 CHAPTER IX. A Discovery. His rolling eyes did never rest in place, but walked each where, for fear of hid, mischance, holding a lattice still before his pace, through which he still did peep as forward he did pace. The Fairy Queen. Miss Leavenworth, who appeared to have lingered from a vague terror of everything and everybody in the house not under her immediate observation, shrank from my side the moment she found herself left comparatively alone, and retiring to a distant corner gave herself up to grief. Turning my attention, therefore, in the direction of Mr. Grice, I found that person busily engaged in counting his own fingers, with a troubled expression upon his countenance, which may or may not have been the result of that arduous employment. But at my approach, satisfied perhaps that he possessed no more than the requisite number, he dropped his hands and greeted me with a faint smile which was, considering all things, too suggestive to be pleasant. "'Well,' said I, taking my stand before him, I cannot blame you. You had a right to do as you thought best, but how had you the heart? Was she not sufficiently compromised without your bringing out that wretched handkerchief, which she may or may not have dropped in that room, but whose presence there, soiled though it was with pistol-grease, is certainly no proof that she herself was connected with this murder?' "'Mr. Raymond,' he returned, "'I have been detailed as police officer and detective to look after this case, and I propose to do it.' "'Of course,' I hastened to reply. I am the last man to wish you to shirk your duty. But you cannot have the temerity to declare that this young and tender creature can by any possibility be considered as at all likely to be implicated in a crime so monstrous and unnatural. The mere assertion of another woman's suspicions on the subject ought not. But here Mr. Grice interrupted me. You talk when your attention should be directed to more important matters. That other woman, as you are pleased to designate the fairest ornament of New York society, sits over there in tears. Go and comfort her.' Looking at him in amazement, I hesitated to comply. But seeing he was in earnest, crossed to Miss Mary Leavenworth, and sat down by her side. She was weeping, but in a slow, unconscious way, as if grief had been mastered by fear. The fear was too undisguised and the grief too natural for me to doubt the genuineness of either. Miss Leavenworth said I. Any attempt at consolation on the part of a stranger must seem, at a time like this, the most bitter of mockeries. But do try and consider that circumstantial evidence is not always absolute proof. Starting with surprise she turned her eyes upon me with a slow, comprehensive gaze wonderful to see in orbs so tender and womanly. No, she repeated. Circumstantial evidence is not absolute proof. But Eleanor does not know this. She is so intense. She cannot see but one thing at a time. She has been running her head into a noose and, oh! pausing, she clutched my arm with a passionate grasp. Do you think there is any danger? Will they? She could not go on. Miss Leavenworth I protested, with a warning looked toward the detective. What do you mean? Like a flash her glance followed mine, an instant change taking place in her bearing. Your cousin may be intense, I went on, as if nothing had occurred. But I do not know to what you refer when you say she has been running her head into a noose. I mean this, she firmly returned. That wittingly or unwittingly she has so parried and met the questions which have been put to her in this room that any one listening to her would give her the credit of knowing more than she ought to of this horrible affair. She acts, Mary whispered, but not so low but that every word could be distinctly heard in all quarters of the room. As if she were anxious to conceal something. But she is not. I am sure she is not. Eleanor and I are not good friends, but all the world can never make me believe she has any more knowledge of this murder than I have. Won't somebody tell her then? Watch you, that her manner is a mistake, that it is calculated to arouse suspicion, that it has already done so? And oh, don't forget to add, her voice sinking to a decided whisper now, what you have just repeated to me, that circumstantial evidence is not always absolute proof. I surveyed her with great astonishment, what an actress this woman was. You request me to tell her this, said I. Wouldn't it be better for you to speak to her yourself?" Eleanor and I hold little or no confidential communication, she replied. I could easily believe this, and yet I was puzzled. Indeed, there was something incomprehensible in her whole manner. Not knowing what else to say, I remarked, that is unfortunate. She ought to be told that the straightforward course is the best by all means. Mary Leavenworth only wept. Oh, why has this awful trouble come to me, who have always been so happy before? Perhaps for the very reason that you have always been so happy. It was not enough for my dear uncle to die in this horrible manner, but she, my own cousin, had to—I touched her arm, and the action seemed to recall her to herself. Stopping short, she bit her lip. Miss Leavenworth, I whispered, you should hope for the best. Besides, I honestly believe you to be disturbing yourself unnecessarily. If nothing fresh transpires, a mere prevarication or so of your cousins will not suffice to injure her. I said this to see if she had any reason to doubt the future. I was amply rewarded. Anything fresh? How could there be anything fresh when she is perfectly innocent? Suddenly a thought seemed to strike her. Wheeling round in her seat till her lovely perfumed wrapper brushed my knee, she asked, why didn't they ask me more questions? I could have told them Eleanor never left her room last night. You could? What was I to think of this woman? Yes, my room is nearer the head of the stairs than hers. If she had passed my door, I should have heard her, don't you see? Ah, that was all. That does not follow, I answered sadly. Can you give no other reason? I would say whatever was necessary, she whispered. I started back. Yes, this woman would lie now to save her cousin, had lied during the inquest, but then I felt grateful, and now I was simply horrified. Miss Leavenworth said I, nothing can justify one in violating the dictates of his own conscience, not even the safety of one we do not altogether love. No, she returned, and her lip took a tremulous curve, the lovely bosom heaved, and she softly looked away. If Eleanor's beauty had made less of an impression on my fancy, or if her frightful situation awakened less anxiety in my breast, I should have been a lost man from that moment. I did not mean to do anything wrong, Miss Leavenworth continued. Do not think too badly of me. No, no, said I, and there is not a man living who would not have said the same in my place. What more might have passed between us on this subject I cannot say, for just then the door opened, and a man entered whom I recognized as the one who had followed Eleanor Leavenworth out a short time before. Mr. Grice said he, pausing just inside the door. A word if you please. The detective nodded, but did not hasten toward him. Instead of that, he walked deliberately away to the other end of the room, where he lifted the lid of an ink-stand he saw there, muttered some unintelligible words into it, and speedily shut it again. Immediately the uncanny fancy seized me that if I should leap to that ink-stand, open it, and peer in, I should surprise and capture the bit of confidence he had entrusted to it. But I restrained my foolish impulse, and contented myself with noting the subdued look of respect with which the gaunt subordinate watched the approach of his superior. Well, inquired the latter as he reached him. What now? The man shrugged his shoulders, and drew his principle through the open door. Once in the hall their voices sank to a whisper, and as their backs only were visible I turned to look at my companion. She was pale but composed. Has he come from Eleanor? I do not know. I fear so. Miss Leavenworth, I proceeded. Can it be possible that your cousin has anything in her possession she desires to conceal? Then you think she is trying to conceal something. I do not say so, but there was considerable talk about a paper. They will never find any paper, or anything else suspicious in Eleanor's possession. Mary interrupted. In the first place there was no paper of importance enough. I saw Mr. Grice's form suddenly stiffen, for anyone to attempt its abstraction and concealment. Can you be sure of that? May not your cousin be acquainted with something? There was nothing to be acquainted with, Mr. Reignan. We lived the most methodical and domestic of lives. I cannot understand for my part why so much should be made out of this. My uncle undoubtedly came to his death by the hand of some intended burglar. That nothing was stolen from the house is no proof that a burglar never entered it. As for the doors and windows being locked, will you take the word of an Irish servant as infallible upon such an important point? I cannot. I believe the assassin to be one of a gang, who make their living by breaking into houses, and if you cannot honestly agree with me, do try and consider such an explanation as possible. If not for the sake of the family credit, why then?" And she turned her face with all its fair beauty upon mine, eyes, cheeks, mouth, all so exquisite and winsome. Why then, for mine? Instantly Mr. Grice turned upon us. Mr. Raymond, would you be kind enough to step this way? Glad to escape from my present position, I hastily obeyed. What has happened, I asked. We proposed to take you into our confidence, was the easy response. Mr. Raymond, Mr. Fobbs. I bowed to the man I saw before me, and stood uneasily waiting. Anxious as I was to know what we really had to fear, I still intuitively shrank from any communication with one whom I looked upon as a spy. A matter of some importance resumed the detective. It is not necessary for me to remind you that it is in confidence, is it? No. I thought not. Mr. Fobbs, you may proceed. Instantly the whole appearance of the man Fobbs changed. Assuming an expression of lofty importance, he laid his large hand outspread upon his heart and commenced. Detailed by Mr. Grice to watch the movements of Miss Eleanor Leavenworth, I left this room upon her departure from it, and followed her and the two servants who conducted her upstairs to her own apartment. Once there, Mr. Grice interrupted him. Once there, where? Her own room, sir. Where situated? At the head of the stairs. That is not her room. Go on. Not her room. Then it WAS the fire she was after. He cried, clapping himself on one knee. The fire? Excuse me. I am ahead of my story. She did not appear to notice me much, though I was right behind her. It was not until she had reached the door of this room, which was not her room, he interpolated dramatically, and turned to dismiss her servants that she seemed conscious of having been followed. Eyeing me then with an air of great dignity, quickly eclipsed, however, by an expression of patient endurance, she walked in, leaving the door open behind her in a courteous way I cannot sufficiently commend. I could not help frowning. Honest as the man appeared this was evidently anything but a sore subject with him. Observing me frown, he softened his manner. Not seeing any other way of keeping her under my eye, except by entering the room, I followed her in, and took a seat in a remote corner. She flashed one look at me as I did so, and commenced pacing the floor in a restless kind of way I am not altogether unused to. At last she stropped abruptly, right in the middle of the room. Get me a glass of water, she gasped. I'm faint again, quick, on the stand in the corner. Now in order to get that glass of water, it was necessary for me to pass behind a dressing mirror that reached almost to the ceiling, and I naturally hesitated. But she turned and looked at me, and, well, gentlemen, I think either of you would have hastened to do what she asked, or at least, with a doubtful look at Mr. Grice, have given your two ears for the privilege, even if you didn't succumb to the temptation. Well, well," exclaimed Mr. Grice, impatiently. "'I am going on,' said he. I stepped out of sight then for a moment, but it seemed long enough for her purpose, for when I emerged, glass in hand, she was kneeling at the grate full five feet from the spot where she had been standing, and was fumbling with the waist of her dress, in a way to convince me she had something concealed there which she was anxious to dispose of. I eyed her pretty closely as I handed her the glass of water, but she was gazing into the grate, and didn't appear to notice. Drinking barely a drop she gave it back, and in another moment was holding out her hands over the fire. I am so cold," she cried, so cold, and I verily believe she was. At any rate she shivered most naturally. But there were a few dying embers in the grate, and when I saw her thrust her hand again into the folds of her dress I became distrustful of her intentions, and drawing a step nearer looked over her shoulder, when I distinctly saw her drop something into the grate that clinked as it fell. Suspecting what it was, I was about to interfere, when she sprang to her feet, seized the scuttle of coal that was upon the hearth, and with one move emptied the hole upon the dying embers. I want a fire, she cried, a fire. That is hardly the way to make one, I returned, carefully taking the coal out with my hands, piece by piece, and putting it back into the scuttle until— Until what? I asked, seeing him and Mr. Grice exchange a hurried look. Until I found this, opening his large hand and showing me a broken handled key. End of Chapter 9 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Kirsten Ferreri, Los Angeles, California. The Leavenworth case. By Anna Catherine Green. CHAPTER X Mr. Grice receives new impetus. There's nothing ill can dwell in such a temple. THE TEMPEST This astounding discovery made a most unhappy impression upon me. It was true then. Eleanor the Beautiful—the lovesome—was—I did not, could not finish the sentence, even in the silence of my own mind. He looked surprised, said Mr. Grice, glancing curiously towards the key. Now, I ain't. A woman does not thrill, blush, equivocate, and faint for nothing, especially such a woman as Miss Leavenworth. A woman who could do such a deed would be the last to thrill, equivocate, and faint, I retorted. Give me the key, let me see it. He complacently put it in my hand. It is the one we want, no getting out of that." I returned it. If she declares herself innocent, I will believe her. He stared with great amazement. You have strong faith in the women, he laughed. I hope they will never disappoint you. I had no reply for this, and a short silence ensued, first broken by Mr. Grice. There is but one thing left to do, said he. Phobbs, you will have to request Miss Leavenworth to come down. Do not alarm her, only see that she comes. To the reception room, he added, as the man drew off. No sooner were we left alone than I made a move to return to Mary, but he stopped me. Come and see it out, he whispered. She will be down in a moment. See it out, you had best. Glancing back, I hesitated, but the prospect of beholding Eleanor again drew me in spite of myself. Telling him to wait, I returned to Mary's side to make my excuses. What is the matter? What has occurred? she breathlessly asked. Nothing as yet to disturb you much. Do not be alarmed. But my face betrayed me. There is something, said she. Your cousin is coming down. Down here? And she shrank visibly. No, to the reception room. I do not understand. It is all dreadful, and no one tells me anything. I pray God there may be nothing to tell. Judging from your present faith in your cousin there will not be. Take comfort, then, and be assured I will inform you if anything occurs which you ought to know. Giving her a look of encouragement, I left her crushed against the crimson pillows of the sofa on which she sat, and rejoined Mr. Grice. We had scarcely entered the reception room when Eleanor Leavenworth came in. More languid than she was an hour before, but haughty still, she slowly advanced, and meeting my eye gently bent her head. I have been summoned here, said she, directing herself exclusively to Mr. Grice, by an individual whom I take to be in your employ. If so, may I request you to make your wishes known at once, as I am quite exhausted, and am in great need of rest. Miss Leavenworth returned Mr. Grice, rubbing his hands together and staring in a quite fatherly manner at the doorknob. I am very sorry to trouble you, but the fact is, I wish to ask you—but here she stopped him. Anything in regard to the key which that man has doubtless told you he saw me drop into the ashes? Yes, Miss. Then I must refuse to answer any questions concerning it. I have nothing to say on the subject, unless it is this—giving him a look full of suffering, but full of a certain sort of courage, too. That he was right, if he told you I had the key hiding about my person, and that I attempted to conceal it in the ashes of the great. Still, Miss—but she had already withdrawn to the door. I pray you to excuse me, she said. No argument you could advance would make any difference in my determination. Therefore it would be but a waste of energy on your part to attempt any. And with a flitting glance in my direction, not without its appeal, she quietly left the room. For a moment Mr. Grice stood staring after her with a look of great interest, then, bowing out with almost exaggerated homage, he hastily followed her out. I had scarcely recovered from the surprise occasioned by this unexpected movement when a quick step was heard in the hall, and Mary, flushed and anxious, appeared at my side. What is it she inquired? What has Eleanor been saying? Alas! I answered she has not said anything. That is the trouble, Miss Leavenworth. Your cousin preserves a reticence upon certain points very painful to witness. She ought to understand that if she persists in doing this, that—that what? There was no mistaking the deep anxiety prompting this question. That she cannot avoid the trouble that will ensue. For a moment she stood gazing at me with great horror-stricken, incredulous eyes, then sinking back into a chair, flung her hands over her face with the cry, oh, why were we ever born? Why were we allowed to live? Why did we not perish with those who gave us birth? In the face of anguish like this I could not keep still. Dear Miss Leavenworth, I assate, there is no cause for such despair as this. The future looks dark, but not impenetrable. Your cousin will listen to reason, and in explaining. But she, deaf to my words, had again risen to her feet and stood before me in an attitude almost appalling. Some women in my position would go mad—mad! I surveyed her with growing wonder. I thought I knew what she meant. She was conscious of having given the cue which had led to this suspicion of her cousin, and that in this way the trouble which hung over their heads was of her own making. I endeavored to soothe her, but my efforts were all unavailing. Absorbed in her own anguish she paid but little attention to me. Satisfied at last that I could do nothing more for her, I turned to go. The movements seemed to arouse her. I am sorry to leave, said I, without having afforded you any comfort. Believe me, I am very anxious to assist you. Is there no one I can send to your side, no woman friend or relative? It is sad to leave you alone in this house at such a time. And do you expect me to remain here? Why, I should die! Here, to-night!" And long shudders shook her very frame. It is not at all necessary for you to do so, Miss Leavenworth. Broke in a bland voice over our shoulders. I turned with a start. Mr. Grice was not only at our back. He had evidently been there for some moments. Seated near the door, one hand in his pocket, the other caressing the arm of his chair, he met our gaze with a side-long smile that seemed at once to beg pardon for the intrusion and to assure us it was made with no unworthy motive. Everything will be properly looked after, Miss. You can leave with perfect safety. I expected to see her resent this interference, but instead of that she manifested a certain satisfaction in beholding him there. Drawing me to one side she whispered, You think this Mr. Grice very clever, do you not? Well, I cautiously replied, he ought to be to hold the position he does. The authorities evidently repose great confidence in him. Stepping from my side as suddenly as she had approached it, she crossed the room and stood before Mr. Grice. Sir, said she, gazing at him with a glance of entreaty, I hear you have great talents—that you can ferret out the real criminal from a score of doubtful characters, and that nothing can escape the penetration of your eye. If this is so, have pity on two orphan girls suddenly bereft of their guardian and protector, and use your acknowledged skill in finding out who has committed this crime. It would be folly in me to endeavour to hide from you that my cousin, in her testimony, has given cause for suspicion, but I here declare her to be as innocent of wrong as I am, and I am only endeavouring to turn the eye of justice from the guiltless to the guilty when I entreat you to look elsewhere for the culprit who committed this deed. Pausing, she held her two hands out before him. It must have been some common burglar or desperado. Can you not bring him then to justice? Her attitude was so touching. Her whole appearance so earnest and appealing that I saw Mr. Grice's countenance brim with suppressed emotion, though his eye never left the coffee-earn upon which it had fixed itself at her first approach. You must find out. You can, she went on. Hannah, the girl who is gone, must know all about it. Search for her. Ransack the city. Do anything. My property is at your disposal. I will offer a large reward for the detection of the burglar who did this deed. Mr. Grice slowly rose. Miss Leavenworth. He began, and stopped. The man was actually agitated. Miss Leavenworth, I did not need your very touching appeal to incite me to my utmost duty in this case. Personal and professional pride were in themselves sufficient. But since you have honoured me with this expression of your wishes, I will not conceal from you that I shall feel a certain increased interest in the affair from this hour. What mortal man can do, I will do. And if in one month from this day I do not come to you for my reward, Ebenezer Grice is not the man I have always taken him to be." And Eleanor? We will mention no names, said he, gently waving his hand to and fro. A few minutes later I left the house with Miss Leavenworth. She, having expressed a wish to have me accompany her to the home of her friend, Mrs. Gilbert, with whom she had decided to take refuge. As we rolled down the street in the carriage Mr. Grice had been kind enough to provide for us, I noticed my companion cast a look of regret behind her, as if she could not help feeling some compunction at this desertion of her cousin. But this expression was soon changed for the alert look of one who dreads to see a certain face start up from some unknown quarter. Glancing up and down the street, peering furtively into doorways as we passed, starting and trembling if a sudden figure appeared on the curb-stone, she did not seem to breathe with perfect ease till we had left the avenue behind us and entered upon thirty-seventh Street. Then, all at once her natural colour returned, and leaning gently toward me, she asked if I had a pencil and a piece of paper I could give her. I fortunately possessed both. Handing them to her, I watched her with some little curiosity while she wrote two or three lines, wondering she could choose such a time and place for the purpose. A little note I wished to send, she explained, glancing at the almost illegible scrawl with an expression of doubt. Couldn't you stop the carriage a moment while I directed? I did so, and in another instant the leaf which I had torn from my notebook was folded, and sealed with a stamp which she had taken from her own pocket-book. That is a crazy-looking epistle, she muttered, as she laid it direction downwards in her lap. Why not wait then till you arrive at your destination, where you can seal it properly and direct it at your leisure? Because I am in haste. I wish to mail it now. Look, there is a box on the corner. Please ask the driver to stop once more. Will I not post it for you?" I asked, holding out my hand. But she shook her head, and without waiting for my assistance opened the door on her own side of the carriage and leaped to the ground. Even then she paused to glance up and down the street, before venturing to drop her hastily written letter into the box. But when it had left her hand she looked brighter and more hopeful than I had yet seen her. And when a few moments later she turned to bid me good-bye in front of her friend's house, it was with almost a cheerful air she put out her hand and entreated me to call on her the next day, and inform her how the inquest progressed. I shall not attempt to disguise from you the fact that I spent all that long evening in going over the testimony given at the inquest, endeavouring to reconcile what I had heard with any other theory than that of Eleanor's guilt. Taking a piece of paper I jotted down the leading causes of suspicion as follows. One, her late disagreement with her uncle, and evident estrangement from him, as testified to by Mr. Harwell. Two, the mysterious disappearance of one of the servants of the house. Three, the forcible accusation made by her cousin, overheard, however, only by Mr. Grice and myself. Four, her equivocation in regard to the handkerchief found stained with pistol smut on the scene of the tragedy. Five, her refusal to speak in regard to the paper which she was supposed to have taken from Mr. Leavenworth's table immediately upon the removal of the body. Six, the finding of the library key in her possession. A dark record I involuntarily decided, as I looked it over, but even in doing so began jotting down on the other side of the sheet the following explanatory notes. One, disagreements and even estrangements between relatives were common. Cases where such disagreements and estrangements have led to crime rare. Two, the disappearance of Hannah points no more certainly in one direction than in another. Three, if Mary's private accusation of her cousin was forcible and convincing, her public declaration that she neither knew nor suspected who might be the author of this crime was equally so. To be sure the former possessed the advantage of being uttered spontaneously, but it was likewise true that it was spoken under momentary excitement, without foresight of the consequences and possibly without due consideration of the facts. Four, and five, an innocent man or woman under the influence of terror will often equivocate in matters that seem to discriminate them. But the key. What could I say to that? Nothing. With that key in her possession and unexplained, Eleanor Leavenworth stood in an attitude of suspicion which even I felt forced to recognize. Brought to this point, I thrust the paper into my pocket and took up the evening express. Instantly my eye fell on these words. Shocking murder. Mr. Leavenworth, the well-known millionaire, found dead in his room. No clue to the perpetrator of the deed. The awful crime committed with a pistol. Extraordinary features of the affair. Ah, here at least was one comfort. Her name was not yet mentioned as that of a suspected party. But what might not the morrow bring? I thought of Mr. Grice's expressive look as he handed me that key, and shuddered. She must be innocent. She cannot be otherwise. I reiterated to myself. And then, pausing, asked what warranty I had of this. Only her beautiful face. Only, only, her beautiful face. Abashed, I dropped the newspaper, and went downstairs just as a telegraph boy arrived with a message from Mr. Velie. It was signed by the proprietor of the hotel at which Mr. Velie was then stopping, and ran thus. Washington, D.C. Mr. Everett Raymond. Mr. Velie is lying at my house, ill. Have not shown him telegram, fearing results. We'll do so as soon as advisable. Thomas Loworthy. I went in musing. Why this sudden sensation of relief on my part? Could it be that I had unconsciously been guilty of cherishing a latent dread of my senior's return? Why, who else could know so well the secret springs which govern this family? Who else could so effectually put me upon the right track? Was it possible that I, Everett Raymond, hesitated to know the truth in any case? No, that should never be said. And sitting down again, I drew out the memoranda I had made, and looking them carefully over, wrote against number six the word Suspicious in good round characters. There, do one could say after that I had allowed myself to be blinded by a bewitching face from seeing what, in a woman with no claims to comeliness, would be considered at once an almost indubitable evidence of guilt. And yet, after it was all done, I found myself repeating aloud as I gazed at it. If she declares herself innocent, I will believe her. So completely are we the creatures of our own predilections. The Summons The Pink of Courtesy Romeo and Juliet The morning papers contained a more detailed account of the murder than those of the evening before, but to my great relief in none of them was Eleanor's name mentioned in the connection I most dreaded. The final paragraph in the Times ran thus, the detectives are upon the track of the missing girl Hannah, and in the herald I read the following notice. A liberal reward will be given by the relatives of Horatio Leavenworth Esquire, deceased, for any news of the whereabouts of one Hannah Chester, disappeared from the house on Fifth Avenue since the evening of March 4th. Said girl was of Irish extraction, in age about twenty-five, and may be known by the following characteristics. Form tall and slender, hair dark brown with a tinge of red, complexion fresh, features delicate and well-made, hands small, but with fingers much pricked by use of the needle, feet large, and of a coarser type than the hands. She had on when last seen a checked gingham dress, brown and white, and was supposed to have wrapped herself in a red and green blanket shawl, very old. Beside the above distinctive marks, she had upon her right hand wrist the scar of a large burn, also a pit or two of smallpox upon the left temple. This paragraph turned my thoughts in a new direction. Oddly enough, I had expended very little thought upon this girl, and yet how apparent it was that she was the one person upon whose testimony, if given, the whole case in reality hinged, I could not agree with those who considered her as personally implicated in the murder. An accomplice, conscious of what was before her, would have hid in her pockets whatever money she possessed. But the roll of bills found in Hannah's trunk proved her to have left too hurriedly for this precaution. On the other hand, if the girl had come unexpectedly upon the assassin at his work, how could she have been hustled from the house without creating a disturbance loud enough to have been heard by the ladies, one of whom had her door open? An innocent girl's first impulse upon such an occasion would have been to scream, and yet no scream was heard, she simply disappeared. What were we to think then? That the person seen by her was both known and trusted? I would not consider such a possibility. So, laying down the paper, I endeavored to put away all further consideration of the affair till I had acquired more facts upon which to base the theory. But who can control his thoughts when overexcited upon any one theme? All the morning I found myself turning the case over in my mind, arriving ever at one of two conclusions. Hannah Chester must be found, or Eleanor Leavenworth must explain when, and by what means, the key of the library door came into her possession. At two o'clock I started from my office to attend the inquest, but being delayed on the way, missed arriving at the house until after the delivery of the verdict. This was a disappointment to me, especially as by these means I lost the opportunity of seeing Eleanor Leavenworth, she having retired to her room immediately upon the dismissal of the jury. But Mr. Harwell was visible, and from him I heard what the verdict had been—death by means of a pistol shot from the hand of some person unknown. The result of the inquest was a great relief to me. I had feared worse, nor could I help seeing that, for all his studied self-command, the pale-faced secretary shared in my satisfaction. What was less of a relief to me was the fact, soon communicated, that Mr. Grice and his subordinates had left the premises immediately upon the delivery of the verdict. Mr. Grice was not the man to forsake an affair like this while anything of importance connected with it remained unexplained. Could it be he meditated any decisive action? Somewhat alarmed, I was about to hurry from the house for the purpose of learning what his intentions were, when a sudden movement in the front lower window of the house on the opposite side of the way arrested my attention, and looking closer I detected the face of Mr. Fobbs peering out from behind the curtain. The sight assured me I was not wrong in my estimate of Mr. Grice, and struck with pity for the desolate girl left to meet the exigencies of a fate to which this watch upon her movements was but the evident precursor, I stepped back and sent her a note, in which, as Mr. Veely's representative, I proffered my services in case of any sudden emergency, saying I was always to be found in my rooms between the hours of six and eight. This done, I proceeded to the house in 37th Street where I had left Miss Mary Leavenworth the day before. Ushered into the long and narrow drawing-room which of late years had been so fashionable in our uptown houses, I found myself almost immediately in the presence of Miss Leavenworth. Oh! she cried, with an eloquent gesture of welcome. I had begun to think I was forsaken. And advancing impulsively, she held out her hand. What is the news from home? A verdict of murder, Miss Leavenworth. Her eyes did not lose their question. Perpetrated by party or party's unknown. A look of relief broke softly across her features. And they are all gone, she exclaimed. I found no one in the house who did not belong there. Oh! then we can breathe easily again. I glanced hastily up and down the room. There is no one here, said she. And still I hesitated. At length, in an awkward way enough, I turned toward her and said, I do not wish either to offend or to alarm you, but I must say that I consider it your duty to return to your own home to-night. Why, she stammered. Is there any particular reason for my doing so? Have you not perceived the impossibility of my remaining in the same house with Eleanor? Miss Leavenworth, I cannot recognize any so-called impossibility of this nature. Eleanor's your cousin, has been brought up to regard you as a sister. It is not worthy of you to desert her at the time of her necessity. You will see this as I do if you will allow yourself a moment's dispassionate thought. Dispassionate thought is hardly possible under the circumstances, she returned, with a smile of bitter irony. But before I could reply to this she softened, and asked if I was very anxious to have her return. And when I replied, more than I can say, she trembled, and looked for a moment as if she were half inclined to yield, but suddenly broke into tears, crying it was impossible, and that I was cruel to ask it. I drew back, baffled, and soar. Pardon me, I said, I have indeed transgressed the bounds allotted to me. I will not do so again. You have doubtless many friends. Let some of them advise you. She turned upon me, all fire. The friends you speak of are flatterers. You alone have the courage to command me to do what is right. Excuse me, I do not command. I only entreat. She made no reply, but began pacing the room, her eyes fixed, her hands working convulsively. You little know what you ask, said she. I feel as though the very atmosphere of that house would destroy me. But why cannot Eleanor come here? She impulsively inquired. I know Mrs. Gilbert would be quite willing, and I could keep my room, and we need not meet. You forget that there is another call at home besides the one I have already mentioned. Tomorrow afternoon your uncle is to be buried. Oh, yes! Poor, poor uncle! You are the head of the household, I now ventured, and the proper one to attend to the final offices towards one who has done so much for you. There was something strange in the look which she gave me. It is true, she assented. Then with a grand turn of her body, and a quick air of determination, I am desirous of being worthy of your good opinion. I will go back to my cousin, Mr. Raymond. I felt my spirits rise a little. I took her by the hand. May that cousin have no need of the comfort which I am now sure you will be ready to give her. Her hand dropped from mine. I mean to do my duty, was her cold response. As I descended the stoop, I met a certain thin and fashionably dressed young man, who gave me a very sharp look as he passed. As he wore his clothes a little too conspicuously for the perfect gentleman, and as I had some remembrance of having seen him at the inquest, I set him down for a man in Mr. Gries's employ, and hasted on toward the avenue, when what was my surprise to find on the corner another person who, while pretending to be on the lookout for a car, cast upon me, as I approached, a furtive glance of intense enquiry. As this latter was without question a gentleman, I felt some annoyance, and walking quietly up to him, asked if he found my countenance familiar, as he scrutinized it so closely. I find it a very agreeable one, was his unexpected reply, as he turned from me, and walked down the avenue. Nettled, and in no small degree mortified at the disadvantage in which his courtesy had placed me, I stood watching him as he disappeared, asking myself who and what he was. For he was not only a gentleman, but a marked one, expressing features of unusual symmetry, as well as a form of peculiar elegance. Not so very young, he might well be forty. There were yet evident on his face the impress of youth's strongest emotions, not a curve of his chin, nor a glance of his eye betraying in any way the slightest leaning toward ennui, though face and figure were of that type which seems most to invite and cherish it. He can have no connection with the police force, thought I, nor is it by any means certain that he knows me, or is interested in my affairs, but I shall not soon forget him for all that. The summons from Ellen or Leavenworth came about eight o'clock in the evening. It was brought by Chalmers, and read as follows. Come! Oh, come! I—they're breaking off in a tremble, as if the pen had fallen from a nervous hand. It did not take me long to find my way to her home. Eleanor. Constant you are, and for secrecy no lady closer. Henry IV. Note his slander whose edge is sharper than the sword whose tongue outvenims all the worms of Nile. Symboline. The door was opened by Molly. You will find Miss Eleanor in the drawing-room, sir, she said, ushering me in. Fearing I knew not what, I hurried to the room thus indicated, feeling as never before the sumptuousness of the magnificent hall with its antique flooring, carved woods, and bronze ornamentations, the mockery of things for the first time forcing itself upon me. Laying my hand on the drawing-room door, I listened. All was silent. Slowly pulling it open, I lifted the heavy satin curtains hanging before me to the floor and looked within. What a picture met my eyes! Sitting in the light of a solitary gas jet whose faint glimmering just served to make visible the glancing satin and stainless marble of the gorgeous apartment, I beheld Eleanor Leavenworth. Pale as the sculptured image of the psyche that towered above her from the mellow dusk of the bow-window near which she sat, beautiful as it, and almost as immobile, she crouched with rigid hands frozen in forgotten entreaty before her, apparently insensible to sound, movement or touch, a silent figure of despair in the presence of an implacable fate. Impressed by the scene, I stood with my hand upon the curtain, hesitating if to advance or to retreat, when suddenly a sharp tremble shook her impassive frame, the rigid hands unlocked, the stony eyes softened, and springing to her feet she uttered a cry of satisfaction and advance toward me. "'Miss Leavenworth,' I exclaimed, starting at the sound of my own voice. She paused and pressed her hands to her face, as if the world and all she had forgotten had rushed back upon her at this simple utterance of her name. "'What is it?' I asked. Her hands fell heavily. "'Do you not know? They—they are beginning to say that I—' she paused and clutched her throat. "'Read,' she gasped, pointing to a newspaper lying on the floor at her feet. I stooped and lifted what showed itself at first glance to be the evening telegram. It needed but a single look to inform me to what she referred. There, in startling characters, I beheld. The Leavenworth murder—latest developments in the mysterious case—a member of the murdered man's own family strongly suspected of the crime, the most beautiful woman in New York under a cloud, past history of Miss Eleanor Leavenworth. I was prepared for it. Had schooled myself for this very thing, you might say, and yet I could not help her coiling. Dropping the paper from my hand I stood before her, longing and yet dreading to look into her face. "'What does it mean?' she panted. "'What does it mean? Is the world mad?' And her eyes, fixed and glassy, stared into mine as if she found it impossible to grasp the sense of this outrage. I shook my head. I could not reply. "'To accuse me,' she murmured. "'Me, me!' Striking her breast with her clenched hand, who loved the very ground he trod upon, who would have cast my own body between him and the deadly bullet if I had only known his danger. Oh, she cried! It is not a slander they utter, but a dagger which they thrust into my heart. Overcome by her misery, but determined not to show my compassion until more thoroughly convinced of her complete innocence, I replied, after a pause. "'This seems to strike you with great surprise, Miss Leavenworth. Were you not then able to foresee what must follow your determined reticence upon certain points? Did you know so little of human nature as to imagine that, situated as you are, you could keep silence in regard to any matter connected with this crime, without arousing the antagonism of the crowd, to say nothing of the suspicions of the police?' "'But, but,' I hurriedly waved my hand. "'When you defied the coroner to find any suspicious paper in your possession, when, I forced myself to speak, you refused to tell Mr. Greiss how you came in possession of the key.' She drew hastily back, a heavy pall seeming to fall over her with my words. "'Don't,' she whispered, looking in terror about her. "'Don't! Sometimes I think the walls have ears, and that the very shadows listen.' "'Ah,' I returned, then you hope to keep from the world what is known to the detectives.' She did not answer. "'Miss Leavenworth,' I went on, I am afraid you do not comprehend your position. "'Try to look at the case for a moment in the light of an unprejudiced person. Try to see for yourself the necessity of explaining.' "'But I cannot explain,' she murmured huskily. "'Cannot?' I do not know whether it was the tone of my voice, or the word itself, but that simple expression seemed to affect her like a blow. "'Oh,' she cried, shrinking back, you do not, cannot doubt me too. I thought that you.' And stopped. I did not dream that I.' And stopped again. Suddenly her whole form quivered. "'Oh, I see. You have mistrusted me from the first. The appearances against me have been too strong.' And she sank inert, lost in the depths of her shame and humiliation. "'Ah, but now I am forsaken,' she murmured. The appeal went to my heart. Starting forward I exclaimed, Miss Leavenworth, I am but a man. I cannot see you so distressed. Say that you are innocent, and I will believe you, without regard to appearances.' Springing erect, she towered upon me. Can anyone look in my face and accuse me of guilt? Then, as I sadly shook my head, she hurriedly gasped, you want further proof. And quivering with an extraordinary emotion, she sprang to the door. "'Come, then,' she cried. "'Come!' Her eyes flashing full of resolve upon me. Aroused, appalled, moved in spite of myself. I crossed the room to where she stood, but she was already in the hall. Hastening after her, filled with a fear I dared not express, I stood at the foot of the stairs. She was half-way to the top. Following her into the hall above, I saw her form standing erect and noble at the door of her uncle's bedroom. "'Come!' she again cried. But this time, in a calm and reverential tone, and flinging the door open before her, she passed in. Subduing the wonder which I felt, I slowly followed her. There was no light in the room of death, but the flame of the gas burner at the far end of the hall shone weirdly in, and by its glimmering I beheld her kneeling at the shrouded bed. Her head bowed above that of the murdered man, her hand upon his breast. "'You have said that if I declared my innocence you would believe me,' she exclaimed, lifting her head as I entered. See here!' And laying her cheek against the pallid brow of her dead benefactor, she kissed the clay-cold lip softly, wildly, agonizedly. Then, leaping to her feet, cried, in a subdued but thrilling tone. Could I do that if I were guilty? Would not the breath freeze on my lips? The blood congeal in my veins, and my heart fainted this contact. Son of a father loved and reverenced, can you believe me to be a woman stained with crime when I can do this? And kneeling again, she cast her arms over and about the inanimate form, looking in my face at the same time, with an expression no mortal touch could paint, nor tongue describe. In olden times, she went on, they used to say, that a dead body would bleed if its murderer came into contact with it. What then would happen here if I, his daughter, his cherished child, loaded with benefits, enriched with his jewels, warm with his kisses, should be the thing they accuse me of? Would not the body of the outraged dead burst its very shroud and repel me? I could not answer. In the presence of some scenes the tongue forgets its functions. Oh, she went on, if there is a God in heaven who loves justice and hates a crime, let him hear me now. If I, by thought or action, with or without intention, have been the means of bringing this dear head to this pass, if so much as the shadow of guilt, let alone the substance lies upon my heart and across these feeble woman's hands, may his wrath speak in righteous retribution to the world, and here, upon the breast of the dead, let this guilty forehead fall, never to rise again. An odd silence followed this invocation. Then a long, long sigh of utter relief rose tremulously from my breast, and all the feelings hitherto suppressed in my heart burst their bonds, and leaning toward her, I took her hand in mine. You do not. Cannot believe me tainted by crime now. She whispered. The smile which does not stir the lips, but rather emanates from the countenance, like the flowering of an inner piece, breaking softly out on cheek and brow. Crime! The word broke uncontrollably from my lips. Crime! No, she said calmly. The man does not live who could accuse me of crime here. For reply, I took her hand, which lay in mine, and placed it on the breast of the dead. Softly, slowly, gratefully, she bowed her head. Now let the struggle come, she whispered. There is one who will believe in me, however dark appearances may be. CHAPTER XIII. THE PROBLEM. But who would force the soul tilts with a straw against a champion cased in adamant? Wordsworth. When we re-entered the parlor below, the first sight that met our eyes was Mary, standing, wrapped in her long cloak in the center of the room. She had arrived during our absence, and now awaited us with lifted head and countenance fixed in the center of the room. When we re-entered the parlor below, the first sight that met our eyes was Mary, standing wrapped in her long cloak in the center of the room. She had arrived during our absence, and now awaited us with lifted head and countenance fixed in its proudest expression. Looking in her face, I realized what the embarrassment of this meeting must be to these women, and would have retreated, but something in the attitude of Mary Leavenworth seemed to forbid my doing so. At the same time, determined that the opportunity should not pass without some sort of reconcilement between them, I stepped forward, and bowing to Mary, and said, Your cousin has just succeeded in convincing me of her entire innocence, Miss Leavenworth. I am now ready to join Mr. Grice, heart and soul, in finding out the true culprit. I should have thought one look into Eleanor Leavenworth's face would have been enough to satisfy you that she is incapable of crime. Was her unexpected answer? And lifting her head with a proud gesture, Mary Leavenworth fixed her eyes steadfastly on mine. I felt the blood flash to my brow, but before I could speak, her voice rose again still more coldly than before. It is hard for a delicate girl, unused to ought but the most flattering expressions of regard, to be obliged to assure the world of her innocence in respect to the committal of a great crime. Eleanor has my sympathy. And sweeping her cloak from her shoulders, with a quick gesture, she turned her gaze for the first time upon her cousin. as if to meet it. And I could not but feel that for some reason this moment possessed an importance for them which I was scarcely competent to measure. But if I found myself unable to realize its significance, I at least responded to its intensity. And indeed it was an occasion to remember. To behold two such women, either of whom might be considered the model of her time, face to face, and drawn up in evident antagonism, was a sight to move the dullest sensibilities. But there was something more in this scene than that. It was the shock of all the most passionate emotions of the human soul, the meeting of waters of whose depth and force I could only guess by the effect. Eleanor was the first to recover. Drawing back with the cold haughtiness which alas I had almost forgotten in the display of later and softer emotions, she exclaimed, There is something better than sympathy, and that is justice, and turned as if to go. I will confer with you in the reception room, Mr. Raymond. But Mary, springing forward, caught her back with one powerful hand. No, she cried, you shall confer with me. I have something to say to you, Eleanor Lovenworth. And taking her stand in the centre of the room, she waited. I glanced at Eleanor, saw that this was no place for me, and hastily withdrew. For ten long minutes I paced the floor of the reception room, a prey to a thousand doubts and conjectures. What was the secret of this home? What had given rise to the deadly mistrust continually manifested between these cousins, fitted by nature for the completest companionship and most cordial friendship? It was not a thing of today or yesterday. No sudden flame could awake such concentrated heat of emotion as that of which I had just been the unwilling witness. One must go back further than this murder to find the root of a mistrust so great that the struggle it caused made itself felt even where I stood, though nothing but the faintest murmur came to my ears through the closed doors. Presently the drawing-room curtain was raised, and Mary's voice was heard in distinct articulation. The same roof can never shelter us both after this. Tomorrow you or I find another home. And blushing and panting, she stepped into the hall and advanced to where I stood. But at the first side of my face a change came over her. All her pride seemed to dissolve and flinging out her hands as if to ward off scrutiny she fled from my side and rushed weeping upstairs. I was yet laboring under the oppression caused by this painful termination of the strange scene when the parlor curtain was again lifted, and Eleanor entered the room where I was. Pale but calm, showing no evidences of the struggle she had just been through, unless by a little extra weariness about the eyes, she sat down by my side, and, meeting my gaze with one unfathomable in its courage, said after a pause, tell me where I stand. Let me know the worst at once, I fear that I have not indeed comprehended my own position. I haste to hear this acknowledgement from her lips I hasten to comply. I began by placing before her the whole case as it appeared to an unprejudiced person, enlarged upon the causes of suspicion, and pointed out in what regard some things looked dark against her, which perhaps to her own mind were easily explainable and of small account, tried to make her see the importance of her decision, and finally wound up with an appeal. Would she not confide in me? But I thought you were satisfied, she tremblingly remarked. And so I am, but I want the world to be so too. Ah, now you ask too much. The finger of suspicion never forgets the way it has once pointed, she sadly answered. My name is tainted for ever. And you will submit to this, when a word? I am thinking that any word of mine now would make very little difference, she murmured. I looked away, the vision of Mr. Fabs in hiding behind the curtains of the opposite house, recurring painfully to my mind. If the affair looks as bad as you say it does, she pursued. It is scarcely probable that Mr. Grice will care much for any interpretation of mine in regard to the matter. Mr. Grice would be glad to know where you procured that key, if only to assist him in turning his enquiries in the right direction. She did not reply. And my spirit sank in renewed depression. It is worth your while to satisfy him, I pursued. And though it may compromise someone you desire to shield, she rose impetuously. I shall never divulge to any one how I came in possession of that key. And sitting again, she locked her hands in fixed resolve before her. I rose in my turn and paced the floor, the fang of an unreasoning jealousy striking deep into my heart. Mr. Raymond, if the worst should come, and all who love me should plea on bended knees for me to tell, I will never do it. Then said I, determined not to disclose my secret thought, but equally resolve to find out if possible her motive for this silence. You desire to defeat the cause of justice. She neither spoke nor moved. Miss Leavenworth, I now said. This determined shielding of another at the expense of your own good name is no doubt generous of you. But your friends, and the lovers of truth and justice, cannot accept such a sacrifice. She started haughtily. Sir, she said. If you will not assist us, I went on, calmly, but determinedly. We must do without your aid. After the scene I have just witnessed above, after the triumphant conviction which you have forced upon me not only of your innocence, but of your horror of the crime and its consequences, I should feel myself less than a man if I did not sacrifice even your own good opinion in urging your cause and clearing your character from this foul aspersion. Again, that heavy silence. What do you propose to do? she asked at last. Crossing the room I stood before her. I proposed to relieve you utterly and forever from suspicion by finding out and revealing to the world the true culprit. I expected to see her recoil so positive had I become by this time as to who that culprit was. But instead of that, she merely folded her hands still more tightly and exclaimed, I doubt if you will be able to do that, Mr. Raymond. Doubt if I will be able to put my finger upon the guilty man, or doubt if I will be able to bring him to justice. I doubt, she said with strong effort, if anyone ever knows who is the guilty person in this case. There is one who knows, I said, with a desire to test her. One? The girl Hannah is acquainted with the mystery of that night's evil doings, Miss Leavenworth. Find Hannah, and we find one who can point out to us the assassin of your uncle. That is mere supposition, she said, but I saw the blow had told. Your cousin has offered a large reward for the girl, and the whole country is on the lookout. Within a week we shall see her in our midst. A change took place in her expression and bearing. The girl cannot help me, she said. Baffled by her manner, I drew back. Is there anything or anybody that can? She slowly looked away. Miss Leavenworth, I continued, with renewed earnestness. You have no brother to plead with you. You have no mother to guide you. Let me then entreat, in default of nearer and dearer friends, that you will rely sufficiently upon me to tell me one thing. What is it? she asked. Whether you took the paper imputed to you from the library table. She did not instantly respond, but sat looking earnestly before her with an intentness which seemed to argue that she was weighing the question as well as her reply. Finally turning toward me she said, In answering you I speak in confidence. Mr. Raymond, I did. Crushing back the sigh of despair that arose to my lips I went on. I will not inquire what that paper was. She waved her hand deprecatingly. But this much more you will tell me. Is that paper still in existence? She looked me steadily in the face. It is not. I could with difficulty forebear showing my disappointment. Miss Leavenworth, I now said. It may seem cruel for me to press you at this time. Nothing less than my strong realization of the peril in which you stand would induce me to run the risk of incurring your displeasure by asking what, under other circumstances, would seem perile and insulting questions. You have told me one thing which I strongly desired to know. Will you also inform me what it was you heard that night while sitting in your room between the time of Mr. Harwell's going upstairs and the closing of the library door, of which you made mention at the inquest? I had pushed my enquiries too far, and I saw it immediately. Mr. Raymond, she returned, influenced by my desire not to appear utterly ungrateful to you. I have been led to reply in confidence to one of your urgent appeals, but I can go no further. Do not ask me to." Strictened to the heart by her look of reproach, I answered with some sadness that her wishes should be respected. Not but what I intend to make every effort in my power to discover the true author of this crime. That is a sacred duty which I feel myself called upon to perform. But I will ask you no more questions, nor distress you with further appeals. What is done shall be done without your assistance, and with no other hope than that in the event of my success you will acknowledge my motives to have been pure and my actions disinterested. I am ready to acknowledge that now, she began, but paused, and looked with almost agonized entreaty in my face. Mr. Raymond, cannot you leave things as they are? Won't you? I don't ask for assistance, nor do I want it. I would rather, but I would not listen. Guilt has no right to profit by the generosity of the guiltless. The hand that struck this blow shall not be accountable for the loss of a noble woman's honor and happiness as well. I shall do it I can, Miss Leavenworth. As I walked down the avenue that night, feeling like an adventurous traveller that, in a moment of desperation, has set his foot upon a plank, stretching in narrow perspective over a chasm of immeasurable depth. This problem evolved itself from the shadows before me. How, with no other clue than the persuasion that Eleanor Leavenworth was engaged in shielding another at the expense of her own good name, I was to combat the prejudices of Mr. Grice, find out the real assassin of Mr. Leavenworth, and free an innocent woman from the suspicion that had, not without some show of reason, fallen upon her. CHAPTER XIV Mr. Grice at home. Nay but hear me. Measure for measure. That the guilty person for whom Eleanor 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 common place 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 Eleanor'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 immanuensis to a retired T-merchant was one man. James Harwell swayed by passion for a woman as beautiful as Eleanor 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 Eleanor 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. Greiss. Meanwhile, the contrasted pictures of Eleanor 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 Eleanor 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 the next morning upon my search for Mr. Greiss, with strong determination not to allow myself to become flurried by disappointment, nor discouraged by premature failure. My business was to save Eleanor 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. Greiss 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 enquiry as to whether Mr. Greiss 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. Greiss, stooping above a desk that might have come over on the Mayflower, confronted me. Well, he exclaimed, this is an honour. 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, huh? 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'm 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. Greiss, 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 honour you for entertaining him, Mr. Raymond. I suppressed a moment of anger. So thoroughly as it mine, I went on, in the determination to arouse him in some way, that I have come here to-day 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 sent to go upon. But there is 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. Greiss, I went on. A woman's name once tarnished remains so forever. Eleanor 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 notes from my pocket-book and laid them on the table. What! Memoranda! he exclaimed. Unsafe! Very! Never put your plans on paper. Taking no heed of this interruption I went on. Mr. Greiss, 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 at her duty to keep back, when by a little patient finesse we may succeed in our purposes without it. But, Interpose 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 Eleanor Leavenworth. His eyebrows lifted expressively, but he said nothing. Miss Eleanor 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. Greiss'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 mentioned 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 co-agitor 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 proposed 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. If to find him so amenable I asked myself what I really had to tell. Not much that he would consider vital. However, it would not do to hesitate now. Mr. Greiss 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 Eleanor 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. Stranges 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, not withstanding 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 Camille Marie Makeface. Amused, but a little discomposed by this sudden turn in the conversation, I looked at Mr. Grice inquiring me. Now, you, I daresay, have no trouble. Was born one, perhaps. Can even ask a lady to dance without blushing, huh? 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 and kid-gloves, raising a glass of champagne in response to a toast and such like, 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. Fagely 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 Clevering residing at present at the Hoffman House? Not that I'm aware of. He is very polished in his manners. Would you mind making his acquaintance? I followed Mr. Grice's example and stared at the chimney-piece. I cannot answer until I understand matters a little better. I returned at length. There is not much to understand. Mr. Henry Clevering, 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 know 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. Grice, 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 drilly replied. Oh! I returned, a light breaking in upon me. He has some connection with this case, then. Mr. Grice 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 the conversation, you should come across something that might serve as a clue in your efforts to save Eleanor 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 grey, 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. Love," 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's 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 honoured 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. Grice, 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. And 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. This 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 nonplust, 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 up and swallowed this girl, she couldn't have more effectually disappeared. I experienced a sinking of the heart. Eleanor 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. Shint 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. End of Chapter 14. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Kirsten Ferreri. The Leavenworth case. By Anna Catherine Green. CHAPTER XV Ways Opening. It is not, and it cannot come to, good. Hamlet. I attended the funeral of Mr. Leavenworth, but did not see the ladies before or after the ceremony. I had, however, 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 in 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. Veely 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 Elinor, 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, twist pitiful. The next day, pursuant to the wishes of Mr. Grice, 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 37th Street and 6th 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 Clevering, 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. Grice 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 an almost sisterlike 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. Grice was here to-day, and he told me he hoped she would be heard from within twenty-four hours. Mr. Grice here? Yes, came to report on 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 Eleanor to-day?" 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 Eleanor was well. I fear she is not, I returned. It is a great trial to me, Eleanor, 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 that 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 Eleanor to share my riches with me? Willingly I would bestow upon her 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 to-day which makes me the 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. Oh, 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 Wim alone had raised the distinction between myself and cousin, a distinction which superior beauty, worth, or accomplishments could never have drawn, Eleanor 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! 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 some one 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 favour 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. Grice had been the one to recommend me to her favour 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 with 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 toward 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 meager 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 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. Suddenly 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 receded himself, and took up his pen. Instantly the manuscript, and all connected with it, vanished from my thoughts, and Eleanor, 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. CHAPTER XVI. The Will of a Millionaire Our remedies often ourselves do lie which we ascribe to heaven. All's well that ends well. 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 codicelle, attached to his will some five years before, that Eleanor 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. Grice, 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 toward 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 Eleanor 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've 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. Grice 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've 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 favour. She is a queenly creature, he exclaimed, in a burst of enthusiasm. Then with an instant return to his business like 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? Can't 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. Grice's Browse 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 confidante in any way. But any harkening at doors, surprises, unworthy faints, or ungentlemanly subterfuges, I hear with 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 Hanna? 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 labour 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 advisor 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 an almost 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 it 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 Eleanor 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.