let me either hear from you or see you by tomorrow at this time.” + 

And he handed me a cipher in case I should wish to telegraph. + 