CHAPTER I - THE GREAT TRIAL.

Othello. ­What dost thou think? Iago. ­ Think, my lord? Othello. ­By heav’n, he echoes me.  As if there was some monster in his thought Too hideous to be shown. ­OTHELLO.

SIBLEY was in a stir.  Sibley was the central point of interest for the whole country.  The great trial was in progress and the curiosity of the populace knew no bounds.

In a room of the hotel sat our two detectives.  They had just come from the court-house.  Both seemed inclined to talk, though both showed an indisposition to open the conversation.  A hesitation lay between them; a certain thin vail of embarrassment that either one would have found it hard to explain, and yet which sufficed to make their intercourse a trifle uncertain in its character, though Hickory’s look had lost none of its rude good-humor, and Byrd’s manner was the same mixture of easy nonchalance and quiet self-possession it had always been.

It was Hickory who spoke at last.

“Well, Byrd?” was his suggestive exclamation.

“Well, Hickory?” was the quiet reply.

“What do you think of the case so far?”

“I think” ­the words came somewhat slowly ­“I think that it looks bad.  Bad for the prisoner, I mean,” he explained the next moment with a quick flush.

“Your sympathies are evidently with Mansell,” Hickory quietly remarked.

“Yes,” was the slow reply.  “Not that I think him innocent, or would turn a hair’s breadth from the truth to serve him.”

“He is a manly fellow,” Hickory bluntly admitted, after a moment’s puff at the pipe he was smoking.  “Do you remember the peculiar straightforwardness of his look when he uttered his plea of ’Not guilty,’ and the tone he used too, so quiet, yet so emphatic?  You could have heard a pin drop.”

“Yes,” returned Mr. Byrd, with a quick contraction of his usually smooth brow.

“Have you noticed,” the other broke forth, after another puff, “a certain curious air of disdain that he wears?”

“Yes,” was again the short reply.

“I wonder what it means?” queried Hickory carelessly, knocking the ashes out of his pipe.

Mr. Byrd flashed a quick askance look at his colleague from under his half-fallen lids, but made no answer.

“It is not pride alone,” resumed the rough-and-ready detective, half-musingly; “though he’s as proud as the best of ’em.  Neither is it any sort of make-believe, or I wouldn’t be caught by it.  ’Tis ­’tis ­what?” And Hickory rubbed his nose with his thoughtful forefinger, and looked inquiringly at Mr. Byrd.

“How should I know?” remarked the other, tossing his stump of a cigar into the fire.  “Mr. Mansell is too deep a problem for me.”

“And Miss Dare too?”

“And Miss Dare.”

Silence followed this admission, which Hickory broke at last by observing: 

“The day that sees her on the witness stand will be interesting, eh?”

“It is not far off,” declared Mr. Byrd.

“No?”

“I think she will be called as a witness to-morrow.”

“Have you noticed,” began Hickory again, after another short interval of quiet contemplation, “that it is only when Miss Dare is present that Mansell wears the look of scorn I have just mentioned.”

“Hickory,” said Mr. Byrd, wheeling directly about in his chair and for the first time surveying his colleague squarely, “I have noticed this.  That ever since the day she made her first appearance in the court-room, she has sat with her eyes fixed earnestly upon the prisoner, and that he has never answered her look by so much as a glance in her direction.  This has but one explanation as I take it.  He never forgets that it is through her he has been brought to trial for his life.”

Mr. Byrd uttered this very distinctly, and with a decided emphasis.  But the impervious Hickory only settled himself farther back in his chair, and stretching his feet out toward the fire, remarked dryly: 

“Perhaps I am not much of a judge of human nature, but I should have said now that this Mansell was not a man to treat her contemptuously for that.  Rage he might show or hatred, but this quiet ignoring of her presence seems a little too dignified for a criminal facing a person he has every reason to believe is convinced of his guilt.”

“Ordinary rules don’t apply to this man.  Neither you nor I can sound his nature.  If he displays contempt, it is because he is of the sort to feel it for the woman who has betrayed him.”

“You make him out mean-spirited, then, as well as wicked?”

“I make him out human.  More than that,” Mr. Byrd resumed, after a moment’s thought, “I make him out consistent.  A man who lets his passions sway him to the extent of committing a murder for the purpose of satisfying his love or his ambition, is not of the unselfish cast that would appreciate such a sacrifice as Miss Dare has made.  This under the supposition that our reasons for believing him guilty are well founded.  If our suppositions are false, and the crime was not committed by him, his contempt needs no explanation.”

“Just so!”

The peculiar tone in which this was uttered caused Mr. Byrd to flash another quick look at his colleague.  Hickory did not seem to observe it.

“What makes you think Miss Dare will be called to the witness stand to-morrow?” he asked.

“Well I will tell you,” returned Byrd, with the sudden vivacity of one glad to turn the current of conversation into a fresh channel.  “If you have followed the method of the prosecution as I have done, you will have noticed that it has advanced to its point by definite stages.  First, witnesses were produced to prove the existence of motive on the part of the accused.  Mr. Goodman was called to the witness stand, and, after him, other business men of Buffalo, all of whom united in unqualified assertions of the prisoner’s frequently-expressed desire for a sum of money sufficient to put his invention into practical use.  Next, the amount considered necessary for this purpose was ascertained and found to be just covered by the legacy bequeathed him by his aunt; after which, ample evidence was produced to show that he knew the extent of her small fortune, and the fact that she had by her will made him her heir.  Motive for the crime being thus established, they now proceeded to prove that he was not without actual opportunity for perpetrating it.  He was shown to have been in Sibley at the time of the murder.  The station-master at Monteith was confronted with the prisoner, also old Sally Perkins.  Then you and I came before the court with our testimony, and whatever doubt may have remained as to his having been in a position to effect his aunt’s death, and afterward escape unnoticed by means of the path leading over the hills to Monteith Quarry station, was swept away.  What remains?  To connect him with the murder itself, by some, strong link of circumstantial evidence, such as the ring provides.  And who is it that can give testimony regarding the ring? ­Miss Dare.”

“Hem!  Well, she will do it,” was the dry remark of Hickory.

“She will be obliged to do it,” was the emphatic response of Byrd.

And again their glances crossed in a furtive way both seemed ready to ignore.

“What do you think of Orcutt?” Hickory next inquired.

“He is very quiet.”

“Too quiet, eh?”

“Perhaps.  Folks that know him well declare they never before saw him conduct a case in so temperate a manner.  He has scarcely made an effort at cross-examination, and, in fact, has thus far won nothing for the defence except that astonishing tribute to the prisoner’s character given by Mr. Goodman.”

“Mr. Goodman is Mansell’s friend.”

“I know it; but his short, decisive statements told upon the jury.  Such a man as he made Mansell out to be is just the sort to create an impression on a body of men like them.”

“Orcutt understands a jury.”

“Orcutt understands his case.  He knows he can make nothing by attempting to shake the evidence which has been presented by the prosecution; the facts are too clear, and the witnesses which have been called to testify are of too reliable a character.  Whatever defence he contemplates, it will not rest upon a denial of any of the facts brought to light through our efforts, or the evidence of such persons as Messrs. Goodman and Harrison.”

“No.”

“The question is, then, in what will it lie?  Some strong point, I warrant you, or he would not hold himself and his plans so completely in reserve.  But what strong point?  I acknowledge the uncertainty troubles me.”

“I don’t wonder,” rejoined Hickory.  “So it does me.”

And a constraint again fell between them that lasted till Hickory put his pipe in his pocket and signified his intention of returning to his own apartments.

CHAPTER II - THE CHIEF WITNESS FOR THE PROSECUTION.

          Oh, while you live tell truth and shame the devil! 
                                              ­HENRY IV.

MR. BYRD’S countenance after the departure of his companion was any thing but cheerful.  The fact is, he was secretly uneasy.  He dreaded the morrow.  He dreaded the testimony of Miss Dare.  He had not yet escaped so fully from under the dominion of her fascinations as to regard with equanimity this unhappy woman forcing herself to give testimony compromising to the man she loved.

Yet when the morrow came he was among the first to secure a seat in the court-room.  Though the scene was likely to be harrowing to his feelings, he had no wish to lose it, and, indeed, chose such a position as would give him the best opportunity for observing the prisoner and surveying the witnesses.

He was not the only one on the look-out for the testimony of Miss Dare.  The increased number of the spectators and the general air of expectation visible in more than one of the chief actors in this terrible drama gave suspicious proof of the fact; even if the deadly pallor of the lady herself had not revealed her own feelings in regard to the subject.

The entrance of the prisoner was more marked, too, than usual.  His air and manner were emphasized, so to speak, and his face, when he turned it toward the jury, wore an iron look of resolution that would have made him conspicuous had he occupied a less prominent position than that of the dock.

Miss Dare, who had flashed her eyes toward him at the moment of his first appearance, dropped them again, contrary to her usual custom.  Was it because she knew the moment was at hand when their glances would be obliged to meet?

Mr. Orcutt, whom no movement on the part of Miss Dare ever escaped, leaned over and spoke to the prisoner.

“Mr. Mansell,” said he, “are you prepared to submit with composure to the ordeal of confronting Miss Dare?”

“Yes,” was the stern reply.

“I would then advise you to look at her now,” proceeded his counsel.  “She is not turned this way, and you can observe her without encountering her glance.  A quick look at this moment may save you from betraying any undue emotion when you see her upon the stand.”

The accused smiled with a bitterness Mr. Orcutt thought perfectly natural, and slowly prepared to obey.  As he raised his eyes and allowed them to traverse the room until they settled upon the countenance of the woman he loved, this other man who, out of a still more absorbing passion for Imogene, was at that very moment doing all that lay in his power for the saving of this his openly acknowledged rival, watched him with the closest and most breathless attention.  It was another instance of that peculiar fascination which a successful rival has for an unsuccessful one.  It was as if this great lawyer’s thoughts reverted to his love, and he asked himself:  “What is there in this Mansell that she should prefer him to me?”

And Orcutt himself, though happily unaware of the fact, was at that same instant under a scrutiny as narrow as that he bestowed upon his client.  Mr. Ferris, who knew his secret, felt a keen interest in watching how he would conduct himself at this juncture.  Not an expression of the lawyer’s keen and puzzling eye but was seen by the District Attorney and noted, even if it was not understood.

Of the three, Mr. Ferris was the first to turn away, and his thoughts if they could have been put into words might have run something like this:  “That man” ­meaning Orcutt ­“is doing the noblest work one human being can perform for another, and yet there is something in his face I do not comprehend.  Can it be he hopes to win Miss Dare by his effort to save his rival?”

As for the thoughts of the person thus unconsciously subjected to the criticism of his dearest friend, let our knowledge of the springs that govern his action serve to interpret both the depth and bitterness of his curiosity; while the sentiments of Mansell ­ But who can read what lurks behind the iron of that sternly composed countenance?  Not Imogene, not Orcutt, not Ferris.  His secret, if he owns one, he keeps well, and his lids scarcely quiver as he drops them over the eyes that but a moment before reflected the grand beauty of the unfortunate woman for whom he so lately protested the most fervent love.

The next moment the court was opened and Miss Dare’s name was called by the District Attorney.

With a last look at the unresponsive prisoner, Imogene rose, took her place on the witness stand and faced the jury.

It was a memorable moment.  If the curious and impressible crowd of spectators about her had been ignorant of her true relations to the accused, the deadly stillness and immobility of her bearing would have convinced them that emotion of the deepest nature lay behind the still, white mask she had thought fit to assume.  That she was beautiful and confronted them from that common stand as from a throne, did not serve to lessen the impression she made.

The officer held the Bible toward her.  With a look that Mr. Byrd was fain to consider one of natural shrinking only, she laid her white hand upon it; but at the intimation from the officer, “The right hand, if you please, miss,” she started and made the exchange he suggested, while at the same moment there rang upon her ear the voice of the clerk as he administered the awful adjuration that she should, as she believed and hoped in Eternal mercy, tell the truth as between this man and the law and keep not one tittle back.  The book was then lifted to her lips by the officer, and withdrawn.

“Take your seat, Miss Dare,” said the District Attorney.  And the examination began.

“Your name, if you please?”

“Imogene Dare.”

“Are you married or single?”

“I am single.”

“Where were you born?”

Now this was a painful question to one of her history.  Indeed, she showed it to be so by the flush which rose to her cheek and by the decided trembling of her proud lip.  But she did not seek to evade it.

“Sir,” she said, “I cannot answer you.  I never heard any of the particulars of my birth.  I was a foundling.”

The mingled gentleness and dignity with which she made this acknowledgment won for her the instantaneous sympathy of all present.  Mr. Orcutt saw this, and the flash of indignation that had involuntarily passed between him and the prisoner subsided as quickly as it arose.

Mr. Ferris went on.

“Where do you live?”

“In this town?”

“With whom do you live?”

“I am boarding at present with a woman of the name of Kennedy.  I support myself by my needle,” she hurriedly added, as though anxious to forestall his next question.

Seeing the prisoner start at this, Imogene lifted her head still higher.  Evidently this former lover of hers knew little of her movements since they parted so many weeks ago.

“And how long is it since you supported yourself in this way?” asked the District Attorney.

“For a few weeks only.  Formerly,” she said, making a slight inclination in the direction of the prisoner’s counsel, “I lived in the household of Mr. Orcutt, where I occupied the position of assistant to the lady who looks after his domestic affairs.”  And her eye met the lawyer’s with a look of pride that made him inwardly cringe, though not even the jealous glance of the prisoner could detect that an eyelash quivered or a flicker disturbed the studied serenity of his gaze.

The District Attorney opened his lips as if to pursue this topic, but, meeting his opponent’s eye, concluded to waive further preliminaries and proceed at once to the more serious part of the examination.

“Miss Dare,” said he, “will you look at the prisoner and tell us if you have any acquaintance with him?”

Slowly she prepared to reply; slowly she turned her head and let her glance traverse that vast crowd till it settled upon her former lover.  The look which passed like lightning across her face as she encountered his gaze fixed for the first time steadily upon her own, no one in that assemblage ever forgot.

“Yes,” she returned, quietly, but in a tone that made Mansell quiver and look away, despite his iron self-command; “I know him.”

“Will you be kind enough to say how long you have known him and where it was you first made his acquaintance?”

“I met him first in Buffalo some four months since,” was the steady reply.  “He was calling at a friend’s house where I was staying.”

“Did you at that time know of his relation to your townswoman, Mrs. Clemmens?”

“No, sir.  It was not till I had seen him several times that I learned he had any connections in Sibley.”

“Miss Dare, you will excuse me, but it is highly desirable for the court to know if the prisoner ever paid his addresses to you?”

The deep, almost agonizing blush that colored her white cheek answered as truly as the slow “Yes,” that struggled painfully to her lips.

“And ­excuse me again, Miss Dare ­did he propose marriage to you?”

“He did.”

“Did you accept him?”

“I did not.”

“Did you refuse him?”

“I refused to engage myself to him.”

“Miss Dare, will you tell us when you left Buffalo?”

“On the nineteenth day of August last.”

“Did the prisoner accompany you?”

“He did not.”

“Upon what sort of terms did you part?”

“Good terms, sir.”

“Do you mean friendly terms, or such as are held by a man and a woman between whom an attachment exists which, under favorable circumstances, may culminate in marriage?”

“The latter, sir, I think.”

“Did you receive any letters from the prisoner after your return to Sibley?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And did you answer them?”

“I did.”

“Miss Dare, may I now ask what reasons you gave the prisoner for declining his offer ­that is, if my friend does not object to the question?” added the District Attorney, turning with courtesy toward Mr. Orcutt.

The latter, who had started to his feet, bowed composedly and prepared to resume his seat.

“I desire to put nothing in the way of your eliciting the whole truth concerning this matter,” was his quiet, if somewhat constrained, response.

Mr. Ferris at once turned back to Miss Dare.

“You will, then, answer,” he said.

Imogene lifted her head and complied.

“I told him,” she declared, with thrilling distinctness, “that he was in no condition to marry.  I am by nature an ambitious woman, and, not having suffered at that time, thought more of my position before the world than of what constitutes the worth and dignity of a man.”

No one who heard these words could doubt they were addressed to the prisoner.  Haughtily as she held herself, there was a deprecatory humility in her tone that neither judge nor jury could have elicited from her.  Naturally many eyes turned in the direction of the prisoner.  They saw two white faces before them, that of the accused and that of his counsel, who sat near him.  But the pallor of the one was of scorn, and that of the other ­ Well, no one who knew the relations of Mr. Orcutt to the witness could wonder that the renowned lawyer shrank from hearing the woman he loved confess her partiality for another man.

Mr. Ferris, who understood the situation as well as any one, but who had passed the point where sympathy could interfere with his action, showed a disposition to press his advantage.

“Miss Dare,” he inquired, “in declining the proposals of the prisoner, did you state to him in so many words these objections you have here mentioned?”

“I did.”

“And what answer did he give you?”

“He replied that he was also ambitious, and hoped and intended to make a success in life.”

“And did he tell you how he hoped and intended to make a success?”

“He did.”

“Miss Dare, were these letters written by you?”

She looked at the packet he held toward her, started as she saw the broad black ribbon that encircled it, and bowed her head.

“I have no doubt these are my letters,” she rejoined, a little tremulously for her.  And unbinding the packet, she examined its contents.  “Yes,” she answered, “they are.  These letters were all written by me.”

And she handed them back with such haste that the ribbon which bound them remained in her fingers, where consciously or unconsciously she held it clutched all through the remaining time of her examination.

“Now,” said the District Attorney, “I propose to read two of these letters.  Does my friend wish to look at them before I offer them in evidence?” holding them out to Mr. Orcutt.

Every eye in the court-room was fixed upon the latter’s face, as the letters addressed to his rival by the woman he wished to make his wife, were tendered in this public manner to his inspection.  Even the iron face of Mansell relaxed into an expression of commiseration as he turned and surveyed the man who, in despite of the anomalous position they held toward each other, was thus engaged in battling for his life before the eyes of the whole world.  At that instant there was not a spectator who did not feel that Tremont Orcutt was the hero of the moment.

He slowly turned to the prisoner: 

“Have you any objection to these letters being read?”

“No,” returned the other, in a low tone.

Mr. Orcutt turned firmly to the District Attorney: 

“You may read them if you think proper,” said he.

Mr. Ferris bowed; the letters were marked as exhibits by the stenographic reporter who was taking the minutes of testimony, and handed back to Ferris, who proceeded to read the following in a clear voice to the jury: 

“SIBLEY, N. Y., September 7, 1882.

“DEAR FRIEND, ­You show signs of impatience, and ask for a word to help you through this period of uncertainty and unrest.  What can I say more than I have said?  That I believe in you and in your invention, and proudly wait for the hour when you will come to claim me with the fruit of your labors in your hand.  I am impatient myself, but I have more trust than you.  Some one will see the value of your work before long, or else your aunt will interest herself in your success, and lend you that practical assistance which you need to start you in the way of fortune and fame.  I cannot think you are going to fail.  I will not allow myself to look forward to any thing less than success for you and happiness for myself.  For the one involves the other, as you must know by this time, or else believe me to be the most heartless of coquettes.

“Wishing to see you, but of the opinion that further meetings between us would be unwise till our future looks more settled, I remain, hopefully yours,

“IMOGENE DARE.”

“The other letter I propose to read,” continued Mr. Ferris, “is dated September 23d, three days before the widow’s death.

“DEAR CRAIK, ­Since you insist upon seeing me, and say that you have reasons of your own for not visiting me openly, I will consent to meet you at the trysting spot you mention, though all such underhand dealings are as foreign to my nature as I believe them to be to yours.

          “Trusting that fortune will so favor us as to make
          it unnecessary for us to meet in this way more
          than once, I wait in anxiety for your coming.

“IMOGENE DARE.”

These letters, unfolding relations that, up to this time, had been barely surmised by the persons congregated before her, created a great impression.  To those especially who knew her and believed her to be engaged to Mr. Orcutt the surprise was wellnigh thrilling.  The witness seemed to feel this, and bestowed a short, quick glance upon the lawyer, that may have partially recompensed him for the unpleasantness of the general curiosity.

The Prosecuting Attorney went on without pause: 

“Miss Dare,” said he, “did you meet the prisoner as you promised?”

“I did.”

“Will you tell me when and where?”

“On the afternoon of Monday, September 27th, in the glade back of Mrs. Clemmens’ house.”

“Miss Dare, we fully realize the pain it must cost you to refer to these matters, but I must request you to tell us what passed between you at this interview?”

“If you will ask me questions, sir, I will answer them with the truth the subject demands.”

The sorrowful dignity with which this was said, called forth a bow from the Prosecuting Attorney.

“Very well,” he rejoined, “did the prisoner have any thing to say about his prospects?”

“He did.”

“How did he speak of them?”

“Despondingly.”

“And what reason did he give for this?”

“He said he had failed to interest any capitalist in his invention.”

“Any other reason?”

“Yes.”

“What was that?”

“That he had just come from his aunt whom he had tried to persuade to advance him a sum of money to carry out his wishes, but that she had refused.”

“He told you that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did he also tell you what path he had taken to his aunt’s house?”

“No, sir.”

“Was there any thing said by him to show he did not take the secret path through the woods and across the bog to her back door?”

“No, sir.”

“Or that he did not return in the same way?”

“No, sir.”

“Miss Dare, did the prisoner express to you at this time irritation as well as regret at the result of his efforts to elicit money from his aunt?”

“Yes,” was the evidently forced reply.

“Can you remember any words that he used which would tend to show the condition of his mind?”

“I have no memory for words,” she began, but flushed as she met the eye of the Judge, and perhaps remembered her oath.  “I do recollect, however, one expression he used.  He said:  ’My life is worth nothing to me without success.  If only to win you, I must put this matter through; and I will do it yet.’”

She repeated this quietly, giving it no emphasis and scarcely any inflection, as if she hoped by her mechanical way of uttering it to rob it of any special meaning.  But she did not succeed, as was shown by the compassionate tone in which Mr. Ferris next addressed her.

“Miss Dare, did you express any anger yourself at the refusal of Mrs. Clemmens to assist the prisoner by lending him such moneys as he required?”

“Yes, sir; I fear I did.  It seemed unreasonable to me then, and I was very anxious he should have that opportunity to make fame and fortune which I thought his genius merited.”

“Miss Dare,” inquired the District Attorney, calling to his aid such words as he had heard from old Sally in reference to this interview, “did you make use of any such expression as this:  ’I wish I knew Mrs. Clemmens’?”

“I believe I did.”

“And did this mean you had no acquaintance with the murdered woman at that time?” pursued Mr. Ferris, half-turning to the prisoner’s counsel, as if he anticipated the objection which that gentleman might very properly make to a question concerning the intention of a witness.

And Mr. Orcutt, yielding to professional instinct, did indeed make a slight movement as if to rise, but became instantly motionless.  Nothing could be more painful to him than to wrangle before the crowded court-room over these dealings between the woman he loved and the man he was now defending.

Mr. Ferris turned back to the witness and awaited her answer.  It came without hesitation.

“It meant that, sir.”

“And what did the prisoner say when you gave utterance to this wish?”

“He asked me why I desired to know her.”

“And what did you reply?”

“That if I knew her I might be able to persuade her to listen to his request.”

“And what answer had he for this?”

“None but a quick shake of his head.”

“Miss Dare; up to the time of this interview had you ever received any gift from the prisoner ­jewelry, for instance ­say, a ring!”

“No, sir.”

“Did he offer you such a gift then?”

“He did.”

“What was it?”

“A gold ring set with a diamond.”

“Did you receive it?”

“No, sir.  I felt that in taking a ring from him I would be giving an irrevocable promise, and I was not ready to do that.”

“Did you allow him to put it on your finger?”

“I did.”

“And it remained there?” suggested Mr. Ferris, with a smile.

“A minute, may be.”

“Which of you, then, took it off?”

“I did.”

“And what did you say when you took it off?”

“I do not remember my words.”

Again recalling old Sally’s account of this interview, Mr. Ferris asked: 

“Were they these:  ’I cannot.  Wait till to-morrow’?”

“Yes, I believe they were.”

“And when he inquired:  ‘Why to-morrow?’ did you reply:  ’A night has been known to change the whole current of one’s affairs’?”

“I did.”

“Miss Dare, what did you mean by those words?”

“I object!” cried Mr. Orcutt, rising.  Unseen by any save himself, the prisoner had made him an eloquent gesture, slight, but peremptory.

“I think it is one I have a right to ask,” urged the District Attorney.

But Mr. Orcutt, who manifestly had the best of the argument, maintained his objection, and the Court instantly ruled in his favor.

Mr. Ferris prepared to modify his question.  But before he could speak the voice of Miss Dare was heard.

“Gentlemen,” said she, “there was no need of all this talk.  I intended to seek an interview with Mrs. Clemmens and try what the effect would be of confiding to her my interest in her nephew.”

The dignified simplicity with which she spoke, and the air of quiet candor that for that one moment surrounded her, gave to this voluntary explanation an unexpected force that carried it quite home to the hearts of the jury.  Even Mr. Orcutt could not preserve the frown with which he had confronted her at the first movement of her lips, but turned toward the prisoner with a look almost congratulatory in its character.  But Mr. Byrd, who for reasons of his own kept his eyes upon that prisoner, observed that it met with no other return than that shadow of a bitter smile which now and then visited his otherwise unmoved countenance.

Mr. Ferris, who, in his friendship for the witness, was secretly rejoiced in an explanation which separated her from the crime of her lover, bowed in acknowledgment of the answer she had been pleased to give him in face of the ruling of the Court, and calmly proceeded: 

“And what reply did the prisoner make you when you uttered this remark in reference to the change that a single day sometimes makes in one’s affairs?”

“Something in the way of assent.”

“Cannot you give us his words?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, then, can you tell us whether or not he looked thoughtful when you said this?”

“He may have done so, sir.”

“Did it strike you at the time that he reflected on what you said?”

“I cannot say how it struck me at the time.”

“Did he look at you a few minutes before speaking, or in any way conduct himself as if he had been set thinking?”

“He did not speak for a few minutes.”

“And looked at you?”

“Yes, sir.”

The District Attorney paused a moment as if to let the results of his examination sink into the minds of the jury; then he went on: 

“Miss Dare, you say you returned the ring to the prisoner?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You say positively the ring passed from you to him; that you saw it in his hand after it had left yours?”

“No, sir.  The ring passed from me to him, but I did not see it in his hand, because I did not return it to him that way.  I dropped it into his pocket.”

At this acknowledgment, which made both the prisoner and his counsel look up, Mr. Byrd felt himself nudged by Hickory.

“Did you hear that?” he whispered.

“Yes,” returned the other.

“And do you believe it?”

“Miss Dare is on oath,” was the reply.

“Pooh!” was Hickory’s whispered exclamation.

The District Attorney alone showed no surprise.

“You dropped it into his pocket?” he resumed.  “How came you to do that?”

“I was weary of the strife which had followed my refusal to accept this token.  He would not take it from me himself, so I restored it to him in the way I have said.”

“Miss Dare, will you tell us what pocket this was?”

“The outside pocket on the left side of his coat,” she returned, with a cold and careful exactness that caused the prisoner to drop his eyes from her face, with that faint but scornful twitch of the muscles about his mouth, which gave to his countenance now and then the proud look of disdain which both the detectives had noted.

“Miss Dare,” continued the Prosecuting Attorney, “did you see this ring again during the interview?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you detect the prisoner making any move to take it out of his pocket, or have you any reason to believe that it was taken out of the pocket on the left-hand side of his coat while you were with him?”

“No, sir.”

“So that, as far as you know, it was still in his pocket when you parted?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Miss Dare, have you ever seen that ring since?”

“I have.”

“When and where?”

“I saw it on the morning of the murder.  It was lying on the floor of Mrs. Clemmens’ dining-room.  I had gone to the house, in my surprise at hearing of the murderous assault which had been made upon her, and, while surveying the spot where she was struck, perceived this ring lying on the floor before me.”

“What made you think it was this ring which you had returned to the prisoner the day before?”

“Because of its setting, and the character of the gem, I suppose.”

“Could you see all this where it was lying on the floor?”

“It was brought nearer to my eyes, sir.  A gentleman who was standing near, picked it up and offered it to me, supposing it was mine.  As he held it out in his open palm I saw it plainly.”

“Miss Dare, will you tell us what you did when you first saw this ring lying on the floor?”

“I covered it with my foot.”

“Was that before you recognized it?”

“I cannot say.  I placed my foot upon it instinctively.”

“How long did you keep it there?”

“Some few minutes.”

“What caused you to move at last?”

“I was surprised.”

“What surprised you?”

“A man came to the door.”

“What man.”

“I don’t know.  A stranger to me.  Some one who had been sent on an errand connected with this affair.”

“What did he say or do to surprise you?”

“Nothing.  It was what you said yourself after the man had gone.”

“And what did I say, Miss Dare?”

She cast him a look of the faintest appeal, but answered quietly: 

“Something about its not being the tramp who had committed this crime.”

“That surprised you?”

“That made me start.”

“Miss Dare, were you present in the house when the dying woman spoke the one or two exclamations which have been testified to in this trial?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What was the burden of the first speech you heard?”

“The words Hand, sir, and Ring.  She repeated the two half a dozen times.”

“Miss Dare, what did you say to the gentleman who showed you the ring and asked if it were yours?”

“I told him it was mine, and took it and placed it on my finger.”

“But the ring was not yours?”

“My acceptance of it made it mine.  In all but that regard it had been mine ever since Mr. Mansell offered it to me the day before.”

Mr. Ferris surveyed the witness for a moment before saying: 

“Then you considered it damaging to your lover to have this ring found in that apartment?”

Mr. Orcutt instantly rose to object.

“I won’t press the question,” said the District Attorney, with a wave of his hand and a slight look at the jury.

“You ought never to have asked it?” exclaimed Mr. Orcutt, with the first appearance of heat he had shown.

“You are right,” Mr. Ferris coolly responded.  “The jury could see the point without any assistance from you or me.”

“And the jury,” returned Mr. Orcutt, with equal coolness, “is scarcely obliged to you for the suggestion.”

“Well, we won’t quarrel about it,” declared Mr. Ferris.

“We won’t quarrel about any thing,” retorted Mr. Orcutt.  “We will try the case in a legal manner.”

“Have you got through?” inquired Mr. Ferris, nettled.

Mr. Orcutt took his seat with the simple reply: 

“Go on with the case.”

The District Attorney, after a momentary pause to regain the thread of his examination and recover his equanimity, turned to the witness.

“Miss Dare,” he asked, “how long did you keep that ring on your finger after you left the house?”

“A little while ­five or ten minutes, perhaps.”

“Where were you when you took it off?”

Her voice sank just a trifle: 

“On the bridge at Warren Street.”

“What did you do with it then?”

Her eyes which had been upon the Attorney’s face, fell slowly.

“I dropped it into the water,” she said.

And the character of her thoughts and suspicions at that time stood revealed.

The Prosecuting Attorney allowed himself a few more questions.

“When you parted with the prisoner in the woods, was it with any arrangement for meeting again before he returned to Buffalo?”

“No, sir.”

“Give us the final words of your conversation, if you please.”

“We were just parting, and I had turned to go, when he said:  ’Is it good-by, then, Imogene?’ and I answered, ‘That to-morrow must decide.’  ‘Shall I stay, then?’ he inquired; to which I replied, ‘Yes.’”

’Twas a short, seemingly literal, repetition of possibly innocent words, but the whisper into which her voice sank at the final “Yes” endowed it with a thrilling effect for which even she was not prepared.  For she shuddered as she realized the deathly quiet that followed its utterance, and cast a quick look at Mr. Orcutt that was full of question, if not doubt.

“I was calculating upon the interview I intended to have with Mrs. Clemmens,” she explained, turning toward the Judge with indescribable dignity.

“We understand that,” remarked the Prosecuting Attorney, kindly, and then inquired: 

“Was this the last you saw of the prisoner until to-day?”

“No, sir.”

“When did you see him again?”

“On the following Wednesday.”

“Where?”

“In the depot at Syracuse.”

“How came you to be in Syracuse the day after the murder?”

“I had started to go to Buffalo.”

“What purpose had you in going to Buffalo?”

“I wished to see Mr. Mansell.”

“Did he know you were coming?”

“No, sir.”

“Had no communication passed between you from the time you parted in the woods till you came upon each other in the depot you have just mentioned?”

“No, sir.”

“Had he no reason to expect to meet you there?”

“No, sir.”

“With what words did you accost each other?”

“I don’t know.  I have no remembrance of saying any thing.  I was utterly dumbfounded at seeing him in this place, and cannot say into what exclamation I may have been betrayed.”

“And he?  Don’t you remember what he said?”

“No, sir.  I only know he started back with a look of great surprise.  Afterward he asked if I were on my way to see him.”

“And what did you answer?”

“I don’t think I made any answer.  I was wondering if he was on his way to see me.”

“Did you put the question to him?”

“Perhaps.  I cannot tell.  It is all like a dream to me.”

If she had said horrible dream, every one there would have believed her.

“You can tell us, however, if you held any conversation?”

“We did not.”

“And you can tell us how the interview terminated?”

“Yes, sir.  I turned away and took the train back home, which I saw standing on the track without.”

“And he?”

“Turned away also.  Where he went I cannot say.”

“Miss Dare” ­the District Attorney’s voice was very earnest ­“can you tell us which of you made the first movement to go?”

“What does he mean by that?” whispered Hickory to Byrd.

“I think ­” she commenced and paused.  Her eyes in wandering over the throng of spectators before her, had settled on these two detectives, and noting the breathless way in which they looked at her, she seemed to realize that more might lie in this question than at first appeared.

“I do not know,” she answered at last.  “It was a simultaneous movement, I think.”

“Are you sure?” persisted Mr. Ferris.  “You are on oath, Miss Dare?  Is there no way in which you can make certain whether he or you took the initiatory step in this sudden parting after an event that so materially changed your mutual prospects?”

“No, sir.  I can only say that in recalling the sensations of that hour, I am certain my own movement was not the result of any I saw him take.  The instinct to leave the place had its birth in my own breast.”

“I told you so,” commented Hickory, in the ear of Byrd.  “She is not going to give herself away, whatever happens.”

“But can you positively say he did not make the first motion to leave?”

“No, sir.”

Mr. Ferris bowed, turned toward the opposing counsel and said: 

“The witness is yours.”

Mr. Ferris sat down perfectly satisfied.  He had dexterously brought out Imogene’s suspicions of the prisoner’s guilt, and knew that the jury must be influenced in their convictions by those of the woman who, of all the world, ought to have believed, if she could, in the innocence of her lover.  He did not even fear the cross-examination which he expected to follow.  No amount of skill on the part of Orcutt could extract other than the truth, and the truth was that Imogene believed the prisoner to be the murderer of his aunt.  He, therefore, surveyed the court-room with a smile, and awaited the somewhat slow proceedings of his opponent with equanimity.

But, to the surprise of every one, Mr. Orcutt, after a short consultation with the prisoner, rose and said he had no questions to put to the witness.

And Miss Dare was allowed to withdraw from the stand, to the great satisfaction of Mr. Ferris, who found himself by this move in a still better position than he had anticipated.

“Byrd,” whispered Hickory, as Miss Dare returned somewhat tremulously to her former seat among the witnesses ­“Byrd, you could knock me over with a feather.  I thought the defence would have no difficulty in riddling this woman’s testimony, and they have not even made the effort.  Can it be that Orcutt has such an attachment for her that he is going to let his rival hang?”

“No.  Orcutt isn’t the man to deliberately lose a case for any woman.  He looks at Miss Dare’s testimony from a different standpoint than you do.  He believes what she says to be true, and you do not.”

“Then, all I’ve got to say, ‘So much the worse for Mansell!’” was the whispered response.  “He was a fool to trust his case to that man.”

The judge, the jury, and all the by-standers in court, it must be confessed, shared the opinion of Hickory ­Mr. Orcutt was standing on slippery ground.

CHAPTER III - THE OPENING OF THE DEFENCE.

          Excellent!  I smell a device. ­TWELFTH NIGHT.

LATE that afternoon the prosecution rested.  It had made out a case of great strength and seeming impregnability.  Favorably as every one was disposed to regard the prisoner, the evidence against him was such that, to quote a man who was pretty free with his opinions in the lobby of the court-room:  “Orcutt will have to wake up if he is going to clear his man in face of facts like these.”

The moment, therefore, when this famous lawyer and distinguished advocate rose to open the defence, was one of great interest to more than the immediate actors in the scene.  It was felt that hitherto he had rather idled with his case, and curiosity was awake to his future course.  Indeed, in the minds of many the counsel for the prisoner was on trial as well as his client.

He rose with more of self-possession, quiet and reserved strength, than could be hoped for, and his look toward the Court and then to the jury tended to gain for him the confidence which up to this moment he seemed to be losing.  Never a handsome man or even an imposing one, he had the advantage of always rising to the occasion, and whether pleading with a jury or arguing with opposing counsel, flashed with that unmistakable glitter of keen and ready intellect which, once observed in a man, marks him off from his less gifted fellows and makes him the cynosure of all eyes, however insignificant his height, features, or ordinary expression.

To-day he was even cooler, more brilliant, and more confident in his bearing than usual.  Feelings, if feelings he possessed ­and we who have seen him at his hearth can have no doubt on this subject, ­had been set aside when he rose to his feet and turned his face upon the expectant crowd before him.  To save his client seemed the one predominating impulse of his soul, and, as he drew himself up to speak, Mr. Byrd, who was watching him with the utmost eagerness and anticipation, felt that, despite appearances, despite evidence, despite probability itself, this man was going to win his case.

“May it please your Honor and Gentlemen of the Jury,” he began, and those who looked at him could not but notice how the prisoner at his side lifted his head at this address, till it seemed as if the words issued from his lips instead of from those of his counsel, “I stand before you to-day not to argue with my learned opponent in reference to the evidence which he has brought out with so much ingenuity.  I have a simpler duty than that to perform.  I have to show you how, in spite of this evidence, in face of all this accumulated testimony showing the prisoner to have been in possession of both motive and opportunities for committing this crime, he is guiltless of it; that a physical impossibility stands in the way of his being the assailant of the Widow Clemmens, and that to whomever or whatsoever her death may be due, it neither was nor could have been the result of any blow struck by the prisoner’s hand.  In other words, we dispute, not the facts which have led the Prosecuting Attorney of this district, and perhaps others also, to infer guilt on the part of the prisoner,” ­here Mr. Orcutt cast a significant glance at the bench where the witnesses sat, ­“but the inference itself.  Something besides proof of motive and opportunity must be urged against this man in order to convict him of guilt.  Nor is it sufficient to show he was on the scene of murder some time during the fatal morning when Mrs. Clemmens was attacked; you must prove he was there at the time the deadly blow was struck; for it is not with him as with so many against whom circumstantial evidence of guilt is brought. This man, gentlemen, has an answer for those who accuse him of crime ­an answer, too, before which all the circumstantial evidence in the world cannot stand.  Do you want to know what it is?  Give me but a moment’s attention and you shall hear.”

Expectation, which had been rising through this exordium, now stood at fever-point.  Byrd and Hickory held their breaths, and even Miss Dare showed feeling through the icy restraint which had hitherto governed her secret anguish and suspense.  Mr. Orcutt went on: 

“First, however, as I have already said, the prisoner desires it to be understood that he has no intention of disputing the various facts which have been presented before you at this trial.  He does not deny that he was in great need of money at the time of his aunt’s death; that he came to Sibley to entreat her to advance to him certain sums he deemed necessary to the furtherance of his plans; that he came secretly and in the roundabout way you describe.  Neither does he refuse to allow that his errand was also one of love, that he sought and obtained a private interview with the woman he wished to make his wife, in the place and at the time testified to; that the scraps of conversation which have been sworn to as having passed between them at this interview are true in as far as they go, and that he did place upon the finger of Miss Dare a diamond ring.  Also, he admits that she took this ring off immediately upon receiving it, saying she could not accept it, at least not then, and that she entreated him to take it back, which he declined to do, though he cannot say she did not restore it in the manner she declares, for he remembers nothing of the ring after the moment he put her hand aside as she was offering it back to him.  The prisoner also allows that he slept in the hut and remained in that especial region of the woods until near noon the next day; but, your Honor and Gentlemen of the Jury, what the prisoner does not allow and will not admit is that he struck the blow which eventually robbed Mrs. Clemmens of her life, and the proof which I propose to bring forward in support of this assertion is this: 

“Mrs. Clemmens received the blow which led to her death at some time previously to three minutes past twelve o’clock on Tuesday, September 26th.  This the prosecution has already proved.  Now, what I propose to show is, that Mrs. Clemmens, however or whenever assailed, was still living and unhurt up to ten minutes before twelve on that same day.  A witness, whom you must believe, saw her at that time and conversed with her, proving that the blow by which she came to her death must have occurred after that hour, that is, after ten minutes before noon.  But, your Honor and Gentlemen of the Jury, the prosecution has already shown that the prisoner stepped on to the train at Monteith Quarry Station at twenty minutes past one of that same day, and has produced witnesses whose testimony positively proves that the road he took there from Mrs. Clemmens’ house was the same he had traversed in his secret approach to it the day before ­viz., the path through the woods; the only path, I may here state, that connects those two points with any thing like directness.

“But, Sirs, what the prosecution has not shown you, and what it now devolves upon me to show, is that this path which the prisoner is allowed to have taken is one which no man could traverse without encountering great difficulties and many hindrances to speed.  It is not only a narrow path filled with various encumbrances in the way of brambles and rolling stones, but it is so flanked by an impenetrable undergrowth in some places, and by low, swampy ground in others, that no deviation from its course is possible, while to keep within it and follow its many turns and windings till it finally emerges upon the highway that leads to the Quarry Station would require many more minutes than those which elapsed between the time of the murder and the hour the prisoner made his appearance at the Quarry Station.  In other words, I propose to introduce before you as witnesses two gentlemen from New York, both of whom are experts in all feats of pedestrianism, and who, having been over the road themselves, are in position to testify that the time necessary for a man to pass by means of this path from Mrs. Clemmens’ house to the Quarry Station is, by a definite number of minutes, greater than that allowed to the prisoner by the evidence laid before you.  If, therefore, you accept the testimony of the prosecution as true, and believe that the prisoner took the train for Buffalo, which he has been said to do, it follows, as a physical impossibility, for him to have been at Mrs. Clemmens’ cottage, or anywhere else except on the road to the station, at the moment when the fatal blow was dealt.

“Your Honor, this is our answer to the terrible charge which has been made against the prisoner; it is simple, but it is effective, and upon it, as upon a rock, we found our defence.”

And with a bow, Mr. Orcutt sat down, and, it being late in the day, the court adjourned.

CHAPTER IV - BYRD USES HIS PENCIL AGAIN.

          Ay, sir, you shall find me reasonable; if it be
          so, I shall do that that is reason. ­MERRY WIVES
          OF WINDSOR.

“BYRD, you look dazed.”

“I am.”

Hickory paused till they were well clear of the crowd that was pouring from the court-room; then he said: 

“Well, what do you think of this as a defence?”

“I am beginning to think it is good,” was the slow, almost hesitating, reply.

“Beginning to think?”

“Yes.  At first it seemed puerile.  I had such a steadfast belief in Mansell’s guilt, I could not give much credit to any argument tending to shake me loose from my convictions.  But the longer I think of it the more vividly I remember the difficulties of the road he had to take in his flight.  I have travelled it myself, you remember, and I don’t see how he could have got over the ground in ninety minutes.”

Hickory’s face assumed a somewhat quizzical expression.

“Byrd,” said he, “whom were you looking at during the time Mr. Orcutt was making his speech?”

“At the speaker, of course.”

“Bah!”

“Whom were you looking at?”

“At the person who would be likely to give me some return for my pains.”

“The prisoner?”

“No.”

“Whom, then?”

“Miss Dare.”

Byrd shifted uneasily to the other side of his companion.

“And what did you discover from her, Hickory?” he asked.

“Two things.  First, that she knew no more than the rest of us what the defence was going to be.  Secondly, that she regarded it as a piece of great cleverness on the part of Orcutt, but that she didn’t believe in it anymore ­well, any more than I do.”

“Hickory!”

“Yes, sir!  Miss Dare is a smart woman, and a resolute one, and could have baffled the penetration of all concerned if she had only remembered to try.  But she forgot that others might be more interested in making out what was going on in her mind at this critical moment than in watching the speaker or noting the effect of his words upon the court.  In fact, she was too eager herself to hear what he had to say to remember her rôle, I fancy.”

“But, I don’t see ­” began Byrd.

“Wait,” interrupted the other.  “You believe Miss Dare loves Craik Mansell?”

“Most certainly,” was the gloomy response.

“Very well, then.  If she had known what the defence was going to be she would have been acutely alive to the effect it was going to have upon the jury.  That would have been her first thought and her only thought all the time Mr. Orcutt was speaking, and she would have sat with her eyes fixed upon the men upon whose acceptance or non-acceptance of the truth of this argument her lover’s life ultimately depended.  But no; her gaze, like yours, remained fixed upon Mr. Orcutt, and she scarcely breathed or stirred till he had fully revealed what his argument was going to be.  Then ­”

“Well, then?”

“Instead of flashing with the joy of relief which any devoted woman would experience who sees in this argument a proof of her lover’s innocence, she merely dropped her eyes and resumed her old mask of impassiveness.”

“From all of which you gather ­”

“That her feelings were not those of relief, but doubt.  In other words, that the knowledge she possesses is of a character which laughs to scorn any such subterfuge of defence as Orcutt advances.”

“Hickory,” ventured Byrd, after a long silence, “it is time we understood each other.  What is your secret thought in relation to Miss Dare?”

“My secret thought?  Well,” drawled the other, looking away, “I think she knows more about this crime than she has yet chosen to reveal.”

“More than she evinced to-day in her testimony?”

“Yes.”

“I should like to know why you think so.  What special reasons have you for drawing any such conclusions?”

“Well, one reason is, that she was no more shaken by the plausible argument advanced by Mr. Orcutt.  If her knowledge of the crime was limited to what she acknowledged in her testimony, and her conclusions as to Mansell’s guilt were really founded upon such facts as she gave us in court to-day, why didn’t she grasp at the possibility of her lover’s innocence which was held out to her by his counsel?  No facts that she had testified to, not even the fact of his ring having been found on the scene of murder, could stand before the proof that he left the region of Mrs. Clemmens’ house before the moment of assault; yet, while evincing interest in the argument, and some confidence in it, too, as one that would be likely to satisfy the jury, she gave no tokens of being surprised by it into a reconsideration of her own conclusions, as must have happened if she told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, when she was on the stand to-day.”

“I see,” remarked Byrd, “that you are presuming to understand Miss Dare after all.”

Hickory smiled.

“You call this woman a mystery,” proceeded Byrd; “hint at great possibilities of acting on her part, and yet in a moment, as it were, profess yourself the reader of her inmost thoughts, and the interpreter of looks and expressions she has manifestly assumed to hide those thoughts.”

Hickory’s smile broadened into a laugh.

“Just so,” he cried.  “One’s imbecility has to stop somewhere.”  Then, as he saw Byrd look grave, added:  “I haven’t a single fact at my command that isn’t shared by you.  My conclusions are different, that is all.”

Horace Byrd did not answer.  Perhaps if Hickory could have sounded his thoughts he would have discovered that their conclusions were not so far apart as he imagined.

“Hickory,” Byrd at last demanded, “what do you propose to do with your conclusions?”

“I propose to wait and see if Mr. Orcutt proves his case.  If he don’t, I have nothing more to say; but if he does, I think I shall call the attention of Mr. Ferris to one question he has omitted to ask Miss Dare.”

“And what is that?”

“Where she was on the morning of Mrs. Clemmens’ murder.  You remember you took some interest in that question yourself a while ago.”

“But ­”

“Not that I think any thing will come of it, only my conscience will be set at rest.”

“Hickory,” ­Byrd’s face had quite altered now ­“where do you think Miss Dare was at that time?”

“Where do I think she was?” repeated Hickory.

“Well, I will tell you.  I think she was not in Professor Darling’s observatory.”

“Do you think she was in the glade back of Widow Clemmens’ house?”

“Now you ask me conundrums.”

“Hickory!” Byrd spoke almost violently, “Mr. Orcutt shall not prove his case.”

“No?”

“I will make the run over the ground supposed to have been taken by Mansell in his flight, and show in my own proper person that it can be done in the time specified.”

Hickory’s eye, which had taken a rapid survey of his companion’s form during the utterance of the above, darkened, then he slowly shook his head.

“You couldn’t,” he rejoined laconically.  “Too little staying power; you’d give out before you got clear of the woods.  Better delegate the job to me.”

“To you?”

“Yes.  I’m of the make to stand long runs; besides I am no novice at athletic sports of any kind.  More than one race has owed its interest to the efforts of your humble servant.  ’Tis my pet amusement, you see, as off-hand drawing is yours, and is likely to be of as much use to me, eh?”

“Hickory, you are chaffing me.”

“Think so?  Do you see that five-barred gate over there?  Well, now keep your eye on the top rail and see if I clear it without a graze or not.”

“Stop!” exclaimed Mr. Byrd, “don’t make a fool of yourself in the public street.  I’ll believe you if you say you understand such things.”

“Well, I do, and what is more, I’m an adept at them.  If I can’t make that run in the time requisite to show that Mansell could have committed the murder, and yet arrive at the station the moment he did, I don’t know of a chap who can.”

“Hickory, do you mean to say you will make this run?”

“Yes.”

“With a conscientious effort to prove that Orcutt’s scheme of defence is false?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“To-morrow.”

“While we are in court?”

“Yes.”

Byrd turned square around, gave Hickory a look and offered his hand.

“You are a good fellow,” he declared, “May luck go with you.”

Hickory suddenly became unusually thoughtful.

“A little while ago,” he reflected, “this fellow’s sympathies were all with Mansell; now he would risk my limbs and neck to have the man proved guilty.  He does not wish Miss Dare to be questioned again, I see.”

“Hickory,” resumed Byrd, a few minutes later, “Orcutt has not rested the defence upon this one point without being very sure of its being unassailable.”

“I know that.”

“He has had more than one expert make that run during the weeks that have elapsed since the murder.  It has been tested to the uttermost.”

“I know that.”

“If you succeed then in doing what none of these others have, it must be by dint of a better understanding of the route you have to take and the difficulties you will have to overcome.  Now, do you understand the route?”

“I think so.”

“You will have to start from the widow’s door, you know?”

“Certain.”

“Cross the bog, enter the woods, skirt the hut ­but I won’t go into details.  The best way to prove you know exactly what you have to do is to see if you can describe the route yourself.  Come into my room, old fellow, and let us see if you can give me a sufficiently exact account of the ground you will have to pass over, for me to draw up a chart by it.  An hour spent with paper and pencil to-night may save you from an uncertainty to-morrow that would lose you a good ten minutes.”

“Good! that’s an idea; let’s try it,” rejoined Hickory.

And being by this time at the hotel, they went in.  In another moment they were shut up in Mr. Byrd’s room, with a large sheet of foolscap before them.

“Now,” cried Horace, taking up a pencil, “begin with your description, and I will follow with my drawing.”

“Very well,” replied Hickory, setting himself forward in a way to watch his colleague’s pencil.  “I leave the widow’s house by the dining-room door ­a square for the house, Byrd, well down in the left-hand corner of the paper, and a dotted line for the path I take, ­run down the yard to the fence, leap it, cross the bog, and make straight for the woods.”

“Very good,” commented Byrd, sketching rapidly as the other spoke.

“Having taken care to enter where the trees are thinnest, I find a path along which I rush in a bee-line till I come to the glade ­an ellipse for the glade, Byrd, with a dot in it for the hut.  Merely stopping to dash into the hut and out again ­”

“Wait!” put in Byrd, pausing with his pencil in mid-air; “what did you want to go into the hut for?”

“To get the bag which I propose to leave there to-night.”

“Bag?”

“Yes; Mansell carried a bag, didn’t he?  Don’t you remember what the station-master said about the curious portmanteau the fellow had in his hand when he came to the station?”

“Yes, but ­”

“Byrd, if I run that fellow to his death it must be fairly.  A man with an awkward bag in his hand cannot run like a man without one.  So I handicap myself in the same way he did, do you see?”

“Yes.”

“Very well, then; I rush into the hut, pick up the bag, carry it out, and dash immediately into the woods at the opening behind the hut. ­What are you doing?”

“Just putting in a few landmarks,” explained Byrd, who had run his pencil off in an opposite direction.  “See, that is the path to West Side which I followed in my first expedition through the woods ­the path, too, which Miss Dare took when she came to the hut at the time of the fearful thunderstorm.  And wait, let me put in Professor Darling’s house, too, and the ridge from which you can see Mrs. Clemmens’ cottage.  It will help us to understand ­”

“What?” cried Hickory, with quick suspiciousness, as the other paused.

But Byrd, impatiently shaking his head, answered: 

“The whole situation, of course.”  Then, pointing hastily back to the hut, exclaimed:  “So you have entered the woods again at this place?  Very well; what then?”

“Well, then,” resumed Hickory, “I make my way along the path I find there ­run it at right angles to the one leading up to the glade ­till I come to a stony ledge covered with blackberry bushes. (A very cleverly drawn blackberry patch that, Byrd.) Here I fear I shall have to pause.”

“Why?”

“Because, deuce take me if I can remember where the path runs after that.”

“But I can.  A big hemlock-tree stands just at the point where the woods open again.  Make for that and you will be all right.”

“Good enough; but it’s mighty rough travelling over that ledge, and I shall have to go at a foot’s pace.  The stones are slippery as glass, and a fall would scarcely be conducive to the final success of my scheme.”

“I will make the path serpentine.”

“That will be highly expressive.”

“And now, what next?”

“The Foresters’ Road, Byrd, upon which I ought to come about this time.  Run it due east and west ­not that I have surveyed the ground, but it looks more natural so ­and let the dotted line traverse it toward the right, for that is the direction in which I shall go.”

“It’s done,” said Byrd.

“Well, description fails me now.  All I know is, I come out on a hillside running straight down to the river-bank and that the highway is visible beyond, leading directly to the station; but the way to get to it ­”

“I will show you,” interposed Byrd, mapping out the station and the intervening river with a few quick strokes of his dexterous pencil.  “You see this point where you issue from the woods?  Very good; it is, as you say, on a hillside overlooking the river.  Well, it seems unfortunate, but there is no way of crossing that river at this point.  The falls above and below make it no place for boats, and you will have to go back along its banks for some little distance before you come to a bridge.  But there is no use in hesitating or looking about for a shorter path.  The woods just here are encumbered with a mass of tangled undergrowth which make them simply impassable except as you keep in the road, while the river curves so frequently and with so much abruptness ­see, I will endeavor to give you some notion of it here ­that you would only waste time in attempting to make any short cuts.  But, once over the bridge ­”

“I have only to foot it,” burst in Hickory, taking up the sketch which the other had now completed, and glancing at it with a dubious eye.  “Do you know, Byrd,” he remarked in another moment, “that it strikes me Mansell did not take this roundabout road to the station?”

“Why?”

“Because it is so roundabout, and he is such a clearheaded fellow.  Couldn’t he have got there by some shorter cut?”

“No.  Don’t you remember how Orcutt cross-examined the station-master about the appearance which Mansell presented when he came upon the platform, and how that person was forced to acknowledge that, although the prisoner looked heated and exhausted, his clothes were neither muddied nor torn?  Now, I did not think of it at the time, but this was done by Orcutt to prove that Mansell did take the road I have jotted down here, since any other would have carried him through swamps knee-deep with mud, or amongst stones and briers which would have put him in a state of disorder totally unfitting him for travel.”

“That is so,” acquiesced Hickory, after a moment’s thought.  “Mansell must be kept in the path.  Well, well, we will see to-morrow if wit and a swift foot can make any thing out of this problem.”

“Wit?  Hickory, it will be wit and not a swift foot.  Or luck, maybe I should call it, or rather providence.  If a wagon should be going along the highway, now ­”

“Let me alone for availing myself of it,” laughed Hickory.  “Wagon!  I would jump on the back of a mule sooner than lose the chance of gaining a minute on these experts whose testimony we are to hear to-morrow.  Don’t lose confidence in old Hickory yet.  He’s the boy for this job if he isn’t for any other.”

And so the matter was settled.

CHAPTER V - THE CHIEF WITNESS FOR THE DEFENCE.

Your If is the only peace-maker; much virtue in If. ­AS YOU
LIKE IT.

THE crowd that congregated at the court-house the next morning was even greater than at any previous time.  The opening speech of Mr. Orcutt had been telegraphed all over the country, and many who had not been specially interested in the case before felt an anxiety to hear how he would substantiate the defence he had so boldly and confidently put forth.

To the general eye, however, the appearance of the court-room was much the same as on the previous day.  Only to the close observer was it evident that the countenances of the several actors in this exciting drama wore a different expression.  Mr. Byrd, who by dint of the most energetic effort had succeeded in procuring his old seat, was one of these, and as he noted the significant change, wished that Hickory had been at his side to note it with him.

The first person he observed was, naturally, the Judge.

Judge Evans, who has been but barely introduced to the reader, was a man of great moral force and discretion.  He had occupied his present position for many years, and possessed not only the confidence but the affections of those who came within the sphere of his jurisdiction.  The reason for this undoubtedly lay in his sympathetic nature.  While never accused of weakness, he so unmistakably retained the feeling heart under the official ermine that it was by no means an uncommon thing for him to show more emotion in uttering a sentence than the man he condemned did in listening to it.

His expression, then, upon this momentous morning was of great significance to Mr. Byrd.  In its hopefulness and cheer was written the extent of the effect made upon the unprejudiced mind by the promised defence.

As for Mr. Orcutt himself, no advocate could display a more confident air or prepare to introduce his witnesses with more dignity or quiet assurance.  His self-possession was so marked, indeed, that Mr. Byrd, who felt a sympathetic interest in what he knew to be seething in this man’s breast, was greatly surprised, and surveyed, with a feeling almost akin to awe, the lawyer who could so sink all personal considerations in the cause he was trying.

Miss Dare, on the contrary, was in a state of nervous agitation.  Though no movement betrayed this, the very force of the restraint she put upon herself showed the extent of her inner excitement.

The prisoner alone remained unchanged.  Nothing could shake his steady soul from its composure, not the possibility of death or the prospect of release.  He was absolutely imposing in his quiet presence, and Mr. Byrd could not but admire the power of the man even while recoiling from his supposed guilt.

The opening of the defence carried the minds of many back to the inquest.  The nice question of time was gone into, and the moment when Mrs. Clemmens was found lying bleeding and insensible at the foot of her dining-room clock, fixed at three or four minutes past noon.  The next point to be ascertained was when she received the deadly blow.

And here the great surprise of the defence occurred.  Mr. Orcutt rose, and in clear, firm tones said: 

“Gouverneur Hildreth, take the stand.”

Instantly, and before the witness could comply, Mr. Ferris was on his feet.

“Who? what?” he cried.

“Gouverneur Hildreth,” repeated Mr. Orcutt.

“Did you know this gentleman has already been in custody upon suspicion of having committed the crime for which the prisoner is now being tried?”

“I do,” returned Mr. Orcutt, with imperturbable sang froid.

“And is it your intention to save your client from the gallows by putting the halter around the neck of the man you now propose to call as a witness?”

“No,” retorted Mr. Orcutt; “I do not propose to put the halter about any man’s neck.  That is the proud privilege of my learned and respected opponent.”

With an impatient frown Mr. Ferris sat down, while Mr. Hildreth, who had taken advantage of this short passage of arms between the lawyers to retain his place in the remote corner where he was more or less shielded from the curiosity of the crowd, rose, and, with a slow and painful movement that at once attracted attention to his carefully bandaged throat and the general air of debility which surrounded him, came hesitatingly forward and took his stand in face of the judge and jury.

Necessarily a low murmur greeted him from the throng of interested spectators who saw in this appearance before them of the man who, by no more than a hair’s-breadth, had escaped occupying the position of the prisoner, another of those dramatic incidents with which this trial seemed fairly to bristle.

It was hushed by one look from the Judge, but not before it had awakened in Mr. Hildreth’s weak and sensitive nature those old emotions of shame and rage whose token was a flush so deep and profuse it unconsciously repelled the gaze of all who beheld it.  Immediately Mr. Byrd, who sat with bated breath, as it were, so intense was his excitement over the unexpected turn of affairs, recognized the full meaning of the situation, and awarded to Mr. Orcutt all the admiration which his skill in bringing it about undoubtedly deserved.  Indeed, as the detective’s quick glance flashed first at the witness, cringing in his old unfortunate way before the gaze of the crowd, and then at the prisoner sitting unmoved and quietly disdainful in his dignity and pride, he felt that, whether Mr. Orcutt succeeded in getting all he wished from his witness, the mere conjunction of these two men before the jury, with the opportunity for comparison between them which it inevitably offered, was the master-stroke of this eminent lawyer’s legal career.

Mr. Ferris seemed to feel the significance of the moment also, for his eyes fell and his brow contracted with a sudden doubt that convinced Mr. Byrd that, mentally, he was on the point of giving up his case.

The witness was at once sworn.

“Orcutt believes Hildreth to be the murderer, or, at least, is willing that others should be impressed with this belief,” was the comment of Byrd to himself at this juncture.

He had surprised a look which had passed between the lawyer and Miss Dare ­a look of such piercing sarcasm and scornful inquiry that it might well arrest the detective’s attention and lead him to question the intentions of the man who could allow such an expression of his feelings to escape him.

But whether the detective was correct in his inferences, or whether Mr. Orcutt’s glance at Imogene meant no more than the natural emotion of a man who suddenly sees revealed to the woman he loves the face of him for whose welfare she has expressed the greatest concern and for whose sake, while unknown, she has consented to make the heaviest of sacrifices, the wary lawyer was careful to show neither scorn nor prejudice when he turned toward the witness and began his interrogations.

On the contrary, his manner was highly respectful, if not considerate, and his questions while put with such art as to keep the jury constantly alert to the anomalous position which the witness undoubtedly held, were of a nature mainly to call forth the one fact for which his testimony was presumably desired.  This was, his presence in the widow’s house on the morning of the murder, and the fact that he saw her and conversed with her and could swear to her being alive and unhurt up to a few minutes before noon.  To be sure, the precise minute of his leaving her in this condition Mr. Orcutt failed to gather from the witness, but, like the coroner at the inquest, he succeeded in eliciting enough to show that the visit had been completed prior to the appearance of the tramp at the widow’s kitchen-door, as it had been begun after the disappearance of the Danton children from the front of the widow’s house.

This fact being established and impressed upon the jury, Mr. Orcutt with admirable judgment cut short his own examination of the witness, and passed him over to the District Attorney, with a grim smile, suggestive of his late taunt, that to this gentleman belonged the special privilege of weaving halters for the necks of unhappy criminals.

Mr. Ferris who understood his adversary’s tactics only too well, but who in his anxiety for the truth could not afford to let such an opportunity for reaching it slip by, opened his cross-examination with great vigor.

The result could not but be favorable to the defence and damaging to the prosecution.  The position which Mr. Hildreth must occupy if the prisoner was acquitted, was patent to all understandings, making each and every admission on his part tending to exculpate the latter, of a manifest force and significance.

Mr. Ferris, however, was careful not to exceed his duty or press his inquiries beyond due bounds.  The man they were trying was not Gouverneur Hildreth but Craik Mansell, and to press the witness too close, was to urge him into admissions seemingly so damaging to himself as, in the present state of affairs, to incur the risk of distracting attention entirely from the prisoner.

Mr. Hildreth’s examination being at an end, Mr. Orcutt proceeded with his case, by furnishing proof calculated to fix the moment at which Mr. Hildreth had made his call.  This was done in much the same way as it was at the inquest.  Mrs. Clemmens’ next-door neighbor, Mrs. Danton, was summoned to the stand, and after her her two children, the testimony of the three, taken with Mr. Hildreth’s own acknowledgments, making it very evident to all who listened that he could not have gone into Mrs. Clemmens’ house before a quarter to twelve.

The natural inference followed.  Allowing the least possible time for his interview with Mrs. Clemmens, the moment at which the witness swore to having seen her alive and unhurt must have been as late as ten minutes before noon.

Taking pains to impress this time upon the jury, Mr. Orcutt next proceeded to fix the moment at which the prisoner arrived at Monteith Quarry Station.  As the fact of his having arrived in time to take the afternoon train to Buffalo had been already proved by the prosecution, it was manifestly necessary only to determine at what hour the train was due, and whether it had come in on time.

The hour was ascertained, by direct consultation with the road’s time-table, to be just twenty minutes past one, and the station-master having been called to the stand, gave it as his best knowledge and belief that the train had been on time.

This, however, not being deemed explicit enough for the purposes of the defence, there was submitted to the jury a telegram bearing the date of that same day, and distinctly stating that the train was on time.  This was testified to by the conductor of the train as having been sent by him to the superintendent of the road who was awaiting the cars at Monteith; and was received as evidence and considered as conclusively fixing the hour at which the prisoner arrived at the Quarry Station as twenty minutes past one.

This settled, witnesses were called to testify as to the nature of the path by which he must have travelled from the widow’s house to the station.  A chart similar to that Mr. Byrd had drawn, but more explicit and nice in its details, was submitted to the jury by an actual surveyor of the ground; after which, and the establishment of other minor details not necessary to enumerate here, a man of well-known proficiency in running and other athletic sports, was summoned to the stand.

Mr. Byrd, who up to this moment had shared in the interest every where displayed in the defence, now felt his attention wandering.  The fact is, he had heard the whistle of the train on which Hickory had promised to return to Sibley, and interesting as was the testimony given by the witness, he could not prevent his eyes from continually turning toward the door by which he expected Hickory to enter.

Strange to say, Mr. Orcutt seemed to take a like interest in that same door, and was more than once detected by Byrd flashing a hurried glance in its direction, as if he, too, were on the look-out for some one.

Meantime the expert in running was saying: 

“It took me one hundred and twenty minutes to go over the ground the first time, and one hundred and fifteen minutes the next.  I gained five minutes the second time, you see,” he explained, “by knowing my ground better and by saving my strength where it was of no avail to attempt great speed.  The last time I made the effort, however, I lost three minutes on my former time.  The wood road which I had to take for some distance was deep with mud, and my feet sank with every step.  The shortest time, then, which I was able to make in three attempts, was one hundred and fifteen minutes.”

Now, as the time between the striking of the fatal blow and the hour at which the prisoner arrived at the Quarry Station was only ninety minutes, a general murmur of satisfaction followed this announcement.  It was only momentary, however, for Mr. Ferris, rising to cross-examine the witness, curiosity prevailed over all lesser emotions, and an immediate silence followed without the intervention of the Court.

“Did you make these three runs from Mrs. Clemmens’ house to Monteith Quarry Station entirely on foot?”

“I did, sir.”

“Was that necessary?”

“Yes, sir; as far as the highway, at least.  The path through the woods is not wide enough for a horse, unless it be for that short distance where the Foresters’ Road intervenes.”

“And you ran there?”

“Yes, sir, twice at full speed; the third time I had the experience I have told you of.”

“And how long do you think it took you to go over that especial portion of ground?”

“Five minutes, maybe.”

“And, supposing you had had a horse?”

“Well, sir, if I had had a horse, and if he had been waiting there, all ready for me to jump on his back, and if he had been a good runner and used to the road, I think I could have gone over it in two minutes, if I had not first broken my neck on some of the jagged stones that roughen the road.”

“In other words, you could have saved three minutes if you had been furnished with a horse at that particular spot?”

“Yes, if.”

Mr. Orcutt, whose eye had been fixed upon the door at this particular juncture, now looked back at the witness and hurriedly rose to his feet.

“Has my esteemed friend any testimony on hand to prove that the prisoner had a horse at this place? if he has not, I object to these questions.”

“What testimony I have to produce will come in at its proper time,” retorted Mr. Ferris.  “Meanwhile, I think I have a right to put this or any other kind of similar question to the witness.”

The Judge acquiescing with a nod, Mr. Orcutt sat down.

Mr. Ferris went on.

“Did you meet any one on the road during any of these three runs which you made?”

“No, sir.  That is, I met no one in the woods.  There were one or two persons on the highway the last time I ran over it.”

“Were they riding or walking?”

“Walking.”

Here Mr. Orcutt interposed.

“Did you say that in passing over the highway you ran?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why did you do this?  Had you not been told that the prisoner was seen to be walking when he came down the road to the station?”

“Yes, sir.  But I was in for time, you see.”

“And you did not make it even with that advantage?”

“No, sir.”

The second expert had the same story to tell, with a few variations.  He had made one of his runs in five minutes less than the other had done, but it was by a great exertion that left him completely exhausted when he arrived at the station.  It was during his cross-examination that Hickory at last came in.

Horace Byrd, who had been growing very impatient during the last few minutes, happened to be looking at the door when it opened to admit this late comer.  So was Mr. Orcutt.  But Byrd did not notice this, or Hickory either.  If they had, perhaps Hickory would have been more careful to hide his feelings.  As it was, he no sooner met his colleague’s eye than he gave a quick, despondent shake of the head in intimation that he had failed.

Mr. Byrd, who had anticipated a different result, was greatly disappointed.  His countenance fell and he cast a glance of compassion at Miss Dare, now flushing with a secret but slowly growing hope.  The defence, then, was good, and she ran the risk of being interrogated again.  It was a prospect from which Mr. Byrd recoiled.

As soon as Hickory got the chance, he made his way to the side of Byrd.

“No go,” was his low but expressive salutation.  “One hundred and five minutes is the shortest time in which I can get over the ground, and that by a deuced hard scramble of it too.”

“But that’s five minutes’ gain on the experts,” Byrd whispered.

“Is it?  Hope I could gain something on them, but what’s five minutes’ gain in an affair like this?  Fifteen is what’s wanted.”

“I know it.”

“And fifteen I cannot make, nor ten either, unless a pair of wings should be given me to carry me over the river.”

“Sure?”

“Sure!”

Here there was some commotion in their vicinity, owing to the withdrawal of the last witness from the stand.  Hickory took advantage of the bustle to lean over and whisper in Byrd’s ear: 

“Do you know I think I have been watched to-day.  There was a fellow concealed in Mrs. Clemmens’ house, who saw me leave it, and who, I have no doubt, took express note of the time I started.  And there was another chap hanging round the station at the quarries, whom I am almost sure had no business there unless it was to see at what moment I arrived.  He came back to Sibley when I did, but he telegraphed first, and it is my opinion that Orcutt ­”

Here he was greatly startled by hearing his name spoken in a loud and commanding tone of voice.  Stopping short, he glanced up, encountered the eye of Mr. Orcutt fixed upon him from the other side of the court-room, and realized he was being summoned to the witness stand.

“The deuce!” he murmured, with a look at Byrd to which none but an artist could do justice.

CHAPTER VI - HICKORY.

          Hickory, dickory, dock! 
          The mouse ran up the clock! 
          The clock struck one,
          And down he run! 
          Hickory, dickory, dock! 
                     ­MOTHER GOOSE MELODIES.

HICKORY’S face was no new one to the court.  He had occupied a considerable portion of one day in giving testimony for the prosecution, and his rough manner and hardy face, twinkling, however, at times with an irrepressible humor that redeemed it and him from all charge of ugliness, were well known not only to the jury but to all the habitues of the trial.  Yet, when he stepped upon the stand at the summons of Mr. Orcutt, every eye turned toward him with curiosity, so great was the surprise with which his name had been hailed, and so vivid the interest aroused in what a detective devoted to the cause of the prosecution might have to say in the way of supporting the defence.

The first question uttered by Mr. Orcutt served to put them upon the right track.

“Will you tell the court where you have been to-day, Mr. Hickory?”

“Well,” replied the witness in a slow and ruminating tone of voice, as he cast a look at Mr. Ferris, half apologetic and half reassuring, “I have been in a good many places ­”

“You know what I mean,” interrupted Mr. Orcutt.  “Tell the court where you were between the hours of eleven and a quarter to one,” he added, with a quick glance at the paper he held in his hand.

“Oh, then,” cried Hickory, suddenly relaxing into his drollest self.  “Well, then, I was all along the route from Sibley to Monteith Quarry Station.  I don’t think I was stationary at any one minute of the time, sir.”

“In other words ­” suggested Mr. Orcutt, severely.

“I was trying to show myself smarter than my betters;” bowing with a great show of respect to the two experts who sat near. “Or, in other words still, I was trying to make the distance between Mrs. Clemmens’ house and the station I have mentioned, in time sufficient to upset the defence, sir.”

And the look he cast at Mr. Ferris was wholly apologetic now.

“Ah, I understand, and at whose suggestion did you undertake to do this, Mr. Hickory?”

“At the suggestion of a friend of mine, who is also somewhat of a detective.”

“And when was this suggestion given?”

“After your speech, sir, yesterday afternoon.”

“And where?”

“At the hotel, sir, where I and my friend put up.”

“Did not the counsel for the prosecution order you to make this attempt?”

“No, sir.”

“Did he not know you were going to make it?”

“No, sir.”

“Who did know it?”

“My friend.”

“No one else?”

“Well, sir, judging from my present position, I should say there seems to have been some one else,” the witness slyly retorted.

The calmness with which Mr. Orcutt carried on this examination suffered a momentary disturbance.

“You know what I mean,” he returned.  “Did you tell any one but your friend that you were going to undertake this run?”

“No, sir.”

“Mr. Hickory,” the lawyer now pursued, “will you tell us why you considered yourself qualified to succeed in an attempt where you had already been told regular experts had failed?”

“Well, sir, I don’t know unless you find the solution in the slightly presumptive character of my disposition.”

“Had you ever run before or engaged in athletic sports of any kind?”

“Oh, yes, I have run before.”

“And engaged in athletic sports?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mr. Hickory, have you ever run in a race with men of well-known reputation for speed?”

“Well, yes, I have.”

“Did you ever win in running such a race?”

“Once.”

“No more?”

“Well, then, twice.”

The dejection with which this last assent came forth roused the mirth of some light-hearted, feather-headed people, but the officers of the court soon put a stop to that.

“Mr. Hickory, will you tell us whether on account of having twice beaten in a race requiring the qualifications of a professional runner, you considered yourself qualified to judge of the feasibility of any other man’s making the distance from Mrs. Clemmens’ house to Monteith Quarry Station in ninety minutes by your own ability or non-ability to do so?”

“Yes, sir, I did; but a man’s judgment of his own qualifications don’t go very far, I’ve been told.”

“I did not ask you for any remarks, Mr. Hickory.  This is a serious matter and demands serious treatment.  I asked if in undertaking to make this run in ninety minutes you did not presume to judge of the feasibility of the prisoner having made it in that time, and you answered, ‘Yes.’  It was enough.”

The witness bowed with an air of great innocence.

“Now,” resumed the lawyer, “you say you made a run from Mrs. Clemmens’ house to Monteith Quarry Station to-day.  Before telling us in what time you did it, will you be kind enough to say what route you took?”

“The one, sir, which has been pointed out by the prosecution as that which the prisoner undoubtedly took ­the path through the woods and over the bridge to the highway.  I knew no other.”

“Did you know this?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How came you to know it?”

“I had been over it before.”

“The whole distance?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mr. Hickory, were you well enough acquainted with the route not to be obliged to stop at any point during your journey to see if you were in the right path or taking the most direct road to your destination?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And when you got to the river?”

“I turned straight to the right and made for the bridge.”

“Did you not pause long enough to see if you could not cross the stream in some way?”

“No, sir.  I don’t know how to swim in my clothes and keep them dry, and as for my wings, I had unfortunately left them at home.”

Mr. Orcutt frowned.

“These attempts at humor,” said he, “are very mal a propos, Mr. Hickory.”  Then, with a return to his usual tone:  “Did you cross the bridge at a run?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And did you keep up your pace when you got to the highroad?”

“No, I did not.”

“You did not?”

“No, sir.”

“And why, may I ask?”

“I was tired.”

“Tired?”

“Yes, sir.”

There was a droll demureness in the way Hickory said this which made Mr. Orcutt pause.  But in another minute he went on.

“And what pace do you take when you are tired?”

“A horse’s pace when I can get it,” was the laughing reply.  “A team was going by, sir, and I just jumped up with the driver.”

“Ah, you rode, then, part of the way?  Was it a fast team, Mr. Hickory?”

“Well, it wasn’t one of Bonner’s.”

“Did they go faster than a man could run?”

“Yes, sir, I am obliged to say they did.”

“And how long did you ride behind them?”

“Till I got in sight of the station.”

“Why did you not go farther?”

“Because I had been told the prisoner was seen to walk up to the station, and I meant to be fair to him when I knew how.”

“Oh, you did; and do you think it was fair to him to steal a ride on the highway?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And why?”

“Because no one has ever told me he didn’t ride down the highway, at least till he came within sight of the station.”

“Mr. Hickory,” inquired the lawyer, severely, “are you in possession of any knowledge proving that he did?”

“No, sir.”

Mr. Byrd, who had been watching the prisoner breathlessly through all this, saw or thought he saw the faintest shadow of an odd, disdainful smile cross his sternly composed features at this moment.  But he could not be sure.  There was enough in the possibility, however, to make the detective thoughtful; but Mr. Orcutt proceeding rapidly with his examination, left him no time to formulate his sensations into words.

“So that by taking this wagon you are certain you lost no time?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Rather gained some?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mr. Hickory, will you now state whether you put forth your full speed to-day in going from Mrs. Clemmens’ house to the Quarry Station?”

“I did not.”

“What?”

“I did not put forth any thing like my full speed, sir,” the witness repeated, with a twinkle in the direction of Byrd that fell just short of being a decided wink.

“And why, may I ask?  What restrained you from running as fast as you could?  Sympathy for the defence?”

The ironical suggestion conveyed in this last question gave Hickory an excuse for indulging in his peculiar humor.

“No, sir; sympathy for the prosecution.  I feared the loss of one of its most humble but valuable assistants.  In other words, I was afraid I should break my neck.”

“And why should you have any special fears of breaking your neck?”

“The path is so uneven, sir.  No man could run for much of the way without endangering his life or at least his limbs.”

“Did you run when you could?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And in those places where you could not run, did you proceed as fast as you knew how?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well; now I think it is time you told the jury just how many minutes it took you to go from Mrs. Clemmens’ door to the Monteith Quarry Station.”

“Well, sir, according to my watch, it took one hundred and five minutes.”

Mr. Orcutt glanced impressively at the jury.

“One hundred and five minutes,” he repeated.  He then turned to the witness with his concluding questions.

“Mr. Hickory, were you present in the court-room just now when the two experts whom I have employed to make the run gave their testimony?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you know in what time they made it?”

“I believe I do.  I was told by the person whom I informed of my failure that I had gained five minutes upon them.”

“And what did you reply?”

“That I hoped I could make something on them; but that five minutes wasn’t much when a clean fifteen was wanted,” returned Hickory, with another droll look at the experts and an askance appeal at Byrd, which being translated might read:  “How in the deuce could this man have known what I was whispering to you on the other side of the court-room?  Is he a wizard, this Orcutt?”

He forgot that a successful lawyer is always more or less of a wizard.

CHAPTER VII - A LATE DISCOVERY.

          Oh, torture me no more, I will confess. ­KING LEAR.

WITH the cross-examination of Hickory, the defence rested, and the day being far advanced, the court adjourned.

During the bustle occasioned by the departure of the prisoner, Mr. Byrd took occasion to glance at the faces of those most immediately concerned in the trial.

His first look naturally fell upon Mr. Orcutt.  Ah! all was going well with the great lawyer.  Hope, if not triumph, beamed in his eye and breathed in every movement of his alert and nervous form.  He was looking across the court-room at Imogene Dare, and his features wore a faint smile that indelibly impressed itself upon Mr. Byrd’s memory.  Perhaps because there was something really peculiar and remarkable in its expression, and perhaps because of the contrast it offered to his own feelings of secret doubt and dread.

His next look naturally followed that of Mr. Orcutt and rested upon Imogene Dare.  Ah! she was under the spell of awakening hope also.  It was visible in her lightened brow, her calmer and less studied aspect, her eager and eloquently speaking gaze yet lingering on the door through which the prisoner had departed.  As Mr. Byrd marked this look of hers and noted all it revealed, he felt his emotions rise till they almost confounded him.  But strong as they were, they deepened still further when, in another moment, he beheld her suddenly drop her eyes from the door and turn them slowly, reluctantly but gratefully, upon Mr. Orcutt.  All the story of her life was in that change of look; all the story of her future, too, perhaps, if ­ Mr. Byrd dared not trust himself to follow the contingency that lurked behind that if, and, to divert his mind, turned his attention to Mr. Ferris.

But he found small comfort there.  For the District Attorney was not alone.  Hickory stood at his side, and Hickory was whispering in his ear, and Mr. Byrd, who knew what was weighing on his colleague’s mind, found no difficulty in interpreting the mingled expression of perplexity and surprise that crossed the dark, aquiline features of the District Attorney as he listened with slightly bended head to what the detective had to say.  That look and the deep, anxious frown which crossed his brow as he glanced up and encountered Imogene’s eye, remained in Mr. Byrd’s mind long after the court-room was empty and he had returned to his hotel.  It mingled with the smile of strange satisfaction which he had detected on Mr. Orcutt’s face, and awakened such a turmoil of contradictory images in his mind that he was glad when Hickory at last came in to break the spell.

Their meeting was singular, and revealed, as by a flash, the difference between the two men.  Byrd contented himself with giving Hickory a look and saying nothing, while Hickory bestowed upon Byrd a hearty “Well, old fellow!” and broke out into a loud and by no means unenjoyable laugh.

“You didn’t expect to see me mounting the rostrum in favor of the defence, did you?” he asked, after he had indulged himself as long as he saw fit in the display of this somewhat unseasonable mirth.  “Well, it was a surprise.  But I’ve done it for Orcutt now!”

“You have?”

“Yes, I have.”

“But the prosecution has closed its case?”

“Bah! what of that?” was the careless reply.  “The District Attorney can get it reopened.  No Court would refuse that.”

Horace surveyed his colleague for a moment in silence.

“So Mr. Ferris was struck with the point you gave him?” he ventured, at last.

“Well, sufficiently so to be uneasy,” was Hickory’s somewhat dry response.

The look with which Byrd answered him was eloquent.  “And that makes you cheerful?” he inquired, with ill-concealed sarcasm.

“Well, it has a slight tendency that way,” drawled the other, seemingly careless of the other’s expression, if, indeed, he had noted it.  “You see,” he went on, with a meaning wink and a smile of utter unconcern, “all my energies just now are concentrated on getting myself even with that somewhat too wide-awake lawyer.”  And his smile broadened till it merged into a laugh that was rasping enough to Byrd’s more delicate and generous sensibilities.

“Sufficiently so to be uneasy!” Yes, that was it.  From the minute Mr. Ferris listened to the suggestion that Miss Dare had not told all she knew about the murder, and that a question relative to where she had been at the time it was perpetrated would, in all probability, bring strange revelations to light, he had been awakened to a most uncomfortable sense of his position and the duty that was possibly required of him.  To be sure, the time for presenting testimony to the court was passed, unless it was in the way of rebuttal; but how did he know but what Miss Dare had a fact at her command which would help the prosecution in overturning the strange, unexpected, yet simple theory of the defence?  At all events, he felt he ought to know whether, in giving her testimony she had exhausted her knowledge on this subject, or whether, in her sympathy for the accused, she had kept back certain evidence which if presented might bring the crime more directly home to the prisoner.  Accordingly, somewhere toward eight o’clock in the evening, he sought her out with the bold resolution of forcing her to satisfy him on this point.

He did not find his task so easy, however, when he came into direct contact with her stately and far from encouraging presence, and met the look of surprise not unmixed with alarm with which she greeted him.  She looked very weary, too, and yet unnaturally excited, as if she had not slept for many nights, if indeed she had rested at all since the trial began.  It struck him as cruel to further disturb this woman, and yet the longer he surveyed her, the more he studied her pale, haughty, inscrutable face, he became the more assured that he would never feel satisfied with himself if he did not give her an immediate opportunity to disperse at once and forever these freshly awakened doubts.

His attitude or possibly his expression must have betrayed something of his anxiety if not of his resolve, for her countenance fell as she watched him, and her voice sounded quite unnatural as she strove to ask to what she was indebted for this unexpected visit.

He did not keep her in suspense.

“Miss Dare,” said he, not without kindness, for he was very sorry for this woman, despite the inevitable prejudice which her relations to the accused had awakened, “I would have given much not to have been obliged to disturb you to-night, but my duty would not allow it.  There is a question which I have hitherto omitted to ask ­”

He paused, shocked; she was swaying from side to side before his eyes, and seemed indeed about to fall.  But at the outreaching of his hand she recovered herself and stood erect, the noblest spectacle of a woman triumphing over the weakness of her body by the mere force of her indomitable will, that he had ever beheld.

“Sit down,” he gently urged, pushing toward her a chair.  “You have had a hard and dreary week of it; you are in need of rest.”

She did not refuse to avail herself of the chair, though, as he could not help but notice, she did not thereby relax one iota of the restraint she put upon herself.

“I do not understand,” she murmured; “what question?”

“Miss Dare, in all you have told the court, in all that you have told me, about this fatal and unhappy affair, you have never informed us how it was you first came to hear of it.  You were ­”

“I heard it on the street corner,” she interrupted, with what seemed to him an almost feverish haste.

“First?”

“Yes, first.”

“Miss Dare, had you been in the street long?  Were you in it at the time the murder happened, do you think?”

“I in the street?”

“Yes,” he repeated, conscious from the sudden strange alteration in her look that he had touched upon a point which, to her, was vital with some undefined interest, possibly that to which the surmises of Hickory had supplied a clue.  “Were you in the street, or anywhere out-of-doors at the time the murder occurred?  It strikes me that it would be well for me to know.”

“Sir,” she cried, rising in her sudden indignation, “I thought the time for questions had passed.  What means this sudden inquiry into a matter we have all considered exhausted, certainly as far as I am concerned.”

“Shall I show you?” he cried, taking her by the hand and leading her toward the mirror near by, under one of those impulses which sometimes effect so much.  “Look in there at your own face and you will see why I press this question upon you.”

Astonished, if not awed, she followed with her eyes the direction of his pointing finger, and anxiously surveyed her own image in the glass.  Then, with a quick movement, her hands went up before her face ­which till that moment had kept its counsel so well ­and, tottering back against a table, she stood for a moment communing with herself, and possibly summoning up her courage for the conflict she evidently saw before her.

“What is it you wish to know?” she faintly inquired, after a long period of suspense and doubt.

“Where were you when the clock struck twelve on the day Mrs. Clemmens was murdered?”

Instantly dropping her hands, she turned toward him with a sudden lift of her majestic figure that was as imposing as it was unexpected.

“I was at Professor Darling’s house,” she declared, with great steadiness.

Mr. Ferris had not expected this reply, and looked at her for an instant almost as if he felt inclined to repeat his inquiry.

“Do you doubt my word?” she queried.  “Is it possible you question my truth at a time like this?”

“No, Miss Dare,” he gravely assured her.  “After the great sacrifice you have publicly made in the interests of justice, it would be worse than presumptuous in me to doubt your sincerity now.”

She drew a deep breath, and straightened herself still more proudly.

“Then am I to understand you are satisfied with the answer you have received?”

“Yes, if you will also add that you were in the observatory at Professor Darling’s house,” he responded quickly, convinced there was some mystery here, and seeing but one way to reach it.

“Very well, then, I was,” she averred, without hesitation.

“You were!” he echoed, advancing upon her with a slight flush on his middle-aged cheek, that evinced how difficult it was for him to pursue this conversation in face of the haughty and repellant bearing she had assumed.  “You will, perhaps, tell me, then, why you did not see and respond to the girl who came into that room at this very time, with a message from a lady who waited below to see you?”

“Ah!” she cried, succumbing with a suppressed moan to the inexorable destiny that pursued her in this man, “you have woven a net for me!”

And she sank again into a chair, where she sat like one stunned, looking at him with a hollow gaze which filled his heart with compassion, but which had no power to shake his purpose as a District Attorney.

“Yes,” he acknowledged, after a moment, “I have woven a net for you, but only because I am anxious for the truth, and desirous of furthering the ends of justice.  I am confident you know more about this crime than you have ever revealed, Miss Dare; that you are acquainted with some fact that makes you certain Mr. Mansell committed this murder, notwithstanding the defence advanced in his favor.  What is this fact?  It is my office to inquire.  True,” he admitted, seeing her draw back with denial written on every line of her white face, “you have a right to refuse to answer me here, but you will have no right to refuse to answer me to-morrow when I put the same question to you in the presence of judge and jury.”

“And” ­her voice was so husky he could but with difficulty distinguish her words ­“do you intend to recall me to the stand to-morrow?”

“I am obliged to, Miss Dare.”

“But I thought the time for examination was over; that the witnesses had all testified, and that nothing remained now but for the lawyers to sum up.”

“When in a case like this the prisoner offers a defence not anticipated by the prosecution, the latter, of course, has the right to meet such defence with proof in rebuttal.”

“Proof in rebuttal?  What is that?”

“Evidence to rebut or prove false the matters advanced in support of the defence.”

“Ah!”

“I must do it in this case ­if I can, of course.”

She did not reply.

“And even if the testimony I desire to put in is not rebuttal in its character, no unbiassed judge would deny to counsel the privilege of reopening his case when any new or important fact has come to light.”

As if overwhelmed by a prospect she had not anticipated, she hurriedly arose and pointed down the room to a curtained recess.

“Give me five minutes,” she cried; “five minutes by myself where no one can look at me, and where I can think undisturbed upon what I had better do.”

“Very well,” he acquiesced; “you shall have them.”

She at once crossed to the small retreat.

“Five minutes,” she reiterated huskily, as she lifted the curtains aside; “when the clock strikes nine I will come out.”

“You will?” he repeated, doubtfully.

“I will.”

The curtains fell behind her, and for five long minutes Mr. Ferris paced the room alone.  He was far from easy.  All was so quiet behind that curtain, ­so preternaturally quiet.  But he would not disturb her; no, he had promised, and she should be left to fight her battle alone.  When nine o’clock struck, however, he started, and owned to himself some secret dread.  Would she come forth or would he have to seek her in her place of seclusion?  It seemed he would have to seek her, for the curtains did not stir, and by no sound from within was any token given that she had heard the summons.  Yet he hesitated, and as he did so, a thought struck him.  Could it be there was any outlet from the refuge she had sought?  Had she taken advantage of his consideration to escape him?  Moved by the fear, he hastily crossed the room.  But before he could lay his hand upon the curtains, they parted, and disclosed the form of Imogene.

“I am coming,” she murmured, and stepped forth more like a faintly-breathing image than a living woman.

His first glance at her face convinced him she had taken her resolution.  His second, that in taking it she had drifted into a state of feeling different from any he had observed in her before, and of a sort that to him was wholly inexplicable.  Her words when she spoke only deepened this impression.

“Mr. Ferris,” said she, coming very near to him in evident dread of being overheard, “I have decided to tell you all.  I hoped never to be obliged to do this.  I thought enough had been revealed to answer your purpose.  I ­I believed Heaven would spare me this last trial, let me keep this last secret.  It was of so strange a nature, so totally out of the reach of any man’s surmise.  But the finger of God is on me.  It has followed this crime from the beginning, and there is no escape.  By some strange means, some instinct of penetration, perhaps, you have discovered that I know something concerning this murder of which I have never told you, and that the hour I spent at Professor Darling’s is accountable for this knowledge.  Sir, I cannot struggle with Providence.  I will tell you all I have hitherto hidden from the world if you will promise to let me know if my words will prove fatal, and if he ­he who is on trial for his life ­will be lost if I give to the court my last evidence against him?”

“But, Miss Dare,” remonstrated the District Attorney, “no man can tell ­” He did not finish his sentence.  Something in the feverish gaze she fixed upon him stopped him.  He felt that he could not palter with a woman in the grasp of an agony like this.  So, starting again, he observed:  “Let me hear what you have to say, and afterward we will consider what the effect of it may be; though a question of expediency should not come into your consideration, Miss Dare, in telling such truths as the law demands.”

“No?” she broke out, giving way for one instant to a low and terrible laugh which curdled Mr. Ferris’ blood and made him wish his duty had led him into the midst of any other scene than this.

But before he could remonstrate with her, this harrowing expression of misery had ceased, and she was saying in quiet and suppressed tones: 

“The reason I did not see and respond to the girl who came into the observatory on the morning of Mrs. Clemmens’ murder is, that I was so absorbed in the discoveries I was making behind the high rack which shuts off one end of the room, that any appeal to me at that time must have passed unnoticed.  I had come to Professor Darling’s house, according to my usual custom on Tuesday mornings, to study astronomy with his daughter Helen.  I had come reluctantly, for my mind was full of the secret intention I had formed of visiting Mrs. Clemmens in the afternoon, and I had no heart for study.  But finding Miss Darling out, I felt a drawing toward the seclusion I knew I should find in the observatory, and mounting to it, I sat down by myself to think.  The rest and quiet of the place were soothing to me, and I sat still a long time, but suddenly becoming impressed with the idea that it was growing late, I went to the window to consult the town-clock.  But though its face could be plainly seen from the observatory, its hands could not, and I was about to withdraw from the window when I remembered the telescope, which Miss Darling and I had, in a moment of caprice a few days before, so arranged as to command a view of the town.  Going to it, I peered through it at the clock.”  Stopping, she surveyed the District Attorney with breathless suspense.  “It was just five minutes to twelve,” she impressively whispered.

Mr. Ferris felt a shock.

“A critical moment!” he exclaimed.  Then, with a certain intuition of what she was going to say next, inquired:  “And what then, Miss Dare?”

“I was struck by a desire to see if I could detect Mrs. Clemmens’ house from where I was, and shifting the telescope slightly, I looked through it again, and ­”

“What did you see, Miss Dare?”

“I saw her dining-room door standing ajar and a man leaping headlong over the fence toward the bog.”

The District Attorney started, looked at her with growing interest, and inquired: 

“Did you recognize this man, Miss Dare?”

She nodded in great agitation.

“Who was he?”

“Craik Mansell.”

“Miss Dare,” ventured Mr. Ferris, after a moment, “you say this was five minutes to twelve?”

“Yes, sir,” was the faint reply.

“Five minutes later than the time designated by the defence as a period manifestly too late for the prisoner to have left Mrs. Clemmens’ house and arrived at the Quarry Station at twenty minutes past one?”

“Yes,” she repeated, below her breath.

The District Attorney surveyed her earnestly, perceiving she had not only spoken the truth, but realized all which that truth implied, and drew back a few steps muttering ironically to himself: 

“Ah, Orcutt!  Orcutt!”

Breathlessly she watched him, breathlessly she followed him step by step like some white and haunting spirit.

“You believe, then, this fact will cost him his life?” came from her lips at last.

“Don’t ask me that, Miss Dare.  You and I have no concern with the consequences of this evidence.”

“No concern?” she repeated, wildly.  “You and I no concern?  Ah!” she went on, with heart-piercing sarcasm, “I forgot that the sentiments of the heart have no place in judicial investigation.  A criminal is but lawful prey, and it is every good citizen’s duty to push him to his doom.  No matter if one is bound to that criminal by the dearest ties which can unite two hearts; no matter if the trust he has bestowed upon you has been absolute and unquestioning, the law does not busy itself with that.  The law says if you have a word at your command which can destroy this man, give utterance to it; and the law must be obeyed.”

“But, Miss Dare ­” the District Attorney hastily intervened, startled by the feverish gleam of her hitherto calm eye.

But she was not to be stopped, now that her misery had at last found words.

“You do not understand my position, perhaps,” she continued.  “You do not see that it has been my hand, and mine only, which, from the first, has slowly, remorselessly pushed this man back from the point of safety, till now, now, I am called upon to drag from his hand the one poor bending twig to which he clings, and upon which he relies to support him above the terrible gulf that yawns at his feet.  You do not see ­”

“Pardon me,” interposed Mr. Ferris again, anxious, if possible, to restore her to herself.  “I see enough to pity you profoundly.  But you must allow me to remark that your hand is not the only one which has been instrumental in hurrying this young man to his doom.  The detectives ­”

“Sir,” she interrupted in her turn, “can you, dare you say, that without my testimony he would have stood at any time in a really critical position? ­or that he would stand in jeopardy of his life even now, if it were not for this fact I have to tell?”

Mr. Ferris was silent.

“Oh, I knew it, I knew it!” she cried.  “There will be no doubt concerning whose testimony it was that convicted him, if he is sentenced by the court for this crime.  Ah, ah, what an enviable position is mine!  What an honorable deed I am called upon to perform!  To tell the truth at the expense of the life most dear to you.  It is a Roman virtue!  I shall be held up as a model to my sex.  All the world must shower plaudits upon the woman who, sooner than rob justice of its due, delivered her own lover over to the hangman.”

Pausing in her passionate burst, she turned her hot, dry eyes in a sort of desperation upon his face.

“Do you know,” she gurgled in his ear, “some women would kill themselves before they would do this deed.”

Struck to his heart in spite of himself, Mr. Ferris looked at her in alarm ­saw her standing there with her arms hanging down at her sides, but with her two hands clinched till they looked as if carved from marble ­and drew near to her with the simple hurried question of: 

“But you?”

“I?” she laughed again ­a low, gurgling laugh, that yet had a tone in it that went to the other’s heart and awoke strange sensations there.  “Oh, I shall live to respond to your questions.  Do not fear that I shall not be in the court-room to-morrow.”

There was something in her look and manner that was new.  It awed him, while it woke all his latent concern.

“Miss Dare,” he began, “you can believe how painful all this has been to me, and how I would have spared you this misery if I could.  But the responsibilities resting upon me are such ­”

He did not go on; why should he?  She was not listening.  To be sure, she stood before him, seemingly attentive, but the eyes with which she met his were fixed upon other objects than any which could have been apparent to her in his face; and her form, which she had hitherto held upright, was shaking with long, uncontrollable shudders, which, to his excited imagination, threatened to lay her at his feet.

He at once started toward the door for help.  But she was alive to his movements if not to his words.  Stopping him with a gesture, she cried: 

“No ­no! do not call for any one; I wish to be alone; I have my duty to face, you know; my testimony to prepare.”  And rousing herself she cast a peculiar look about the room, like one suddenly introduced into a strange place, and then moving slowly toward the window, threw back the curtain and gazed without.  “Night!” she murmured, “night!” and after a moment added, in a deep, unearthly voice that thrilled irresistibly upon Mr. Ferris’ ear:  “And a heaven full of stars!”

Her face, as she turned it upward, wore so strange a look, Mr. Ferris involuntarily left his position and crossed to her side.  She was still murmuring to herself in seeming unconsciousness of his presence.  “Stars!” she was repeating; “and above them God!” And the long shudders shook her frame again, and she dropped her head and seemed about to fall into her old abstraction when her eye encountered that of the District Attorney, and she hurriedly aroused herself.

“Pardon me,” she exclaimed, with an ill-concealed irony, particularly impressive after her tone of the moment before, “have you any thing further to exact of me?”

“No,” he made haste to reply; “only before I go I would entreat you to be calm ­”

“And say the word I have to say to-morrow without a balk and without an unnecessary display of feeling,” she coldly interpolated.  “Thanks, Mr. Ferris, I understand you.  But you need fear nothing from me.  There will be no scene ­at least on my part ­when I rise before the court to give my testimony to-morrow.  Since my hand must strike the fatal blow, it shall strike ­firmly!” and her clenched fist fell heavily on her own breast, as if the blow she meditated must first strike there.

The District Attorney, more moved than he had deemed it possible for him to be, made her a low bow and withdrew slowly to the door.

“I leave you, then, till to-morrow,” he said.

“Till to-morrow.”

Long after he had passed out, the deep meaning which informed those two words haunted his memory and disturbed his heart.  Till to-morrow!  Alas, poor girl! and after to-morrow, what then?

CHAPTER VIII - WHAT WAS HID BEHIND IMOGENE’S VEIL.

          Mark now, how a plain tale shall put you down. ­HENRY IV.

THE few minutes that elapsed before the formal opening of court the next morning were marked by great cheerfulness.  The crisp frosty air had put everybody in a good-humor.  Even the prisoner looked less sombre than before, and for the first time since the beginning of his trial, deigned to turn his eyes toward the bench where Imogene sat, with a look that, while it was not exactly kind, had certainly less disdain in it than before he saw his way to a possible acquittal on the theory advanced by his counsel.

But this look, though his first, did not prove to be his last.  Something in the attitude of the woman he gazed at ­or was it the mystery of the heavy black veil that enveloped her features? ­woke a strange doubt in his mind.  Beckoning to Mr. Orcutt, he communicated with him in a low tone.

“Can it be possible,” asked he, “that any thing new could have transpired since last night to give encouragement to the prosecution?”

The lawyer, startled, glanced hastily about him and shook his head.

“No,” he cried; “impossible!  What could have transpired?”

“Look at Mr. Ferris,” whispered the prisoner, “and then at the witness who wears a veil.”

With an unaccountable feeling of reluctance, Mr. Orcutt hastily complied.  His first glance at the District Attorney made him thoughtful.  He recognized the look which his opponent wore; he had seen it many a time before this, and knew what it indicated.  As for Imogene, who could tell what went on in that determined breast?  The close black veil revealed nothing.  Mr. Orcutt impatiently turned back to his client.

“I think you alarm yourself unnecessarily,” he whispered.  “Ferris means to fight, but what of that?  He wouldn’t be fit for his position if he didn’t struggle to the last gasp even for a failing cause.”

Yet in saying this his lip took its sternest line, and from the glitter of his eye and the close contraction of his brow it looked as if he were polishing his own weapons for the conflict he thus unexpectedly saw before him.

Meantime, across the court-room, another whispered conference was going on.

“Hickory, where have you been ever since last night?  I have not been able to find you anywhere.”

“I was on duty; I had a bird to look after.”

“A bird?”

“Yes, a wild bird; one who is none too fond of its cage; a desperate one who might find means to force aside its bars and fly away.”

“What do you mean, Hickory?  What nonsense is this?”

“Look at Miss Dare and perhaps you will understand.”

“Miss Dare?”

“Yes.”

Horace’s eyes opened in secret alarm.

“Do you mean ­”

“I mean that I spent the whole night in tramping up and down in front of her window.  And a dismal task it was too.  Her lamp burned till daylight.”

Here the court was called to order and Byrd had only opportunity to ask: 

“Why does she wear a veil?”

To which the other whisperingly retorted: 

“Why did she spend the whole night in packing up her worldly goods and writing a letter to the Congregational minister to be sent after the adjournment of court to-day?”

“Did she do that?”

“She did.”

“Hickory, don’t you know ­haven’t you been told what she is expected to say or do here to-day?”

“No.”

“You only guess?”

“No, I don’t guess.”

“You fear, then?”

“Fear!  Well, that’s a big word to a fellow like me.  I don’t know as I fear any thing; I’m curious, that is all.”

Mr. Byrd drew back, looked over at Imogene, and involuntarily shook his head.  What was in the mind of this mysterious woman?  What direful purpose or shadow of doom lay behind the veil that separated her from the curiosity and perhaps the sympathy of the surrounding crowd?  It was in vain to question; he could only wait in secret anxiety for the revelations which the next few minutes might bring.

The defence having rested the night before, the first action of the Judge on the opening of the court was to demand whether the prosecution had any rebuttal testimony to offer.

Mr. Ferris instantly rose.

“Miss Dare, will you retake the stand,” said he.

Immediately Mr. Orcutt, who up to the last moment had felt his case as secure as if it had indeed been founded on a rock, bounded to his feet, white as the witness herself.

“I object!” he cried.  “The witness thus recalled by the counsel of the prosecution has had ample opportunity to lay before the court all the evidence in her possession.  I submit it to the court whether my learned opponent should not have exhausted his witness before he rested his case.”

“Mr. Ferris,” asked the Judge, turning to the District Attorney, “do you recall this witness for the purpose of introducing fresh testimony in support of your case or merely to disprove the defence?”

“Your honor,” was the District Attorney’s reply, “I ought to say in fairness to my adversary and to the court, that since the case was closed a fact has come to my knowledge of so startling and conclusive a nature that I feel bound to lay it before the jury.  From this witness alone can we hope to glean this fact; and as I had no information on which to base a question concerning it in her former examination, I beg the privilege of reopening my case to that extent.”

“Then the evidence you desire to submit is not in rebuttal?” queried the Judge.

“I do not like to say that,” rejoined the District Attorney, adroitly.  “I think it may bear directly upon the question whether the prisoner could catch the train at Monteith Quarry if he left the widow’s house after the murder.  If the evidence I am about to offer be true, he certainly could.”

Thoroughly alarmed now and filled with the dismay which a mysterious threat is always calculated to produce, Mr. Orcutt darted a wild look of inquiry at Imogene, and finding her immovable behind her thick veil, turned about and confronted the District Attorney with a most sarcastic smile upon his blanched and trembling lips.

“Does my learned friend suppose the court will receive any such ambiguous explanation as this?  If the testimony sought from this witness is by way of rebuttal, let him say so; but if it is not, let him be frank enough to admit it, that I may in turn present my objections to the introduction of any irrelevant evidence at this time.”

“The testimony I propose to present through this witness is in the way of rebuttal,” returned Mr Ferris, severely.  “The argument advanced by the defence, that the prisoner could not have left Mrs. Clemmens’ house at ten minutes before twelve and arrived at Monteith Quarry Station at twenty minutes past one, is not a tenable one, and I purpose to prove it by this witness.”

Mr. Orcutt’s look of anxiety changed to one of mingled amazement and incredulity.

“By this witness!  You have chosen a peculiar one for the purpose,” he ironically exclaimed, more and more shaken from his self-possession by the quiet bearing of his opponent, and the silent air of waiting which marked the stately figure of her whom, as he had hitherto believed, he thoroughly comprehended.  “Your Honor,” he continued, “I withdraw my objections; I should really like to hear how Miss Dare or any lady can give evidence on this point.”

And he sank back into his seat with a look at his client in which professional bravado strangely struggled with something even deeper than alarm.

“This must be an exciting moment to the prisoner,” whispered Hickory to Byrd.

“So, so.  But mark his control, will you?  He is less cut up than Orcutt.”

“Look at his eyes, though.  If any thing could pierce that veil of hers, you would think such a glance might.”

“Ah, he is trying his influence over her at last.”

“But it is too late.”

Meantime the District Attorney had signified again to Miss Dare his desire that she should take the stand.  Slowly, and like a person in a dream, she arose, unloosed her veil, dragged it from before her set features, and stepped mechanically forward to the place assigned her.  What was there in the face thus revealed that called down an instantaneous silence upon the court, and made the momentary pause that ensued memorable in the minds of all present?  It was not that she was so pale, though her close-fitting black dress, totally unrelieved by any suspicion of white, was of a kind to bring out any startling change in her complexion; nor was there visible in her bearing any trace of the feverish excitement which had characterized it the evening before; yet of all the eyes that were fixed upon her ­and there were many in that crowd whose only look a moment before had been one of heartless curiosity ­there were none which were not filled with compassion and more or less dread.

Meanwhile, she remained like a statue on the spot where she had taken her stand, and her eyes, which in her former examination had met the court with the unflinching gaze of an automaton, were lowered till the lashes swept her cheek.

“Miss Dare,” asked the District Attorney, as soon as he could recover from his own secret emotions of pity and regret, “will you tell us where you were at the hour of noon on the morning Mrs. Clemmens was murdered?”

Before she could answer, before in fact her stiff and icy lips could part, Mr. Orcutt had risen impetuously to his feet, like a man bound to contend every step of the way with the unknown danger that menaced him.

“I object!” he cried, in the changed voice of a deeply disturbed man, while those who had an interest in the prisoner at this juncture, could not but notice that he, too, showed signs of suppressed feeling, and for the first time since the beginning of the trial, absolutely found his self-command insufficient to keep down the rush of color that swept up to his swarthy cheek.

“The question,” continued Mr. Orcutt, “is not to elicit testimony in rebuttal.”

“Will my learned friend allow the witness to give her answer, instead of assuming what it is to be?”

“I will not,” retorted his adversary.  “A child could see that such a question is not admissible at this stage of the case.”

“I am sure my learned friend would not wish me to associate him with any such type of inexperience?” suggested Mr. Ferris, grimly.

But the sarcasm, which at one time would have called forth a stinging retort from Mr. Orcutt, passed unheeded.  The great lawyer was fighting for his life, for his heart’s life, for the love and hand of Imogene ­a recompense which at this moment her own unconsidered action, or the constraining power of a conscience of whose might he had already received such heart-rending manifestation, seemed about to snatch from his grasp forever.  Turning to the Judge, he said: 

“I will not delay the case by bandying words with my esteemed friend, but appeal at once to the Court as to whether the whereabouts of Miss Dare on that fatal morning can have any thing to do with the defence we have proved.”

“Your Honor,” commenced the District Attorney, calmly following the lead of his adversary, “I am ready to stake my reputation on the declaration that this witness is in possession of a fact that overturns the whole fabric of the defence.  If the particular question I have made use of, in my endeavor to elicit this fact, is displeasing to my friend, I will venture upon another less ambiguous, if more direct and perhaps leading.”  And turning again to the witness, Mr. Ferris calmly inquired: 

“Did you or did you not see the prisoner on the morning of the assault, at a time distinctly known by you to be after ten minutes to twelve?”

It was out.  The line of attack meditated by Mr. Ferris was patent to everybody.  A murmur of surprise and interest swept through the court-room, while Mr. Orcutt, who in spite of his vague fears was any thing but prepared for a thrust of this vital nature, started and cast short demanding looks from Imogene to Mansell, as if he would ask them what fact this was which through ignorance or presumption they had conspired to keep from him.  The startled look which he surprised on the stern face of the prisoner, showed him there was every thing to fear in her reply, and bounding again to his feet, he was about to make some further attempt to stave off the impending calamity, when the rich voice of Imogene was heard saying: 

“Gentlemen, if you will allow me to tell my story unhindered, I think I shall soonest satisfy both the District Attorney and the counsel for the prisoner.”

And raising her eyes with a slow and heavy movement from the floor, she fixed them in a meaning way upon the latter.

At once convinced that he had been unnecessarily alarmed, Mr. Orcutt sank back into his seat, and Imogene slowly proceeded.

She commenced in a forced tone and with a sudden quick shudder that made her words come hesitatingly and with strange breaks:  “I have been asked ­two questions by Mr. Ferris ­I prefer ­to answer the first.  He asked me ­where I was at the hour Mrs. Clemmens was murdered.”

She paused so long one had time to count her breaths as they came in gasps to her white lips.

“I have no further desire to hide from you the truth.  I was with Mrs. Clemmens in her own house.”

At this acknowledgment so astonishing, and besides so totally different from the one he had been led to expect, Mr. Ferris started as if a thunder-bolt had fallen at his feet.

“In Mrs. Clemmens’ house!” he repeated, amid the excited hum of a hundred murmuring voices.  “Did you say, in Mrs. Clemmens’ house?”

“Yes,” she returned, with a wild, ironical smile that at once assured Mr. Ferris of his helplessness.  “I am on oath now, and I assert that on the day and at the hour Mrs. Clemmens was murdered, I was in her house and in her dining-room.  I had come there secretly,” she proceeded, with a sudden feverish fluency that robbed Mr. Ferris of speech, and in fact held all her auditors spell-bound.  “I had been spending an hour or so at Professor Darling’s, whose house in West Side is, as many here know, at the very end of Summer Avenue, and close to the woods that run along back of Mrs. Clemmens’ cottage.  I had been sitting alone in the observatory, which is at the top of one of the towers, but being suddenly seized with a desire to see the widow and make that promised attempt at persuading her to reconsider her decision in regard to the money her ­her ­the prisoner wanted, I came down, and unknown to any one in the house, stole away to the woods and so to the widow’s cottage.  It was noon when I got there, or very near it, for her company, if she had had any, was gone, and she was engaged in setting the clock where ­”

Why did she pause?  The District Attorney, utterly stupefied by his surprise, had made no sign; neither had Mr. Orcutt.  Indeed, it looked as if the latter could not have moved, much less spoken, even if he had desired it.  Thought, feeling, life itself, seemed to be at a standstill within him as he sat with a face like clay, waiting for words whose import he perhaps saw foreshadowed in her wild and terrible mien.  But though his aspect was enough to stop her, it was not upon him she was gazing when the words tripped on her lips.  It was upon the prisoner, on the man who up to this time had borne himself with such iron-like composure and reserve, but who now, with every sign of feeling and alarm, had started forward and stood surveying her, with his hand uplifted in the authoritative manner of a master.

The next instant he sank back, feeling the eye of the Judge upon him; but the signal had been made, and many in that court-room looked to see Imogene falter or break down.  But she, although fascinated, perhaps moved, by this hint of feeling from one who had hitherto met all the exigencies of the hour with a steady and firm composure, did not continue silent at his bidding.  On the contrary, her purpose, whatever it was, seemed to acquire new force, for turning from him with a strange, unearthly glare on her face, she fixed her glances on the jury and went steadily on.

“I have said,” she began, “that Mrs. Clemmens was winding her clock.  When I came in she stepped down, and a short and angry colloquy commenced between us.  She did not like my coming there.  She did not appreciate my interest in her nephew.  She made me furious, frenzied, mad.  I ­I turned away ­then I came back.  She was standing with her face lifted toward her clock, as though she no longer heeded or remembered my presence.  I ­I don’t know what came to me; whether it was hatred or love that maddened my brain ­but ­”

She did not finish; she did not need to.  The look she gave, the attitude she took, the appalling gesture which she made, supplied the place of language.  In an instant Mr. Ferris, Mr. Orcutt, all the many and confused spectators who hung upon her words as if spell-bound, realized that instead of giving evidence inculpating the prisoner, she was giving evidence accusing herself; that, in other words, Imogene Dare, goaded to madness by the fearful alternative of either destroying her lover or sacrificing herself, had yielded to the claims of her love or her conscience, and in hearing of judge and jury, proclaimed herself to be the murderess of Mrs. Clemmens.

The moment that followed was frightful.  The prisoner, who was probably the only man present who foresaw her intention when she began to speak, had sunk back into his seat and covered his face with his hands long before she reached the fatal declaration.  But the spectacle presented by Mr. Orcutt was enough, as with eyes dilated and lips half parted in consternation, he stood before them a victim of overwhelming emotion; so overcome, indeed, as scarcely to be able to give vent to the one low and memorable cry that involuntarily left his lips as the full realization of what she had done smote home to his stricken breast.

As for Mr. Ferris, he stood dumb, absolutely robbed of speech by this ghastly confession he had unwillingly called from his witness’ lips; while slowly from end to end of that court-room the wave of horror spread, till Imogene, her cause, and that of the wretched prisoner himself, seemed swallowed up in one fearful tide of unreality and nightmare.

The first gleam of relief came from the Judge.

“Miss Dare,” said he, in his slow, kindly way that nothing could impair, “do you realize the nature of the evidence you have given to the court?”

Her slowly falling head and white face, from which all the fearful excitement was slowly ebbing in a dead despair, gave answer for her.

“I fear that you are not in a condition to realize the effect of your words,” the Judge went on.  “Sympathy for the prisoner or the excitement of being recalled to the stand has unnerved or confused you.  Take time, Miss Dare, the court will wait; reconsider your words, and then tell us the truth about this matter.”

But Imogene, with white lips and drooped head, answered hurriedly: 

“I have nothing to consider.  I have told, or attempted to tell, how Mrs. Clemmens came to her death.  She was struck down by me; Craik Mansell there is innocent.”

At this repetition in words of what she had before merely intimated by a gesture, the Judge ceased his questions, and the horror of the multitude found vent in one long, low, but irrepressible murmur.  Taking advantage of the momentary disturbance, Byrd turned to his colleague with the agitated inquiry: 

“Hickory, is this what you have had in your mind for the last few days?”

“This,” repeated the other, with an air of careful consideration, assumed, as Byrd thought, to conceal any emotion which he might have felt; “no, no, not really.  I ­I don’t know what I thought.  Not this though.”  And he fixed his eyes upon Imogene’s fallen countenance, with an expression of mingled doubt and wonder, as baffling in its nature as the tone of voice he had used.

“But,” stammered Byrd, with an earnestness that almost partook of the nature of pleading, “she is not speaking the truth, of course.  What we heard her say in the hut ­”

“Hush!” interposed the other, with a significant gesture and a sudden glance toward the prisoner and his counsel; “watching is better than talking just now.  Besides, Orcutt is going to speak.”

It was so.  After a short and violent conflict with the almost overwhelming emotions that had crushed upon him with the words and actions of Imogene, the great lawyer had summoned up sufficient control over himself to reassume the duties of his position and face once more the expectant crowd, and the startled, if not thoroughly benumbed, jury.

His first words had the well-known ring, and, like a puff of cool air through a heated atmosphere, at once restored the court-room to its usual condition of formality and restraint.

“This is not evidence, but the raving of frenzy,” he said, in impassioned tones.  “The witness has been tortured by the demands of the prosecution, till she is no longer responsible for her words.”  And turning toward the District Attorney, who, at the first sound of his adversary’s voice, had roused himself from the stupor into which he had been thrown by the fearful and unexpected turn which Imogene’s confession had taken, he continued:  “If my learned friend is not lost to all feelings of humanity, he will withdraw from the stand a witness laboring under a mental aberration of so serious a nature.”

Mr. Ferris was an irritable man, but he was touched with sympathy for his friend, reeling under so heavy a blow.  He therefore forbore to notice this taunt save by a low bow, but turned at once to the Judge.

“Your Honor,” said he, “I desire to be understood by the Court, that the statement which has just been made in your hearing by this witness, is as much of a surprise to me as to any one in this court-room.  The fact which I proposed to elicit from her testimony was of an entirely different nature.  In the conversation which we held last night ­”

But Mr. Orcutt, vacillating between his powerful concern for Imogene, and his duty to his client, would not allow the other to proceed.

“I object,” said he, “to any attempt at influencing the jury by the statement of any conversation which may have passed between the District Attorney and the witness.  From its effects we may judge something of its nature, but with its details we have nothing to do.”

And raising his voice till it filled the room like a clarion, Mr. Orcutt said: 

“The moment is too serious for wrangling.  A spectacle, the most terrible that can be presented to the eyes of man, is before you.  A young, beautiful, and hitherto honored woman, caught in the jaws of a cruel fate and urged on by the emotions of her sex, which turn ever toward self-sacrifice, has, in a moment of mistaken zeal or frantic terror, allowed herself to utter words which sound like a criminal confession.  May it please your Honor and Gentlemen of the Jury, this is an act to awaken compassion in the breast of every true man.  Neither my client nor myself can regard it in any other light.  Though his case were ten times more critical than it is, and condemnation awaited him at your hands instead of a triumphant acquittal, he is not the man I believe him, if he would consent to accept a deliverance founded upon utterances so manifestly frenzied and devoid of truth.  I therefore repeat the objection I have before urged.  I ask your Honor now to strike out all this testimony as irrelevant in rebuttal, and I beg our learned friend to close an examination as unprofitable to his own cause as to mine.”

“I agree with my friend,” returned Mr. Ferris, “that the moment is one unfit for controversy.  If it please the Court, therefore, I will withdraw the witness, though by so doing I am forced to yield all hope of eliciting the important fact I had relied upon to rebut the defence.”

And obedient to the bow of acquiescence he received from the Judge, the District Attorney turned to Miss Dare and considerately requested her to leave the stand.

But she, roused by the sound of her name perhaps, looked up, and meeting the eye of the Judge, said: 

“Pardon me, your Honor, but I do not desire to leave the stand till I have made clear to all who hear me that it is I, not the prisoner, who am responsible for Mrs. Clemmens’ death.  The agony which I have been forced to undergo in giving testimony against him, has earned me the right to say the words that prove his innocence and my own guilt.”

“But,” said the Judge, “we do not consider you in any condition to give testimony in court to-day, even against yourself.  If what you say is true, you shall have ample opportunities hereafter to confirm and establish your statements, for you must know, Miss Dare, that no confession of this nature will be considered sufficient without testimony corroborative of its truth.”

“But, your Honor,” she returned, with a dreadful calmness, “I have corroborative testimony.”  And amid the startled looks of all present, she raised her hand and pointed with steady forefinger at the astounded and by-no-means gratified Hickory.  “Let that man be recalled,” she cried, “and asked to repeat the conversation he had with a young servant-girl called Roxana, in Professor Darling’s observatory some ten weeks ago.”

The suddenness of her action, the calm assurance with which it was made, together with the intention it evinced of summoning actual evidence to substantiate her confession, almost took away the breath of the assembled multitude.  Even Mr. Orcutt seemed shaken by it, and stood looking from the outstretched hand of this woman he so adored, to the abashed countenance of the rough detective, with a wonder that for the first time betrayed the presence of alarm.  Indeed, to him as to others, the moment was fuller of horror than when she made her first self-accusation, for what at that time partook of the vagueness of a dream, seemed to be acquiring the substance of an awful reality.

Imogene alone remained unmoved.  Still with her eyes fixed on Hickory, she continued: 

“He has not told you all he knows about this matter, any more than I. If my word needs corroboration, look to him.”

And taking advantage of the sensation which this last appeal occasioned, she waited where she was for the Judge to speak, with all the calmness of one who has nothing more to fear or hope for in this world.

But the Judge sat aghast at this spectacle of youth and beauty insisting upon its own guilt, and neither Mr. Ferris nor Mr. Orcutt having words for this emergency, a silence, deep as the feeling which had been aroused, gradually settled over the whole court.  It was fast becoming oppressive, when suddenly a voice, low but firm, and endowed with a strange power to awake and hold the attention, was heard speaking in that quarter of the room whence Mr. Orcutt’s commanding tones had so often issued.  It was an unknown voice, and for a minute a doubt seemed to rest upon the assembled crowd as to whom it belonged.

But the change that had come into Imogene’s face, as well as the character of the words that were uttered, soon convinced them it was the prisoner himself.  With a start, every one turned in the direction of the dock.  The sight that met their eyes seemed a fit culmination of the scene through which they had just passed.  Erect, noble, as commanding in appearance and address as the woman who still held her place on the witness stand, Craik Mansell faced the judge and jury with a quiet, resolute, but courteous assurance, that seemed at once to rob him of the character of a criminal, and set him on a par with the able and honorable men by whom he was surrounded.  Yet his words were not those of a belied man, nor was his plea one of innocence.

“I ask pardon,” he was saying, “for addressing the court directly; first of all, the pardon of my counsel, whose ability has never been so conspicuous as in this case, and whose just resentment, if he were less magnanimous and noble, I feel I am now about to incur.”

Mr. Orcutt turned to him a look of surprise and severity, but the prisoner saw nothing but the face of the Judge, and continued: 

“I would have remained silent if the disposition which your Honor and the District Attorney proposed to make of this last testimony were not in danger of reconsideration from the appeal which the witness has just made.  I believe, with you, that her testimony should be disregarded.  I intend, if I have the power, that it shall be disregarded.”

The Judge held up his hand, as if to warn the prisoner and was about to speak.

“I entreat that I may be heard,” said Mansell, with the utmost calmness.  “I beg the Court not to imagine that I am about to imitate the witness in any sudden or ill-considered attempt at a confession.  All I intend is that her self-accusation shall not derive strength or importance from any doubts of my guilt which may spring from the defence which has been interposed in my behalf.”

Mr. Orcutt, who, from the moment the prisoner began to speak, had given evidences of a great indecision as to whether he should allow his client to continue or not, started at these words, so unmistakably pointing toward a demolishment of his whole case, and hurriedly rose.  But a glance at Imogene seemed to awaken a new train of thought, and he as hurriedly reseated himself.

The prisoner, seeing he had nothing to fear from his counsel’s interference, and meeting with no rebuke from the Judge, went calmly on: 

“Yesterday I felt differently in regard to this matter.  If I could be saved from my fate by a defence seemingly so impregnable, I was willing to be so saved, but to-day I would be a coward and a disgrace to my sex if, in face of the generous action of this woman, I allowed a falsehood of whatever description to place her in peril, or to stand between me and the doom that probably awaits me.  Sir,” he continued, turning for the first time to Mr. Orcutt, with a gesture of profound respect, “you had been told that the path from Mrs. Clemmens’ house to the bridge, and so on to Monteith Quarry Station, could not be traversed in ninety minutes, and you believed it.  You were not wrong.  It cannot be gone over in that time.  But I now say to your Honor and to the jury, that the distance from my aunt’s house to the Quarry Station can be made in that number of minutes if a way can be found to cross the river without going around by the bridge.  I know,” he proceeded, as a torrent of muttered exclamations rose on his ear, foremost among which was that of the much-discomfited Hickory, “that to many of you, to all of you, perhaps, all means for doing this seem to be lacking to the chance wayfarer, but if there were a lumberman here, he would tell you that the logs which are frequently floated down this stream to the station afford an easy means of passage to one accustomed to ride them, as I have been when a lad, during the year I spent in the Maine woods.  At all events, it was upon a log that happened to be lodged against the banks, and which I pushed out into the stream by means of the ‘pivy’ or long spiked pole which I found lying in the grass at its side, that I crossed the river on that fatal day; and if the detective, who has already made such an effort to controvert the defence, will risk an attempt at this expedient for cutting short his route, I have no doubt he will be able to show you that a man can pass from Mrs. Clemmens’ house to the station at Monteith Quarry, not only in ninety minutes, but in less, if the exigencies of the case seem to demand it.  I did it.”

And without a glance at Imogene, but with an air almost lofty in its pride and manly assertion, the prisoner sank back into his seat, and resumed once more his quiet and unshaken demeanor.

This last change in the kaleidoscope of events, that had been shifting before their eyes for the last half hour, was too much for the continued equanimity of a crowd already worked up into a state of feverish excitement.  It had become apparent that by stripping away his defence, Mansell left himself naked to the law.  In this excitement of the jury, consequent upon the self-accusation of Imogene, the prisoner’s admission might prove directly fatal to him.  He was on trial for this crime; public justice demanded blood for blood, and public excitement clamored for a victim.  It was dangerous to toy with a feeling but one degree removed from the sentiment of a mob.  The jury might not stop to sympathize with the self-abnegation of these two persons willing to die for each other.  They might say:  “The way is clear as to the prisoner at least; he has confessed his defence is false; the guilty interpose false defences; we are acquit before God and men if we convict him out of his own mouth.”

The crowd in the court-room was saying all this and more, each man to his neighbor.  A clamor of voices next to impossible to suppress rose over the whole room, and not even the efforts of the officers of the court, exerted to their full power in the maintenance of order, could have hushed the storm, had not the spectators become mute with expectation at seeing Mr. Ferris and Mr. Orcutt, summoned by a sign from the Judge, advance to the front of the bench and engage in an earnest conference with the Court.  A few minutes afterward the Judge turned to the jury and announced that the disclosures of the morning demanded a careful consideration by the prosecution, that an adjournment was undoubtedly indispensable, and that the jury should refrain from any discussion of the case, even among themselves, until it was finally given them under the charge of the Court.  The jury expressed their concurrence by an almost unanimous gesture of assent, and the crier proclaimed an adjournment until the next day at ten o’clock.

Imogene, still sitting in the witness chair, saw the prisoner led forth by the jailer without being able to gather, in the whirl of the moment, any indication that her dreadful sacrifice ­for she had made wreck of her life in the eyes of the world whether her confession were true or false ­had accomplished any thing save to drive the man she loved to the verge of that doom from which she had sought to deliver him.

CHAPTER IX - PRO AND CON.

Hamlet. ­Do you see yonder cloud that’s almost in shape of a camel? Polonius. ­By the mass, and ’tis like a camel indeed. Hamlet. ­Methinks it is like a weasel. Polonius. ­It is back’d like a weasel. ­HAMLET.

SHORTLY after the adjournment of court, Mr. Ferris summoned the two detectives to his office.

“We have a serious question before us to decide,” said he.  “Are we to go on with the prosecution or are we to stop?  I should like to hear your views on the subject.”

Hickory was, as usual, the first to speak.

“I should say, stop,” he cried.  “This fresh applicant for the honor of having slain the Widow Clemmens deserves a hearing at least.”

“But,” hurriedly interposed Byrd, “you don’t give any credit to her story now, even if you did before the prisoner spoke?  You know she did not commit the crime herself, whatever she may choose to declare in her anxiety to shield the prisoner.  I hope, sir,” he proceeded, glancing at the District Attorney, “that you have no doubts as to Miss Dare’s innocence?”

But Mr. Ferris, instead of answering, turned to Hickory and said: 

“Miss Dare, in summoning you to confirm her statement, relied, I suppose, upon the fact of your having been told by Professor Darling’s servant-maid that she ­that is, Miss Dare ­was gone from the observatory when the girl came for her on the morning of the murder?”

“Yes, sir.”

“A strong corroborative fact, if true?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But is it true?  In the explanation which Miss Dare gave me last night of this affair, she uttered statements essentially different from those she made in court to-day.  She then told me she was in the observatory when the girl came for her; that she was looking through a telescope which was behind a high rack filled with charts; and that ­ Why do you start?”

“I didn’t start,” protested Hickory.

“I beg your pardon,” returned Mr. Ferris.

“Well, then, if I did make such a fool of myself, it was because so far her story is plausible enough.  She was in that very position when I visited the observatory, you remember, and she was so effectually concealed I didn’t see her or know she was there, till I looked behind the rack.”

“Very good!” interjected Mr. Ferris.  “And that,” he resumed, “she did not answer the girl or make known her presence, because at the moment the girl came in she was deeply interested in watching something that was going on in the town.”

“In the town!” repeated Byrd.

“Yes; the telescope was lowered so as to command a view of the town, and she had taken advantage of its position (as she assured me last night) to consult the church clock.”

“The church clock!” echoed Byrd once more.  “And what time did she say it was?” breathlessly cried both detectives.

“Five minutes to twelve.”

“A critical moment,” ejaculated Byrd.  “And what was it she saw going on in the town at that especial time?”

“I will tell you,” returned the District Attorney, impressively.  “She said ­and I believed her last night and so recalled her to the stand this morning ­that she saw Craik Mansell fleeing toward the swamp from Mrs. Clemmens’ dining-room door.”

Both men looked up astonished.

“That was what she told me last night.  To-day she comes into court with this contradictory story of herself being the assailant and sole cause of Mrs. Clemmens’ death.”

“But all that is frenzy,” protested Byrd.  “She probably saw from your manner that the prisoner was lost if she gave this fact to the court, and her mind became disordered.  She evidently loves this Mansell, and as for me, I pity her.”

“So do I,” assented the District Attorney; “still ­”

“Is it possible,” Byrd interrupted, with feeling, as Mr. Ferris hesitated, “that you do doubt her innocence?  After the acknowledgments made by the prisoner too?”

Rising from his seat, Mr. Ferris began slowly to pace the floor.

“I should like each of you,” said he, without answering the appeal of Byrd, “to tell me why I should credit what she told me in conversation last night rather than what she uttered upon oath in the court-room to-day?”

“Let me speak first,” rejoined Byrd, glancing at Hickory.  And, rising also, he took his stand against the mantel-shelf where he could partially hide his face from those he addressed.  “Sir,” he proceeded, after a moment, “both Hickory and myself know Miss Dare to be innocent of this murder.  A circumstance which we have hitherto kept secret, but which in justice to Miss Dare I think we are now bound to make known, has revealed to us the true criminal.  Hickory, tell Mr. Ferris of the deception you practised upon Miss Dare in the hut.”

The surprised, but secretly gratified, detective at once complied. He saw no reason for keeping quiet about that day’s work.  He told how, by means of a letter purporting to come from Mansell, he had decoyed Imogene to an interview in the hut, where, under the supposition she was addressing her lover, she had betrayed her conviction of his guilt, and advised him to confess it.

Mr. Ferris listened with surprise and great interest.

“That seems to settle the question,” he said.

But it was now Hickory’s turn to shake his head.

“I don’t know,” he remonstrated.  “I have sometimes thought she saw through the trick and turned it to her own advantage.”

“How to her own advantage?”

“To talk in such a way as to make us think Mansell was guilty.”

“Stuff!” said Byrd; “that woman?”

“More unaccountable things have happened,” was the weak reply of Hickory, his habitual state of suspicion leading him more than once into similar freaks of folly.

“Sir,” said Mr. Byrd, confidingly, to the District Attorney, “let us run over this matter from the beginning.  Starting with the supposition that the explanation she gave you last night was the true one, let us see if the whole affair does not hang together in a way to satisfy us all as to where the real guilt lies.  To begin, then, with the meeting in the woods ­”

“Wait,” interrupted Hickory; “there is going to be an argument here; so suppose you give your summary of events from the lady’s standpoint, as that seems to be the one which interests you most.”

“I was about to do so,” Horace assured him, heedless of the rough fellow’s good-natured taunt.  “To make my point, it is absolutely necessary for us to transfer ourselves into her position and view matters as they gradually unfolded themselves before her eyes.  First, then, as I have before suggested, let us consider the interview held by this man and woman in the woods.  Miss Dare, as we must remember, was not engaged to Mr. Mansell; she only loved him.  Their engagement, to say nothing of their marriage, depended upon his success in life ­a success which to them seemed to hang solely upon the decision of Mrs. Clemmens concerning the small capital he desired her to advance him.  But in the interview which Mansell had held with his aunt previous to the meeting between the lovers, Mrs. Clemmens had refused to loan him this money, and Miss Dare, whose feelings we are endeavoring to follow, found herself beset by the entreaties of a man who, having failed in his plans for future fortune, feared the loss of her love as well.  What was the natural consequence?  Rebellion against the widow’s decision, of course, ­a rebellion which she showed by the violent gesture which she made; ­and then a determination to struggle for her happiness, as she evinced when, with most unhappy ambiguity of expression, she begged him to wait till the next day before pressing his ring upon her acceptance, because, as she said: 

“’A night has been known to change the whole current of a person’s affairs.’

“To her, engrossed with the one idea of making a personal effort to alter Mrs. Clemmens’ mind on the money question, these words seemed innocent enough.  But the look with which he received them, and the pause that followed, undoubtedly impressed her, and prepared the way for the interest she manifested when, upon looking through the telescope the next day, she saw him flying in that extraordinary way from his aunt’s cottage toward the woods.  Not that she then thought of his having committed a crime.  As I trace her mental experience, she did not come to that conclusion till it was forced upon her.  I do not know, and so cannot say, how she first heard of the murder ­”

“She was told of it on the street-corner,” interpolated Mr. Ferris.

“Ah, well, then, fresh from this vision of her lover hasting from his aunt’s door to hide himself in the woods beyond, she came into town and was greeted by the announcement that Mrs. Clemmens had just been assaulted by a tramp in her own house.  I know this was the way in which the news was told her, from the expression of her face as she entered the house.  I was standing at the gate, you remember, when she came up, and her look had in it determination and horror, but no special fear.  In fact, the words she dropped show the character of her thoughts at that time.  She distinctly murmured in my hearing:  ’No good can come of it, none.’  As if her mind were dwelling upon the advantages which might accrue to her lover from his aunt’s death, and weighing them against the foul means by which that person’s end had been hastened.  Yet I will not say but she may have been influenced in the course which she took by some doubt or apprehension of her own.  The fact that she came to the house at all, and, having come, insisted upon knowing all the details of the assault, seem to prove she was not without a desire to satisfy herself that suspicion rightfully attached itself to the tramp.  But not until she saw her lover’s ring on the floor (the ring which she had with her own hand dropped into the pocket of his coat the day before) and heard that the tramp had justified himself and was no longer considered the assailant, did her true fear and horror come.  Then, indeed, all the past rose up before her, and, believing her lover guilty of this crime, she laid claim to the jewel as the first and only alternative that offered by which she might stand between him and the consequences of his guilt.  Her subsequent agitation when the dying woman made use of the exclamation that indissolubly connected the crime with a ring, speaks for itself.  Nor was her departure from the house any too hurried or involuntary, when you consider that the vengeance invoked by the widow, was, in Miss Dare’s opinion, called down upon one to whom she had nearly plighted her troth.  What is the next act in the drama?  The scene in the Syracuse depot.  Let me see if I cannot explain it.  A woman who has once allowed herself to suspect the man she loves of a murderous deed, cannot rest till she has either convinced herself that her suspicions are false, or until she has gained such knowledge of the truth as makes her feel justified in her seeming treason.  A woman of Miss Dare’s generous nature especially.  What does she do, then?  With the courage that characterizes all her movements, she determines upon seeing him, and from his own lips, perhaps, win a confession of guilt or innocence.  Conceiving that his flight was directed toward the Quarry Station, and thence to Buffalo, she embraced the first opportunity to follow him to the latter place.  As I have told you, her ticket was bought for Buffalo, and to Buffalo she evidently intended going.  But chancing to leave the cars at Syracuse, she was startled by encountering in the depot the very man with whom she had been associating thoughts of guilt.  Shocked and thrown off her guard by the unexpectedness of the occurrence, she betrays her shrinking and her horror.  ‘Were you coming to see me?’ she asks, and recoils, while he, conscious at the first glimpse of her face that his guilt has cost him her love, starts back also, uttering, in his shame and despair, words that were similar to hers, ’Were you coming to see me?’”

“Convinced without further speech, that her worst fears had foundation in fact, she turns back toward her home.  The man she loved had committed a crime.  That it was partly for her sake only increased her horror sevenfold.  She felt as if she were guilty also, and, with sudden remorse, remembered how, instead of curbing his wrath the day before she had inflamed it by her words, if not given direction to it by her violent gestures.  That fact, and the self-blame it produced, probably is the cause why her love did not vanish with her hopes.  Though he was stained by guilt, she felt that it was the guilt of a strong nature driven from its bearings by the conjunction of two violent passions, ­ambition and love; and she being passionate and ambitious herself, remained attached to the man while she recoiled from his crime.

“This being so, she could not, as a woman, wish him to suffer the penalty of his wickedness.  Though lost to her, he must not be lost to the world.  So, with the heroism natural to such a nature, she shut the secret up in her own breast, and faced her friends with courage, wishing, if not hoping, that the matter would remain the mystery it promised to be when she stood with us in the presence of the dying woman.

“But this was not to be, for suddenly, in the midst of her complacency, fell the startling announcement that another man ­an innocent man ­one, too, of her lover’s own standing, if not hopes, had by a curious conjunction of events so laid himself open to the suspicion of the authorities as to be actually under arrest for this crime.  ’Twas a danger she had not foreseen, a result for which she was not prepared.

“Startled and confounded she let a few days go by in struggle and indecision, possibly hoping, with the blind trust of her sex, that Mr. Hildreth would be released without her interference.  But Mr. Hildreth was not released, and her anxiety was fast becoming unendurable, when that decoy letter sent by Hickory reached her, awakening in her breast for the first time, perhaps, the hope that Mansell would show himself to be a true man in this extremity, and by a public confession of guilt release her from the task of herself supplying the information which would lead to his commitment.

“And, perhaps, if it had really fallen to the lot of Mansell to confront her in the hut and listen to her words of adjuration and appeal, he might have been induced to consent to her wishes.  But a detective sat there instead of her lover, and the poor woman lived to see the days go by without any movement being made to save Mr. Hildreth.  At last ­was it the result of the attempt made by this man upon his life? ­she put an end to the struggle by acting for herself.  Moved by a sense of duty, despite her love, she sent the letter which drew attention to her lover, and paved the way for that trial which has occupied our attention for so many days.  But ­mark this, for I think it is the only explanation of her whole conduct ­the sense of justice that upheld her in this duty was mingled with the hope that her lover would escape conviction if he did not trial.  The one fact which told the most against him ­I allude to his flight from his aunt’s door on the morning of the murder, as observed by her through the telescope ­was as yet a secret in her own breast, and there she meant it to remain unless it was drawn forth by actual question.  But it was not a fact likely to be made the subject of question, and drawing hope from that consideration, she prepared herself for the ordeal before her, determined, as I actually believe, to answer with truth all the inquiries that were put to her.

“But in an unexpected hour she learned that the detectives were anxious to know where she was during the time of the murder.  She heard Hickory question Professor Darling’s servant-girl, as to whether she was still in the observatory, and at once feared that her secret was discovered.  Feared, I say ­I conjecture this, ­but what I do not conjecture is that with the fear, or doubt, or whatever emotion it was she cherished, a revelation came of the story she might tell if worst came to worst, and she found herself forced to declare what she saw when the clock stood at five minutes to twelve on that fatal day.  Think of your conversation with the girl Roxana,” he went on to Hickory, “and then think of that woman crouching behind the rack, listening to your words, and see if you can draw any other conclusion from the expression of her face than that of triumph at seeing a way to deliver her lover at the sacrifice of herself.”

As Byrd waited for a reply, Hickory reluctantly acknowledged: 

“Her look was a puzzler, that I will allow.  She seemed glad ­”

“There,” cried Byrd, “you say she seemed glad; that is enough.  Had she had the weight of this crime upon her conscience, she would have betrayed a different emotion from that.  I pray you to consider the situation,” he proceeded, turning to the District Attorney, “for on it hangs your conviction of her innocence.  First, imagine her guilty.  What would her feelings be, as, hiding unseen in that secret corner, she hears a detective’s voice inquiring where she was when the fatal blow was struck, and hears the answer given that she was not where she was supposed to be, but in the woods ­the woods which she and every one know lead so directly to Mrs. Clemmens’ house, she could without the least difficulty hasten there and back in the hour she was observed to be missing?  Would she show gladness or triumph even of a wild or delirious order?  No, even Hickory cannot say she would.  Now, on the contrary, see her as I do, crouched there in the very place before the telescope which she occupied when the girl came to the observatory before, but unseen now as she was unseen then, and watch the change that takes place in her countenance as she hears question and answer and realizes what confirmation she would receive from this girl if she ever thought fit to declare that she was not in the observatory when the girl sought her there on the day of the murder.  That by this act she would bring execration if not death upon herself, she does not stop to consider.  Her mind is full of what she can do for her lover, and she does not think of herself.

“But an enthusiasm like this is too frenzied to last.  As time passes by and Craik Mansell is brought to trial, she begins to hope she may be spared this sacrifice.  She therefore responds with perfect truth when summoned to the stand to give evidence, and does not waver, though question after question is asked her, whose answers cannot fail to show the state of her mind in regard to the prisoner’s guilt.  Life and honor are sweet even to one in her condition; and if her lover could be saved without falsehood it was her natural instinct to avoid it.

“And it looked as if he would be saved.  A defence both skilful and ingenious had been advanced for him by his counsel ­a defence which only the one fact so securely locked in her bosom could controvert.  You can imagine, then, the horror and alarm which must have seized her when, in the very hour of hope, you approached her with the demand which proved that her confidence in her power to keep silence had been premature, and that the alternative was yet to be submitted to her of destroying her lover or sacrificing herself.  Yet, because a great nature does not succumb without a struggle, she tried even now the effect of the truth upon you, and told you the one fact she considered so detrimental to the safety of her lover.

“The result was fatal.  Though I cannot presume to say what passed between you, I can imagine how the change in your countenance warned her of the doom she would bring upon Mansell if she went into court with the same story she told you.  Nor do I find it difficult to imagine how, in one of her history and temperament, a night of continuous brooding over this one topic should have culminated in the act which startled us so profoundly in the court-room this morning.  Love, misery, devotion are not mere names to her, and the greatness which sustained her through the ordeal of denouncing her lover in order that an innocent man might be relieved from suspicion, was the same that made it possible for her to denounce herself that she might redeem the life she had thus deliberately jeopardized.

“That she did this with a certain calmness and dignity proves it to have been the result of design.  A murderess forced by conscience into confession would not have gone into the details of her crime, but blurted out her guilt, and left the details to be drawn from her by question.  Only the woman anxious to tell her story with the plausibility necessary to insure its belief would have planned and carried on her confession as she did.

“The action of the prisoner, in face of this proof of devotion, though it might have been foreseen by a man, was evidently not foreseen by her.  To me, who watched her closely at the time, her face wore a strange look of mingled satisfaction and despair, ­satisfaction in having awakened his manhood, despair at having failed in saving him.  But it is not necessary for me to dilate on this point.  If I have been successful in presenting before you the true condition of her mind during this struggle, you will see for yourself what her feelings must be now that her lover has himself confessed to a fact, to hide which she made the greatest sacrifice of which mortal is capable.”

Mr. Ferris, who, during this lengthy and exhaustive harangue, had sat with brooding countenance and an anxious mien, roused himself as the other ceased, and glanced with a smile at Hickory.

“Well,” said he, “that’s good reasoning; now let us hear how you will go to work to demolish it.”

The cleared brow, the playful tone of the District Attorney showed the relieved state of his mind.  Byrd’s arguments had evidently convinced him of the innocence of Imogene Dare.

Hickory, seeing it, shook his head with a gloomy air.

“Sir,” said he, “I can’t demolish it.  If I could tell why Mansell fled from Widow Clemmens’ house at five minutes to twelve I might be able to do so, but that fact stumps me.  It is an act consistent with guilt.  It may be consistent with innocence, but, as we don’t know all the facts, we can’t say so.  But this I do know, that my convictions with regard to that man have undergone a change.  I now as firmly believe in his innocence as I once did in his guilt.”

“What has produced the change?” asked Mr. Ferris.

“Well,” said Hickory, “it all lies in this.  From the day I heard Miss Dare accuse him so confidently in the hut, I believed him guilty; from the moment he withdrew his defence, I believed him innocent.”

Mr. Ferris and Mr. Byrd looked at him astonished.  He at once brought down his fist in vigorous assertion on the table.

“I tell you,” said he, “that Craik Mansell is innocent.  The truth is, he believes Miss Dare guilty, and so stands his trial, hoping to save her.”

“And be hung for her crime?” asked Mr. Ferris.

“No; he thinks his innocence will save him, in spite of the evidence on which we got him indicted.”

But the District Attorney protested at this.

“That can’t be,” said he; “Mansell has withdrawn the only defence he had.”

“On the contrary,” asserted Hickory, “that very thing only proves my theory true.  He is still determined to save Miss Dare by every thing short of a confession of his own guilt.  He won’t lie.  That man is innocent.”

“And Miss Dare is guilty?” said Byrd.

“Shall I make it clear to you in the way it has become clear to Mr. Mansell?”

As Byrd only answered by a toss of his head, Hickory put his elbows on the table, and checking off every sentence with the forefinger of his right hand, which he pointed at Mr. Ferris’ shirt-stud, as if to instil from its point conviction into that gentleman’s bosom, he proceeded with the utmost composure as follows: 

“To commence, then, with the scene in the woods.  He meets her.  She is as angry at his aunt as he is.  What does she do?  She strikes the tree with her hand, and tells him to wait till to-morrow, since a night has been known to change the whole current of a person’s affairs.  Now tell me what does that mean?  Murder?  If so, she was the one to originate it.  He can’t forget that.  It has stamped itself upon Mansell’s memory, and when, after the assassination of Mrs. Clemmens, he recalls those words, he is convinced that she has slain Mrs. Clemmens to help him.”

“But, Mr. Hickory,” objected Mr. Ferris, “this assumes that Mr. Mansell is innocent, whereas we have exceedingly cogent proof that he is the guilty party.  There is the circumstance of his leaving Widow Clemmens’ house at five minutes to twelve.”

To which Hickory, with a twinkle in his eye, replied: 

“I won’t discuss that; it hasn’t been proved, you know.  Miss Dare told you she saw him do this, but she wouldn’t swear to it.  Nothing is to be taken for granted against my man.”

“Then you think Miss Dare spoke falsely?”

“I don’t say that.  I believe that whatever he did could be explained if we knew as much about it as he does.  But I’m not called upon to explain any thing which has not appeared in the evidence against him.”

“Well, then, we’ll take the evidence.  There is his ring, found on the scene of murder.”

“Exactly,” rejoined Hickory.  “Dropped there, as he must suppose, by Miss Dare, because he didn’t know she had secretly restored it to his pocket.”

Mr. Ferris smiled.

“You don’t see the force of the evidence,” said he.  “As she had restored it to his pocket, he must have been the one to drop it there.”

“I am willing to admit he dropped it there, not that he killed Mrs. Clemmens.  I am now speaking of his suspicions as to the assassin.  When the betrothal ring was found there, he suspects Miss Dare of the crime, and nothing has occurred to change his suspicions.”

“But,” said the District Attorney, “how does your client, Mr. Mansell, get over this difficulty; that Miss Dare, who has committed a murder to put five thousand dollars into his pocket, immediately afterward turns round and accuses him of the crime ­nay more, furnishes evidence against him!”

“You can’t expect the same consistency from a woman as from a man.  They can nerve themselves up one moment to any deed of desperation, and take every pains the next to conceal it by a lie.”

“Men will do the same; then why not Mansell?”

“I am showing you why I know that Mansell believes Miss Dare guilty of a murder.  To continue, then.  What does he do when he hears that his aunt has been murdered?  He scratches out the face of Miss Dare in a photograph; he ties up her letters with a black ribbon as if she were dead and gone to him.  Then the scene in the Syracuse depot!  The rule of three works both ways, Mr. Byrd, and if she left her home to solve her doubts, what shall be said of him?  The recoil, too ­was it less on his part than hers?  And, if she had cause to gather guilt from his manner, had he not as much cause to gather it from hers?  If his mind was full of suspicion when he met her, it became conviction before he left; and, bearing that fact in your mind, watch how he henceforth conducted himself.  He does not come to Sibley; the woman he fears to encounter is there.  He hears of Mr. Hildreth’s arrest, reads of the discoveries which led to it, and keeps silent.  So would any other man have done in his place, at least till he saw whether this arrest was likely to end in trial.  But he cannot forget he had been in Sibley on the fatal day, or that there may be some one who saw his interview with Miss Dare.  When Byrd comes to him, therefore, and tells him he is wanted in Sibley, his first question is, ‘Am I wanted as a witness?’ and, even you have acknowledged, Mr. Ferris, that he seemed surprised to find himself accused of the crime.  But, accused, he takes his course and keeps to it.  Brought to trial, he remembers the curious way in which he crossed the river, and thus cut short the road to the station; and, seeing in it great opportunities for a successful defence, chooses Mr. Orcutt for his counsel, and trusts the secret to him.  The trial goes on; acquittal seems certain, when suddenly she is recalled to the stand, and he hears words which make him think she is going to betray him by some falsehood, when, instead of following the lead of the prosecution, she launches into a personal confession.  What does he do?  Why, rise and hold up his hand in a command for her to stop.  But she does not heed, and the rest follows as a matter of course.  The life she throws away he will not accept.  He is innocent, but his defence is false!  He says so, and leaves the jury to decide on the verdict.  There can be no doubt,” Hickory finally concluded, “that some of these circumstances are consistent only with his belief that Miss Dare is a murderess:  such, for instance, as his scratching out her face in the picture.  Others favor the theory in a less degree, but this is what I want to impress upon both your minds,” he declared, turning first to Mr. Ferris and then to Mr. Byrd:  “If any fact, no matter how slight, leads us to the conviction that Craik Mansell, at any time after the murder, entertained the belief that Miss Dare committed it, his innocence follows as a matter of course.  For the guilty could never entertain a belief in the guilt of any other person.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Ferris, “I admit that, but we have got to see into Mr. Mansell’s mind before we can tell what his belief really was.”

“No,” was Hickory’s reply; “let us look at his actions.  I say that that defaced picture is conclusive.  One day he loves that woman and wants her to marry him; the next, he defaces her picture.  Why?  She had not offended him.  Not a word, not a line, passes between them to cause him to commit this act.  But he does hear of his aunt’s murder, and he does recall her sinister promise:  ’Wait; there is no telling what a day will bring forth.’  I say that no other cause for his act is shown except his conviction that she is a murderess.”

“But,” persisted Mr. Ferris, “his leaving the house, as he acknowledges he did, by this unfrequented and circuitous road?”

“I have said before that I cannot explain his presence there, or his flight.  All I am now called upon to show is, some fact inconsistent with any thing except a belief in this young woman’s guilt.  I claim I have shown it, and, as you admit, Mr. Ferris, if I show that, he is innocent.”

“Yes,” said Byrd, speaking for the first time; “but we have heard of people manufacturing evidence in their own behalf.”

“Come, Byrd,” replied Hickory, “you don’t seriously mean to attack my position with that suggestion.  How could a man dream of manufacturing evidence of such a character?  A murderer manufactures evidence to throw suspicion on other people.  No fool could suppose that scratching out the face of a girl in a photograph and locking it up in his own desk, would tend to bring her to the scaffold, or save him from it.”

“And, yet,” rejoined Byrd, “that very act acquits him in your eyes.  All that is necessary is to give him credit for being smart enough to foresee that it would have such a tendency in the eyes of any person who discovered the picture.”

“Then,” said Hickory, “he would also have to foresee that she would accuse herself of murder when he was on trial for it, and that he would thereupon withdraw his defence.  Byrd, you are foreseeing too much.  My friend Mansell possesses no such power of looking into the future as that.”

“Your friend Mansell!” repeated Mr. Ferris, with a smile.  “If you were on his jury, I suppose your bias in his favor would lead you to acquit him of this crime?”

“I should declare him ‘Not guilty,’ and stick to it, if I had to be locked up for a year.”

Mr. Ferris sank into an attitude of profound thought.  Horace Byrd, impressed by this, looked at him anxiously.

“Have your convictions been shaken by Hickory’s ingenious theory?” he ventured to inquire at last.

Mr. Ferris abstractedly replied: 

“This is no time for me to state my convictions.  It is enough that you comprehend my perplexity.”  And, relapsing into his former condition, he remained for a moment wrapped in silence, then he said:  “Byrd, how comes it that the humpback who excited so much attention on the day of the murder was never found?”

Byrd, astonished, surveyed the District Attorney with a doubtful look that gradually changed into one of quiet satisfaction as he realized the significance of this recurrence to old theories and suspicions.  His answer, however, was slightly embarrassed in tone, though frank enough to remind one of Hickory’s blunt-spoken admissions.

“Well,” said he, “I suppose the main reason is that I made no attempt to find him.”

“Do you think that you were wise in that, Mr. Byrd?” inquired Mr. Ferris, with some severity.

Horace laughed.

“I can find him for you to-day, if you want him,” he declared.

“You can?  You know him, then?”

“Very well.  Mr. Ferris,” he courteously remarked, “I perhaps should have explained to you at the time, that I recognized this person and knew him to be an honest man; but the habits of secrecy in our profession are so fostered by the lives we lead, that we sometimes hold our tongue when it would be better for us to speak.  The humpback who talked with us on the court-house steps the morning Mrs. Clemmens was murdered, was not what he seemed, sir.  He was a detective; a detective in disguise; a man with whom I never presume to meddle ­in other words, our famous Mr. Gryce.”

“Gryce! ­that man!” exclaimed Mr. Ferris, astounded.

“Yes, sir.  He was in disguise, probably for some purpose of his own, but I knew his eye.  Gryce’s eye isn’t to be mistaken by any one who has much to do with him.”

“And that famous detective was actually on the spot at the time this murder was discovered, and you let him go without warning me of his presence?”

“Sir,” returned Mr. Byrd, “neither you nor I nor any one at that time could foresee what a serious and complicated case this was going to be.  Besides, he did not linger in this vicinity, but took the cars only a few minutes after he parted from us.  I did not think he wanted to be dragged into this affair unless it was necessary.  He had important matters of his own to look after.  However, if suspicion had continued to follow him, I should have notified him of the fact, and let him speak for himself.  But it vanished so quickly in the light of other developments, I just let the matter drop.”

The impatient frown with which Mr. Ferris received this acknowledgment showed he was not pleased.

“I think you made a mistake,” said he.  Then, after a minute’s thought, added:  “You have seen Gryce since?”

“Yes, sir; several times.”

“And he acknowledged himself to have been the humpback?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You must have had some conversation with him, then, about this murder?  He was too nearly concerned in it not to take some interest in the affair?”

“Yes, sir; Gryce takes an interest in all murder cases.”

“Well, then, what did he have to say about this one?  He gave an opinion, I suppose?”

“No, sir.  Gryce never gives an opinion without study, and we detectives have no time to study up an affair not our own.  If you want to know what Gryce thinks about a crime, you have got to put the case into his hands.”

Mr. Ferris paused and seemed to ruminate.  Seeing this, Mr. Byrd flushed and cast a side glance at Hickory, who returned him an expressive shrug.

“Mr. Ferris,” ventured the former, “if you wish to consult with Mr. Gryce on this matter, do not hesitate because of us.  Both Hickory and myself acknowledge we are more or less baffled by this case, and Gryce’s judgment is a good thing to have in a perplexity.”

“You think so?” queried the District Attorney.

“I do,” said Byrd.

Mr. Ferris glanced at Hickory.

“Oh, have the old man here if you want him,” was that detective’s blunt reply.  “I have nothing to say against your getting all the light you can on this affair.”

“Very good,” returned Mr. Ferris.  “You may give me his address before you go.”

“His address for to-night is Utica,” observed Byrd.  “He could be here before morning, if you wanted him.”

“I am in no such hurry as that,” returned Mr. Ferris, and he sank again into thought.

The detectives took advantage of his abstraction to utter a few private condolences in each other’s ears.

“So it seems we are to be laid on the shelf,” whispered Hickory.

“Yes, for which let us be thankful,” answered Byrd.

“Why?  Are you getting tired of the affair?”

“Yes.”

A humorous twinkle shone for a minute in Hickory’s eye.

“Pooh!” said he, “it’s just getting interesting.”

“Opinions differ,” quoth Byrd.

“Not much,” retorted Hickory.

Something in the way he said this made Byrd look at him more intently.  He instantly changed his tone.

“Old fellow,” said he, “you don’t believe Miss Dare committed this crime any more than I do.”

A sly twinkle answered him from the detective’s half-shut eye.

“All that talk of having seen through your disguise in the hut is just nonsense on your part to cover up your real notion about it.  What is that notion, Hickory?  Come, out with it; let us understand each other thoroughly at last.”

“Do I understand you?”

“You shall, when you tell me just what your convictions are in this matter.”

“Well, then,” replied Hickory, with a short glance at Mr. Ferris, “I believe (it’s hard as pulling teeth to own it) that neither of them did it:  that she thought him guilty and he thought her so, but that in reality the crime lies at the door of some third party totally disconnected with either of them.”

“Such as Gouverneur Hildreth?” whispered Byrd.

“Such ­as ­Gouverneur Hildreth,” drawled Hickory.

The two detectives eyed each other, smiled, and turned with relieved countenances toward the District Attorney.  He was looking at them with great earnestness.

“That is your joint opinion?” he remarked.

“It is mine,” cried Hickory, bringing his fist down on the table with a vim that made every individual article on it jump.

“It is and it is not mine,” acquiesced Byrd, as the eye of Mr. Ferris turned in his direction.  “Mr. Mansell may be innocent ­indeed, after hearing Hickory’s explanation of his conduct, I am ready to believe he is ­but to say that Gouverneur Hildreth is guilty comes hard to me after the long struggle I have maintained in favor of his innocence.  Yet, what other conclusion remains after an impartial view of the subject?  None.  Then why should I shrink from acknowledging I was at fault, or hesitate to admit a defeat where so many causes combined to mislead me?”

“Which means you agree with Hickory?” ventured the District Attorney.

Mr. Byrd slowly bowed.

Mr. Ferris continued for a moment looking alternately from one to the other; then he observed: 

“When two such men unite in an opinion, it is at least worthy of consideration.”  And, rising, he took on an aspect of sudden determination.  “Whatever may be the truth in regard to this matter,” said he, “one duty is clear.  Miss Dare, as you inform me, has been ­with but little idea of the consequences, I am sure ­allowed to remain under the impression that the interview which she held in the hut was with her lover.  As her belief in the prisoner’s guilt doubtless rests upon the admissions which were at that time made in her hearing, it is palpable that a grave injustice has been done both to her and to him by leaving this mistake of hers uncorrected.  I therefore consider it due to Miss Dare, as well as to the prisoner, to undeceive her on this score before another hour has passed over our heads.  I must therefore request you, Mr. Byrd, to bring the lady here.  You will find her still in the court-house, I think, as she requested leave to remain in the room below till the crowd had left the streets.”

Mr. Byrd, who, in the new light which had been thrown on the affair by his own and Hickory’s suppositions, could not but see the justice of this, rose with alacrity to obey.

“I will bring her if she is in the building,” he declared, hurriedly leaving the room.

“And if she is not,” Mr. Ferris remarked, with a glance at the consciously rebuked Hickory, “we shall have to follow her to her home, that is all.  I am determined to see this woman’s mind cleared of all misapprehensions before I take another step in the way of my duty.”

CHAPTER X - A MISTAKE RECTIFIED.

          If circumstances lead me, I will find
          Where truth is hid, though it were hid, indeed,
          Within the centre. ­HAMLET.

IF Mr. Ferris, in seeking this interview with Miss Dare, had been influenced by any hope of finding her in an unsettled and hesitating state of mind, he was effectually undeceived, when, after a few minutes’ absence, Mr. Byrd returned with her to his presence.  Though her physical strength was nearly exhausted, and she looked quite pale and worn, there was a steady gleam in her eye, which spoke of an unshaken purpose.

Seeing it, and noting the forced humility with which she awaited his bidding at the threshold, the District Attorney, for the first time perhaps, realized the power of this great, if perverted, nature, and advancing with real kindness to the door, he greeted her with as much deference as he ever showed to ladies, and gravely pushed toward her a chair.

She did not take it.  On the contrary, she drew back a step, and looked at him in some doubt, but a sudden glimpse of Hickory’s sturdy figure in the corner seemed to reassure her, and merely stopping to acknowledge Mr. Ferris’ courtesy by a bow, she glided forward and took her stand by the chair he had provided.

A short and, on his part, somewhat embarrassing pause followed.  It was broken by her.

“You sent for me,” she suggested.  “You perhaps want some explanation of my conduct, or some assurance that the confession I made before the court to-day was true?”

If Mr. Ferris had needed any further proof than he had already received that Imogene Dare, in presenting herself before the world as a criminal, had been actuated by a spirit of devotion to the prisoner, he would have found it in the fervor and unconscious dignity with which she uttered these few words.  But he needed no such proof.  Giving her, therefore, a look full of grave significance, he replied: 

“No, Miss Dare.  After my experience of the ease with which you can contradict yourself in matters of the most serious import, you will pardon me if I say that the truth or falsehood of your words must be arrived at by some other means than any you yourself can offer.  My business with you at this time is of an entirely different nature.  Instead of listening to further confessions from you, it has become my duty to offer one myself.  Not on my own behalf,” he made haste to explain, as she looked up, startled, “but on account of these men, who, in their anxiety to find out who murdered Mrs. Clemmens, made use of means and resorted to deceptions which, if their superiors had been consulted, would not have been countenanced for a moment.”

“I do not understand,” she murmured, looking at the two detectives with a wonder that suddenly merged into alarm as she noticed the embarrassment of the one and the decided discomfiture of the other.

Mr. Ferris at once resumed: 

“In the weeks that have elapsed since the commission of this crime, it has been my lot to subject you to much mental misery, Miss Dare.  Provided by yourself with a possible clue to the murder, I have probed the matter with an unsparing hand.  Heedless of the pain I was inflicting, or the desperation to which I was driving you, I asked you questions and pressed you for facts as long as there seemed questions to ask or facts to be gained.  My duty and the claims of my position demanded this, and for it I can make no excuse, notwithstanding the unhappy results that have ensued.  But, Miss Dare, whatever anxiety I may have shown in procuring the conviction of a man I believed to be a criminal, I have never wished to win my case at the expense of justice and right; and had I been told before you came to the stand that you had been made the victim of a deception calculated to influence your judgment, I should have hastened to set you right with the same anxiety as I do now.”

“Sir ­sir ­” she began.

But Mr. Ferris would not listen.

“Miss Dare,” he proceeded with all the gravity of conviction, “you have uttered a deliberate perjury in the court-room to-day.  You said that you alone were responsible for the murder of Mrs. Clemmens, whereas you not only did not commit the crime yourself but were not even an accessory to it.  Wait!” he commanded, as she flashed upon him a look full of denial, “I would rather you did not speak.  The motive for this calumny you uttered upon yourself lies in a fact which may be modified by what I have to reveal.  Hear me, then, before you stain yourself still further by a falsehood you will not only be unable to maintain, but which you may no longer see reason for insisting upon.  Hickory, turn around so Miss Dare can see your face.  Miss Dare, when you saw fit to call upon this man to upbear you in the extraordinary statements you made to-day, did you realize that in doing this you appealed to the one person best qualified to prove the falsehood of what you had said?  I see you did not; yet it is so.  He if no other can testify that a few weeks ago, no idea of taking this crime upon your own shoulders had ever crossed your mind; that, on the contrary, your whole heart was filled with sorrow for the supposed guilt of another, and plans for inducing that other to make a confession of his guilt before the world.”

“This man!” was her startled exclamation.  “It is not possible; I do not know him; he does not know me.  I never talked with him but once in my life, and that was to say words I am not only willing but anxious for him to repeat.”

“Miss Dare,” the District Attorney pursued, “when you say this you show how completely you have been deceived.  The conversation to which you allude is not the only one which has passed between you two.  Though you did not know it, you held a talk with this man at a time in which you so completely discovered the secrets of your heart, you can never hope to deceive us or the world by any story of personal guilt which you may see fit to manufacture.”

“I reveal my heart to this man!” she repeated, in a maze of doubt and terror that left her almost unable to stand.  “You are playing with my misery, Mr. Ferris.”

The District Attorney took a different tone.

“Miss Dare,” he asked, “do you remember a certain interview you held with a gentleman in the hut back of Mrs. Clemmens’ house, a short time after the murder?”

“Did this man overhear my words that day?” she murmured, reaching out her hand to steady herself by the back of the chair near which she was standing.

“Your words that day were addressed to this man.”

“To him!” she repeated, staggering back.

“Yes, to him, disguised as Craik Mansell.  With an unjustifiable zeal to know the truth, he had taken this plan for surprising your secret thoughts, and he succeeded, Miss Dare, remember that, even if he did you and your lover the cruel wrong of leaving you undisturbed in the impression that Mr. Mansell had admitted his guilt in your presence.”

But Imogene, throwing out her hands, cried impetuously: 

“It is not so; you are mocking me.  This man never could deceive me like that!”

But even as she spoke she recoiled, for Hickory, with ready art, had thrown his arms and head forward on the table before which he sat, in the attitude and with much the same appearance he had preserved on the day she had come upon him in the hut.  Though he had no assistance from disguise and all the accessories were lacking which had helped forward the illusion on the former occasion, there was still a sufficient resemblance between this bowed figure and the one that had so impressed itself upon her memory as that of her wretched and remorseful lover, that she stood rooted to the ground in her surprise and dismay.

“You see how it was done, do you not?” inquired Mr. Ferris.  Then, as he saw she did not heed, added:  “I hope you remember what passed between you two on that day?”

As if struck by a thought which altered the whole atmosphere of her hopes and feelings, she took a step forward with a power and vigor that recalled to mind the Imogene of old.

“Sir,” she exclaimed, “let that man turn around and face me!”

Hickory at once rose.

“Tell me,” she demanded, surveying him with a look it took all his well-known hardihood to sustain unmoved, “was it all false ­all a trick from the beginning to the end?  I received a letter ­was that written by your hand too?  Are you capable of forgery as well as of other deceptions?”

The detective, who knew no other way to escape from his embarrassment, uttered a short laugh.  But finding a reply was expected of him, answered with well-simulated indifference: 

“No, only the address on the envelope was mine; the letter was one which Mr. Mansell had written but never sent.  I found it in his waste-paper basket in Buffalo.”

“Ah! and you could make use of that?”

“I know it was a mean trick,” he acknowledged, dropping his eyes from her face.  “But things do look different when you are in the thick of ’em than when you take a stand and observe them from the outside.  I ­I was ashamed of it long ago, Miss Dare” ­this was a lie; Hickory never was really ashamed of it ­“and would have told you about it, but I thought ‘mum’ was the word after a scene like that.”

She did not seem to hear him.

“Then Mr. Mansell did not send me the letter inviting me to meet him in the hut on a certain day, some few weeks after Mrs. Clemmens was murdered?”

“No.”

“Nor know that such a letter had been sent?”

“No.”

“Nor come, as I supposed he did, to Sibley? nor admit what I supposed he admitted in my hearing? nor listen, as I supposed he did, to the insinuations I made use of in the hut?”

“No.”

Imbued with sudden purpose and energy, she turned upon the District Attorney.

“Oh, what a revelation to come to me now!” she murmured.

Mr. Ferris bowed.

“You are right,” he assented; “it should have come to you before.  But I can only repeat what I have previously said, that if I had known of this deception myself, you would have been notified of it previous to going upon the stand.  For your belief in the prisoner’s guilt has necessarily had its effect upon the jury, and I cannot but see how much that belief must have been strengthened, if it was not actually induced, by the interview which we have just been considering.”

Her eyes took on fresh light; she looked at Mr. Ferris as if she would read his soul.

“Can it be possible ­” she breathed, but stopped as suddenly as she began.  The District Attorney was not the man from whom she could hope to obtain any opinion in reference to the prisoner’s innocence.

Mr. Ferris, noting her hesitation and understanding it too, perhaps, moved toward her with a certain kindly dignity, saying: 

“I should be glad to utter words that would give you some comfort, Miss Dare, but in the present state of affairs I do not feel as if I could go farther than bid you trust in the justice and wisdom of those who have this matter in charge.  As for your own wretched and uncalled-for action in court to-day, it was a madness which I hope will be speedily forgotten, or, if not forgotten, laid to a despair almost too heavy for mortal strength to endure.”

“Thank you,” she murmured; but her look, the poise of her head, the color that quivered through the pallor of her cheek, showed she was not thinking of herself.  Doubt, the first which had visited her since she became convinced that Craik Mansell was the destroyer of his aunt’s life, had cast a momentary gleam over her thoughts, and she was conscious of but one wish, and that was to understand the feelings of the men before her.

But she soon saw the hopelessness of this, and, sinking back again into her old distress as she realized how much reason she still had for believing Craik Mansell guilty, she threw a hurried look toward the door as if anxious to escape from the eyes and ears of men interested, as she knew, in gleaning her every thought and sounding her every impulse.

Mr. Ferris at once comprehended her intention, and courteously advanced.

“Do you wish to return home?” he asked.

“If a carriage can be obtained.”

“There can be no difficulty about that,” he answered; and he gave Hickory a look, and whispered a word to Mr. Byrd, that sent them both speedily from the room.

When he was left alone with her, he said: 

“Before you leave my presence, Miss Dare, I wish to urge upon you the necessity of patience.  Any sudden or violent act on your part now would result in no good, and lead to much evil.  Let me, then, pray you to remain quiet in your home, confident that Mr. Orcutt and myself will do all in our power to insure justice and make the truth evident.”

She bowed, but did not speak; while her impatient eye, resting feverishly on the door, told of her anxiety to depart.

“She will need watching,” commented Mr. Ferris to himself, and he, too, waited impatiently for the detectives’ return.  When they came in he gave Imogene to their charge, but the look he cast Byrd contained a hint which led that gentleman to take his hat when he went below to put Miss Dare into her carriage.

CHAPTER XI - UNDER THE GREAT TREE.

                                We but teach
          Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return
          To plague the inventor.  This even-handed justice
          Commends the ingredients of our poisoned chalice
          To our own lips. ­MACBETH.

IMOGENE went to her home.  Confused, disordered, the prey of a thousand hopes and a thousand fears, she sought for solitude and found it within the four walls of the small room which was now her only refuge.

The two detectives who had followed her to the house ­the one in the carriage, the other on foot ­met, as the street-door closed upon her retreating form, and consulted together as to their future course.

“Mr. Ferris thinks we ought to keep watch over the house, to make sure she does not leave it again,” announced Mr. Byrd.

“Does he?  Well, then, I am the man for that job,” quoth Hickory.  “I was on this very same beat last night.”

“Good reason why you should rest and give me a turn at the business,” declared the other.

“Do you want it?”

“I am willing to take it,” said Byrd.

“Well, then, after nine o’clock you shall.”

“Why after nine?”

“Because if she’s bent on skylarking, she’ll leave the house before then,” laughed the other.

“And you want to be here if she goes out?”

“Well, yes, rather!”

They compromised matters by both remaining, Byrd within view of the house and Hickory on a corner within hail.  Neither expected much from this effort at surveillance, there seeming to be no good reason why she should venture forth into the streets again that night.  But the watchfulness of the true detective mind is unceasing.

Several hours passed.  The peace of evening had come at last to the troubled town.  In the streets, especially, its gentle influence was felt, and regions which had seethed all day with a restless and impatient throng were fast settling into their usual quiet and solitary condition.  A new moon hung in the west, and to Mr. Byrd, pacing the walk in front of Imogene’s door, it seemed as if he had never seen the town look more lovely or less like the abode of violence and crime.  All was so quiet, especially in the house opposite him, he was fast becoming convinced that further precautions were needless, and that Imogene had no intention of stirring abroad again, when the window where her light burned suddenly became dark, and he perceived the street door cautiously open, and her tall, vailed figure emerge and pass rapidly up the street.  Merely stopping to give the signal to Hickory, he hastened after her with rapid but cautious steps.

She went like one bound on no uncertain errand.  Though many of the walks were heavily shaded, and the light of the lamps was not brilliant, she speeded on from corner to corner, threading the business streets with rapidity, and emerging upon the large and handsome avenue that led up toward the eastern district of the town before Hickory could overtake Byrd, and find sufficient breath to ask: 

“Where is she bound for?  Who lives up this way?”

“I don’t know,” answered Byrd, lowering his voice in the fear of startling her into a knowledge of their presence.  “It may be she is going to Miss Tremaine’s; the High School is somewhere in this direction.”

But even as they spoke, the gliding figure before them turned into another street, and before they knew it, they were on the car-track leading out to Somerset Park.

“Ha!  I know now,” whispered Hickory.  “It is Orcutt she is after.”  And pressing the arm of Byrd in his enthusiasm, he speeded after her with renewed zeal.

Byrd, seeing no reason to dispute a fact that was every moment becoming more evident, hurried forward also, and after a long and breathless walk ­for she seemed to be urged onward by flying feet ­they found themselves within sight of the grand old trees that guarded the entrance to the lawyer’s somewhat spacious grounds.

“What are we going to do now?” asked Byrd, stopping, as they heard the gate click behind her.

“Wait and watch,” said Hickory.  “She has not led us this wild-goose chase for nothing.”  And leaping the hedge, he began creeping up toward the house, leaving his companion to follow or not, as he saw fit.

Meantime Imogene had passed up the walk and paused before the front door.  But a single look at it seemed to satisfy her, for, moving hurriedly away, she flitted around the corner of the house and stopped just before the long windows whose brightly illumined sashes proclaimed that the master of the house was still in his library.

She seemed to feel relieved at this sight.  Pausing, she leaned against the frame of a trellis-work near by to gather up her courage or regain her breath before proceeding to make her presence known to the lawyer.  As she thus leaned, the peal of the church clock was heard, striking the hour of nine.  She started, possibly at finding it so late, and bending forward, looked at the windows before her with an anxious eye that soon caught sight of a small opening left by the curtains having been drawn together by a too hasty or a too careless hand, and recognizing the opportunity it afforded for a glimpse into the room before her, stepped with a light tread upon the piazza and quietly peered within.

The sight she saw never left her memory.

Seated before a deadened fire, she beheld Mr. Orcutt.  He was neither writing nor reading, nor, in the true sense of the word, thinking.  The papers he had evidently taken from his desk, lay at his side undisturbed, and from one end of the room to the other, solitude, suffering, and despair seemed to fill the atmosphere and weigh upon its dreary occupant, till the single lamp which shone beside him burned dimmer and dimmer, like a life going out or a purpose vanishing in the gloom of a stealthily approaching destiny.

Imogene, who had come to this place thus secretly and at this late hour of the day with the sole intent of procuring the advice of this man concerning the deception which had been practised upon her before the trial, felt her heart die within her as she surveyed this rigid figure and realized all it implied.  Though his position was such she could not see his face, there was that in his attitude which bespoke hopelessness and an utter weariness of life, and as ash after ash fell from the grate, she imagined how the gloom deepened on the brow which till this hour had confronted the world with such undeviating courage and confidence.

It was therefore a powerful shock to her when, in another moment, he looked up, and, without moving his body, turned his head slowly around in such a way as to afford her a glimpse of his face.  For, in all her memory of it ­and she had seen it distorted by many and various emotions during the last few weeks ­she had never beheld it wear such a look as now.  It gave her a new idea of the man; it filled her with dismay, and sent the life-blood from her cheeks.  It fascinated her, as the glimpse of any evil thing fascinates, and held her spell-bound long after he had turned back again to his silent contemplation of the fire and its ever-drifting ashes.  It was as if a vail had been rent before her eyes, disclosing to her a living soul writhing in secret struggle with its own worst passions; and horrified at the revelation, more than horrified at the remembrance that it was her own action of the morning which had occasioned this change in one she had long reverenced, if not loved, she sank helplessly upon her knees and pressed her face to the window in a prayer for courage to sustain this new woe and latest, if not heaviest, disappointment.

It came while she was kneeling ­came in the breath of the cold night wind, perhaps; for, rising up, she turned her forehead gratefully to the breeze, and drew in long draughts of it before she lifted her hand and knocked upon the window.

The sharp, shrill sound made by her fingers on the pane reassured her as much as it startled him.  Gathering up her long cloak, which had fallen apart in her last hurried movement, she waited with growing self-possession for his appearance at the window.

He came almost immediately ­came with his usual hasty step and with much of his usual expression on his well-disciplined features.  Flinging aside the curtains, he cried impatiently:  “Who is there?” But at sight of the tall figure of Imogene standing upright and firm on the piazza without, he drew back with a gesture of dismay, which was almost forbidding in its character.

She saw it, but did not pause.  Pushing up the window, she stepped into the room; then, as he did not offer to help her, turned and shut the window behind her and carefully arranged the curtains.  He meantime stood watching her with eyes in whose fierce light burned equal love and equal anger.

When all was completed, she faced him.  Instantly a cry broke from his lips: 

“You here!” he exclaimed, as if her presence were more than he could meet or stand.  But in another moment the forlornness of her position seemed to strike him, and he advanced toward her, saying in a voice husky with passion:  “Wretched woman, what have you done?  Was it not enough that for weeks, months now, you have played with my love and misery as with toys, that you should rise up at the last minute and crush me before the whole world with a story, mad as it is false, of yourself being a criminal and the destroyer of the woman for whose death your miserable lover is being tried?  Had you no consideration, no pity, if not for yourself, ruined by this day’s work, for me, who have sacrificed every thing, done every thing the most devoted man or lawyer could do to save this fellow and win you for my wife?”

“Sir,” said she, meeting the burning anger of his look with the coldness of a set despair, as if in the doubt awakened by his changed demeanor she sought to probe his mind for its hidden secret, “I did what any other woman would have done in my place.  When we are pushed to the wall we tell the truth.”

“The truth!” Was that his laugh that rang startlingly through the room?  “The truth!  You told the truth!  Imogene, Imogene, is any such farce necessary with me?”

Her lips, which had opened, closed again, and she did not answer for a moment; then she asked: 

“How do you know that what I said was not the truth?”

“How do I know?” He paused as if to get his breath.  “How do I know?” he repeated, calling up all his self-control to sustain her gaze unmoved.  “Do you think I have lost my reason, Imogene, that you put me such a question as that?  How do I know you are innocent?  Recall your own words and acts since the day we met at Mrs. Clemmens’ house, and tell me how it would be possible for me to think any thing else of you?”

But her purpose did not relax, neither did she falter as she returned: 

“Mr. Orcutt, will you tell me what has ever been said by me or what you have ever known me to do that would make it certain I did not commit this crime myself?”

His indignation was too much for his courtesy.

“Imogene,” he commanded, “be silent!  I will not listen to any further arguments of this sort.  Isn’t it enough that you have destroyed my happiness, that you should seek to sport with my good-sense?  I say you are innocent as a babe unborn, not only of the crime itself but of any complicity in it.  Every word you have spoken, every action you have taken, since the day of Mrs. Clemmens’ death, proves you to be the victim of a fixed conviction totally at war with the statement you were pleased to make to-day.  Only your belief in the guilt of another and your ­your ­”

He stopped, choked.  The thought of his rival maddened him.

She immediately seized the opportunity to say: 

“Mr. Orcutt, I cannot argue about what I have done.  It is over and cannot be remedied.  It is true I have destroyed myself, but this is no time to think of that.  All I can think of or mourn over now is that, by destroying myself, I have not succeeded in saving Craik Mansell.”

If her purpose was to probe the lawyer’s soul for the deadly wound that had turned all his sympathies to gall, she was successful at last.  Turning upon her with a look in which despair and anger were strangely mingled, he cried: 

“And me, Imogene ­have you no thought for me?”

“Sir,” said she, “any thought from one disgraced as I am now, would be an insult to one of your character and position.”

It was true.  In the eyes of the world Tremont Orcutt and Imogene Dare henceforth stood as far apart as the poles.  Realizing it only too well, he uttered a half-inarticulate exclamation, and trod restlessly to the other end of the room.  When he came back, it was with more of the lawyer’s aspect and less of the baffled lover’s.

“Imogene,” he said, “what could have induced you to resort to an expedient so dreadful?  Had you lost confidence in me?  Had I not told you I would save this man from his threatened fate?”

“You cannot do every thing,” she replied.  “There are limits even to a power like yours.  I knew that Craik was lost if I gave to the court the testimony which Mr. Ferris expected from me.”

“Ah, then,” he cried, seizing with his usual quickness at the admission which had thus unconsciously, perhaps, slipped from her, “you acknowledge you uttered a perjury to save yourself from making declarations you believed to be hurtful to the prisoner?”

A faint smile crossed her lips, and her whole aspect suddenly changed.

“Yes,” she said; “I have no motive for hiding it from you now.  I perjured myself to escape destroying Craik Mansell.  I was scarcely the mistress of my own actions.  I had suffered so much I was ready to do any thing to save the man I had so relentlessly pushed to his doom.  I forgot that God does not prosper a lie.”

The jealous gleam which answered her from the lawyer’s eyes was a revelation.

“You regret, then,” he said, “that you tossed my happiness away with a breath of your perjured lips?”

“I regret I did not tell the truth and trust God.”

At this answer, uttered with the simplicity of a penitent spirit, Mr. Orcutt unconsciously drew back.

“And, may I ask, what has caused this sudden regret?” he inquired, in a tone not far removed from mockery; “the generous action of the prisoner in relieving you from your self-imposed burden of guilt by an acknowledgment that struck at the foundation of the defence I had so carefully prepared?”

“No,” was her short reply; “that could but afford me joy.  Of whatever sin he may be guilty, he is at least free from the reproach of accepting deliverance at the expense of a woman.  I am sorry I said what I did to-day, because a revelation has since been made to me, which proves I could never have sustained myself in the position I took, and that it was mere suicidal folly in me to attempt to save Craik Mansell by such means.”

“A revelation?”

“Yes.”  And, forgetting all else in the purpose which had actuated her in seeking this interview, Imogene drew nearer to the lawyer and earnestly said:  “There have been some persons ­I have perceived it ­who have wondered at my deep conviction of Craik Mansell’s guilt.  But the reasons I had justified it.  They were great, greater than any one knew, greater even than you knew.  His mother ­were she living ­must have thought as I did, had she been placed beside me and seen what I have seen, and heard what I have heard from the time of Mrs. Clemmens’ death.  Not only were all the facts brought against him in the trial known to me, but I saw him ­saw him with my own eyes, running from Mrs. Clemmens’ dining-room door at the very time we suppose the murder to have been committed; that is, at five minutes before noon on the fatal day.”

“Impossible!” exclaimed Mr. Orcutt, in his astonishment.  “You are playing with my credulity, Imogene.”

But she went on, letting her voice fall in awe of the lawyer’s startled look.

“No,” she persisted; “I was in Professor Darling’s observatory.  I was looking through a telescope, which had been pointed toward the town.  Mrs. Clemmens was much in my mind at the time, and I took the notion to glance at her house, when I saw what I have described to you.  I could not help remembering the time,” she added, “for I had looked at the clock but a moment before.”

“And it was five minutes before noon?” broke again from the lawyer’s lips, in what was almost an awe-struck tone.

Troubled at an astonishment which seemed to partake of the nature of alarm, she silently bowed her head.

“And you were looking at him ­actually looking at him ­that very moment through a telescope perched a mile or so away?”

“Yes,” she bowed again.

Turning his face aside, Mr. Orcutt walked to the hearth and began kicking the burnt-out logs with his restless foot.  As he did so, Imogene heard him mutter between his set teeth: 

“It is almost enough to make one believe in a God!”

Struck, horrified, she glided anxiously to his side.

“Do not you believe in a God?” she asked.

He was silent.

Amazed, almost frightened, for she had never heard him breathe a word of scepticism before, ­though, to be sure, he had never mentioned the name of the Deity in her presence, ­she stood looking at him like one who had received a blow; then she said: 

“I believe in God.  It is my punishment that I do.  It is He who wills blood for blood; who dooms the guilty to a merited death.  Oh, if He only would accept the sacrifice I so willingly offer! ­take the life I so little value, and give me in return ­”

“Mansell’s?” completed the lawyer, turning upon her in a burst of fury he no longer had power to suppress.  “Is that your cry ­always and forever your cry?  You drive me too far, Imogene.  This mad and senseless passion for a man who no longer loves you ­”

“Spare me!” rose from her trembling lips.  “Let me forget that.”

But the great lawyer only laughed.

“You make it worth my while to save you the bitterness of such a remembrance,” he cried.  Then, as she remained silent, he changed his tone to one of careless inquiry, and asked: 

“Was it to tell this story of the prisoner having fled from his aunt’s house that you came here to-night?”

Recalled to the purpose of the hour, she answered, hurriedly: 

“Not entirely; that story was what Mr. Ferris expected me to testify to in court this morning.  You see for yourself in what a position it would have put the prisoner.”

“And the revelation you have received?” the lawyer coldly urged.

“Was of a deception that has been practised upon me ­a base deception by which I was led to think long ago that Craik Mansell had admitted his guilt and only trusted to the excellence of his defence to escape punishment.”

“I do not understand,” said Mr. Orcutt.  “Who could have practised such deception upon you?”

“The detectives,” she murmured; “that rough, heartless fellow they call Hickory.”  And, in a burst of indignation, she told how she had been practised upon, and what the results had been upon her belief, if not upon the testimony which grew out of that belief.

The lawyer listened with a strange apathy.  What would once have aroused his fiercest indignation and fired him to an exertion of his keenest powers, fell on him now like the tedious repetition of an old and worn-out tale.  He scarcely looked up when she was done; and despair ­the first, perhaps, she had ever really felt ­began to close in around her as she saw how deep a gulf she had dug between this man and herself by the inconsiderate act which had robbed him of all hope of ever making her his wife.  Moved by this feeling, she suddenly asked: 

“Have you lost all interest in your client, Mr. Orcutt?  Have you no wish or hope remaining of seeing him acquitted of this crime?”

“My client,” responded the lawyer, with bitter emphasis, “has taken his case into his own hands.  It would be presumptuous in me to attempt any thing further in his favor.”

“Mr. Orcutt!”

“Ah!” he scornfully laughed, with a quick yielding to his passion as startling as it was unexpected, “you thought you could play with me as you would; use my skill and ignore the love that prompted it.  You are a clever woman, Imogene, but you went too far when you considered my forbearance unlimited.”

“And you forsake Craik Mansell, in the hour of his extremity?”

“Craik Mansell has forsaken me.”

This was true; for her sake her lover had thrown his defence to the winds and rendered the assistance of his counsel unavailable.  Seeing her droop her head abashed, Mr. Orcutt dryly proceeded.

“I do not know what may take place in court to-morrow,” said he.  “It is difficult to determine what will be the outcome of so complicated a case.  The District Attorney, in consideration of the deception which has been practised upon you, may refuse to prosecute any further; or, if the case goes on and the jury is called upon for a verdict, they may or may not be moved by its peculiar aspects to acquit a man of such generous dispositions.  If they are, I shall do nothing to hinder an acquittal; but ask for no more active measures on my part.  I cannot plead for the lover of the woman who has disgraced me.”

This decision, from one she had trusted so implicitly, seemed to crush her.

“Ah,” she murmured, “if you did not believe him guilty you would not leave him thus to his fate.”

He gave her a short, side-long glance, half-mocking, half-pitiful.

“If,” she pursued, “you had felt even a passing gleam of doubt, such as came to me when I discovered that he had never really admitted his guilt, you would let no mere mistake on the part of a woman turn you from your duty as counsellor for a man on trial for his life.”

His glance lost its pity and became wholly mocking.

“And do you cherish but passing gleams?” he sarcastically asked.

She started back.

“I laugh at the inconsistency of women,” he cried.  “You have sacrificed every thing, even risked your life for a man you really believe guilty of crime; yet if another man similarly stained asked you for your compassion only, you would fly from him as from a pestilence.”

But no words he could utter of this sort were able to raise any emotion in her now.

“Mr. Orcutt,” she demanded, “do you believe Craik Mansell innocent?”

His old mocking smile came back.

“Have I conducted his case as if I believed him guilty?” he asked.

“No, no; but you are his lawyer; you are bound not to let your real thoughts appear.  But in your secret heart you did not, could not, believe he was free from a crime to which he is linked by so many criminating circumstances?”

But his strange smile remaining unchanged, she seemed to waken to a sudden doubt, and leaping impetuously to his side, laid her hand on his arm and exclaimed: 

“Oh, sir, if you have ever cherished one hope of his innocence, no matter how faint or small, tell me of it, even if this last disclosure has convinced you of its folly!”

Giving her an icy look, he drew his arm slowly from her grasp and replied: 

“Mr. Mansell has never been considered guilty by me.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

“Not even now?”

“Not even now.”

It seemed as if she could not believe his words.

“And yet you know all there is against him; all that I do now!”

“I know he visited his aunt’s house at or after the time she was murdered, but that is no proof he killed her, Miss Dare.”

“No,” she admitted with slow conviction, “no.  But why did he fly in that wild way when he left it?  Why did he go straight to Buffalo and not wait to give me the interview he promised?”

“Shall I tell you?” Mr. Orcutt inquired, with a dangerous sneer on his lips.  “Do you wish to know why this man ­the man you have so loved ­the man for whom you would die this moment, has conducted himself with such marked discretion?”

“Yes,” came like a breath from between Imogene’s parted lips.

“Well,” said the lawyer, dropping his words with cruel clearness, “Mr. Mansell has a great faith in women.  He has such faith in you, Imogene Dare, he thinks you are all you declare yourself to be; that in the hour you stood up before the court and called yourself a murderer, you spoke but the truth; that ­” He stopped; even his scornful aplomb would not allow him to go on in the face of the look she wore.

“Say ­say those words again!” she gasped.  “Let me hear them once more.  He thinks what?”

“That you are what you proclaimed yourself to be this day, the actual assailant and murderer of Mrs. Clemmens.  He has thought so all along, Miss Dare, why, I do not know.  Whether he saw any thing or heard any thing in that house from which you saw him fly so abruptly, or whether he relied solely upon the testimony of the ring, which you must remember he never acknowledged having received back from you, I only know that from the minute he heard of his aunt’s death, his suspicions flew to you, and that, in despite of such suggestions as I felt it judicious to make, they have never suffered shock or been turned from their course from that day to this. Such honor,” concluded Mr. Orcutt, with dry sarcasm, “does the man you love show to the woman who has sacrificed for his sake all that the world holds dear.”

“I ­I cannot believe it.  You are mocking me,” came inarticulately from her lips, while she drew back, step by step, till half the room lay between them.

“Mocking you?  Miss Dare, he has shown his feelings so palpably, I have often trembled lest the whole court should see and understand them.”

“You have trembled” ­she could scarcely speak, the rush of her emotion was so great ­“you have trembled lest the whole court should see he suspected me of this crime?”

“Yes.”

“Then,” she cried, “you must have been convinced, ­Ah!” she hurriedly interposed, with a sudden look of distrust, “you are not amusing yourself with me, are you, Mr. Orcutt?  So many traps have been laid for me from time to time, I dare not trust the truth of my best friend.  Swear you believe Craik Mansell to have thought this of me!  Swear you have seen this dark thing lying in his soul, or I ­”

“What?”

“Will confront him myself with the question, if I have to tear down the walls of the prison to reach him.  His mind I must and will know.”

“Very well, then, you do.  I have told you,” declared Mr. Orcutt.  “Swearing would not make it any more true.”

Lifting her face to heaven, she suddenly fell on her knees.

“O God!” she murmured, “help me to bear this great joy!”

“Joy!”

The icy tone, the fierce surprise it expressed, started her at once to her feet.

“Yes,” she murmured, “joy!  Don’t you see that if he thinks me guilty, he must be innocent?  I am willing to perish and fall from the ranks of good men and honorable women to be sure of a fact like this!”

“Imogene, Imogene, would you drive me mad?”

She did not seem to hear.

“Craik, are you guiltless, then?” she was saying.  “Is the past all a dream!  Are we two nothing but victims of dread and awful circumstances?  Oh, we will see; life is not ended yet!” And with a burst of hope that seemed to transfigure her into another woman, she turned toward the lawyer with the cry:  “If he is innocent, he can be saved.  Nothing that has been done by him or me can hurt him if this be so.  God who watches over this crime has His eye on the guilty one.  Though his sin be hidden under a mountain of deceit, it will yet come forth.  Guilt like his cannot remain hidden.”

“You did not think this when you faced the court this morning with perjury on your lips,” came in slow, ironical tones from her companion.

“Heaven sometimes accepts a sacrifice,” she returned.  “But who will sacrifice himself for a man who could let the trial of one he knew to be innocent go on unhindered?”

“Who, indeed!” came in almost stifled tones from the lawyer’s lips.

“If a stranger and not Craik Mansell slew Mrs. Clemmens,” she went on, “and nothing but an incomprehensible train of coincidences unites him and me to this act of violence, then may God remember the words of the widow, and in His almighty power call down such a doom ­”

She ended with a gasp.  Mr. Orcutt, with a sudden movement, had laid his hand upon her lips.

“Hush!” he said, “let no curses issue from your mouth.  The guilty can perish without that.”

Releasing herself from him in alarm, she drew back, her eyes slowly dilating as she noted the dead whiteness that had settled over his face, and taken even the hue of life from his nervously trembling lip.

“Mr. Orcutt,” she whispered, with a solemnity which made them heedless that the lamp which had been burning lower and lower in its socket was giving out its last fitful rays, “if Craik Mansell did not kill the Widow Clemmens who then did?”

Her question ­or was it her look and tone? ­seemed to transfix Mr. Orcutt.  But it was only for a moment.  Turning with a slight gesture to the table at his side, he fumbled with his papers, still oblivious of the flaring lamp, saying slowly: 

“I have always supposed Gouverneur Hildreth to be the true author of this crime.”

“Gouverneur Hildreth?”

Mr. Orcutt bowed.

“I do not agree with you,” she returned, moving slowly toward the window.  “I am no reader of human hearts, as all my past history shows, but something ­is it the voice of God in my breast? ­tells me that Gouverneur Hildreth is as innocent as Craik Mansell, and that the true murderer of Mrs. Clemmens ­” Her words ended in a shriek.  The light, which for so long a time had been flickering to its end, had given one startling flare in which the face of the man before her had flashed on her view in a ghastly flame that seemed to separate it from all surrounding objects, then as suddenly gone out, leaving the room in total darkness.

In the silence that followed, a quick sound as of rushing feet was heard, then the window was pushed up and the night air came moaning in.  Imogene had fled.

Horace Byrd had not followed Hickory in his rush toward the house.  He had preferred to await results under the great tree which, standing just inside the gate, cast its mysterious and far-reaching shadow widely over the wintry lawn.  He was, therefore, alone during most of the interview which Miss Dare held with Mr. Orcutt in the library, and, being alone, felt himself a prey to his sensations and the weirdness of the situation in which he found himself.

Though no longer a victim to the passion with which Miss Dare had at first inspired him, he was by no means without feeling for this grand if somewhat misguided woman, and his emotions, as he stood there awaiting the issue of her last desperate attempt to aid the prisoner, were strong enough to make any solitude welcome, though this solitude for some reason held an influence which was any thing but enlivening, if it was not actually depressing, to one of his ready sensibilities.

The tree under which he had taken his stand was, as I have intimated, an old one.  It had stood there from time immemorial, and was, as I have heard it since said, at once the pride of Mr. Orcutt’s heart and the chief ornament of his grounds.  Though devoid of foliage at the time, its vast and symmetrical canopy of interlacing branches had caught Mr. Byrd’s attention from the first moment of his entrance beneath it, and, preoccupied as he was, he could not prevent his thoughts from reverting now and then with a curious sensation of awe to the immensity of those great limbs which branched above him.  His imagination was so powerfully affected at last, he had a notion of leaving the spot and seeking a nearer look-out in the belt of evergreens that hid the crouching form of Hickory; but a spell seemed to emanate from the huge trunk against which he leaned that restrained him when he sought to go, and noticing almost at the same moment that the path which Miss Dare would have to take in her departure ran directly under this tree, he yielded to the apathy of the moment and remained where he was.

Soon after he was visited by Hickory.

“I can see nothing and hear nothing,” was that individual’s hurried salutation.  “She and Mr. Orcutt are evidently still in the library, but I cannot get a clue to what is going on.  I shall keep up my watch, however, for I want to catch a glimpse of her face as she steps from the window.”  And he was off again before Byrd could reply.

But the next instant he was back, panting and breathless.

“The light is out in the library,” he cried; “we shall see her no more to-night.”

But scarcely had the words left his lips when a faint sound was heard from the region of the piazza, and looking eagerly up the path, they saw the form of Miss Dare coming hurriedly toward them.

To slip around into the deepest shadow cast by the tree was but the work of a moment.  Meantime, the moon shone brightly on the walk down which she was speeding, and as, in the agitation of her departure, she had forgotten to draw down her veil, they succeeded in obtaining a view of her face.  It was pale, and wore an expression of fear, while her feet hasted as though she were only filled with thoughts of escape.

Seeing this, the two detectives held their breaths, preparing to follow her as soon as she had passed the tree.  But she did not pass the tree.  Just as she got within reach of its shadow, a commanding voice was heard calling upon her to stop, and Mr. Orcutt came hurrying, in his turn, down the path.

“I cannot let you go thus,” he cried, pausing beside her on the walk directly under the tree.  “If you command me to save Craik Mansell I must do it.  What you wish must be done, Imogene.”

“My wishes should not be needed to lead you to do your duty by the man you believe to be innocent of the charge for which he is being tried,” was her earnest and strangely cold reply.

“Perhaps not,” he muttered, bitterly; “but ­ah, Imogene,” he suddenly broke forth, in a way to startle these two detectives, who, however suspicious they had been of his passion, had never before had the opportunity of seeing him under its control, “what have you made of me with your bewildering graces and indomitable soul?  Before I knew you, life was a round of honorable duties and serene pleasures.  I lived in my profession, and found my greatest delight in its exercise.  But now ­”

“What now?” she asked.

“I seem” ­he said, and the hard, cold selfishness that underlay all his actions, however generous they may have been in appearance, was apparent in his words and tones, ­“I seem to forget every thing, even my standing and fame as a lawyer, in the one fear that, although lost to me, you will yet live to give yourself to another.”

“If you fear that I shall ever be so weak as to give myself to Craik Mansell,” was her steady reply, “you have only to recall the promise I made you when you undertook his case.”

“Yes,” said he, “but that was when you yourself believed him guilty.”

“I know,” she returned; “but if he were not good enough for me then, I am not good enough for him now.  Do you forget that I am blotted with a stain that can never be effaced?  When I stood up in court to-day and denounced myself as guilty of crime, I signed away all my chances of future happiness.”

There was a pause; Mr. Orcutt seemed to be thinking.  From the position occupied by the two detectives his shadow could be seen oscillating to and fro on the lawn, then, amid the hush of night ­a deathly hush ­undisturbed, as Mr. Byrd afterward remarked, by so much as the cracking of a twig, his voice rose quiet, yet vaguely sinister, in the words: 

“You have conquered.  If any man suffers for this crime it shall not be Craik Mansell, but ­”

The sentence was never finished.  Before the words could leave his mouth a sudden strange and splitting sound was heard above their heads, then a terrifying rush took place, and a great limb lay upon the walk where but a moment before the beautiful form of Imogene Dare lifted itself by the side of the eminent lawyer.

When a full sense of the terrible nature of the calamity which had just occurred swept across the minds of the benumbed detectives, Mr. Byrd, recalling the words and attitude of Imogene in face of a similar, if less fatal, catastrophe at the hut, exclaimed under his breath: 

“It is the vengeance of Heaven!  Imogene Dare must have been more guilty than we believed.”

But when, after a superhuman exertion of strength, and the assistance of many hands, the limb was at length raised, it was found that, although both had been prostrated by its weight, only one remained stretched and senseless upon the ground, and that was not Imogene Dare, but the great lawyer, Mr. Orcutt.

CHAPTER XII - UNEXPECTED WORDS.

It will have blood:  they say, blood will have blood. 
Stones have been known to move, and trees to speak;
Augurs and understood relations have,
By magot-pies and choughs and rooks, brought forth
The secret’st man of blood.

Foul whisperings are abroad; unnatural deeds
Do breed unnatural troubles; infected minds
To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets. ­MACBETH.

“MR. ORCUTT dead?”

“Dying, sir.”

“How, when, where?”

“In his own house, sir.  He has been struck down by a falling limb.”

The District Attorney, who had been roused from his bed to hear these evil tidings, looked at the perturbed face of the messenger before him ­who was none other than Mr. Byrd ­and with difficulty restrained his emotion.

“I sympathize with your horror and surprise,” exclaimed the detective, respectfully.  Then, with a strange mixture of embarrassment and agitation, added:  “It is considered absolutely necessary that you come to the house.  He may yet speak ­and ­and ­you will find Miss Dare there,” he concluded, with a peculiarly hesitating glance and a rapid movement toward the door.

Mr. Ferris, who, as we know, cherished a strong feeling of friendship for Mr. Orcutt, stared uneasily at the departing form of the detective.

“What do you say?” he repeated.  “Miss Dare there, in Mr. Orcutt’s house?”

The short “Yes,” and the celerity with which Mr. Byrd vanished, gave him the appearance of one anxious to escape further inquiries.

Astonished, as well as greatly distressed, the District Attorney made speedy preparations for following him, and soon was in the street.  He found it all alive with eager citizens, who, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, were rushing hither and thither in search of particulars concerning this sudden calamity; and upon reaching the house itself, found it wellnigh surrounded by an agitated throng of neighbors and friends.

Simply pausing at the gate to cast one glance at the tree and its fallen limb, he made his way to the front door.  It was immediately opened.  Dr. Tredwell, whose face it was a shock to encounter in this place, stood before him, and farther back a group of such favored friends as had been allowed to enter the house.  Something in the look of the coroner, as he silently reached forth his hand in salutation, added to the mysterious impression which had been made upon Mr. Ferris by the manner, if not words, of Mr. Byrd.  Feeling that he was losing his self-command, the District Attorney grasped the hand that was held out to him, and huskily inquired if Mr. Orcutt was still alive.

The coroner, who had been standing before him with a troubled brow and lowered eyes, gravely bowed, and quietly leading the way, ushered him forward to Mr. Orcutt’s bedroom door.  There he paused and looked as if he would like to speak, but hastily changing his mind, opened the door and motioned the District Attorney in.  As he did so, he cast a meaning and solemn look toward the bed, then drew back, watching with evident anxiety what the effect of the scene before him would have upon this new witness.

A stupefying one it seemed, for Mr. Ferris, pausing in his approach, looked at the cluster of persons about the bed, and then drew his hand across his eyes like a man in a maze.  Suddenly he turned upon Dr. Tredwell with the same strange look he had himself seen in the eyes of Byrd, and said, almost as if the words were forced from his lips: 

“This is no new sight to us, doctor; we have been spectators of a scene like this before.”

That was it.  As nearly as the alteration in circumstances and surroundings would allow, the spectacle before him was the same as that which he had encountered months before in a small cottage at the other end of the town.  On the bed a pallid, senseless, but slowly breathing form, whose features, stamped with the approach of death, stared at them with marble-like rigidity from beneath the heavy bandages which proclaimed the injury to be one to the head.  At his side the doctor ­the same one who had been called in to attend Mrs. Clemmens ­wearing, as he did then, a look of sombre anticipation which Mr. Ferris expected every instant to see culminate in the solemn gesture which he had used at the widow’s bedside before she spoke.  Even the group of women who clustered about the foot of the couch wore much the same expression as those who waited for movement on the part of Mrs. Clemmens; and had it not been for the sight of Imogene Dare sitting immovable and watchful on the farther side of the bed, he might almost have imagined he was transported back to the old scene, and that all this new horror under which he was laboring was a dream from which he would speedily be awakened.

But Imogene’s face, her look, her air of patient waiting, were not to be mistaken.  Attention once really attracted to her, it was not possible for it to wander elsewhere.  Even the face of the dying man and the countenance of the watchful physician paled in interest before that fixed look which, never wavering, never altering, studied the marble visage before her, for the first faint signs of reawakening consciousness.  Even his sister, who, if weak of mind, was most certainly of a loving disposition, seemed to feel the force of the tie that bound Imogene to that pillow; and, though she hovered nearer and nearer the beloved form as the weariful moments sped by, did not presume to interpose her grief or her assistance between the burning eye of Imogene and the immovable form of her stricken brother.

The hush that lay upon the room was unbroken save by the agitated breaths of all present.

“Is there no hope?” whispered Mr. Ferris to Dr. Tredwell, as, seeing no immediate prospect of change, they sought for seats at the other side of the room.

“No; the wound is strangely like that which Mrs. Clemmens received.  He will rouse, probably, but he will not live.  Our only comfort is that in this case it is not a murder.”

The District Attorney made a gesture in the direction of Imogene.

“How came she to be here?” he asked.

Dr. Tredwell rose and drew him from the room.

“It needs some explanation,” he said; and began to relate to him how Mr. Orcutt was escorting Miss Dare to the gate when the bough fell which seemed likely to rob him of his life.

Mr. Ferris, through whose mind those old words of the widow were running in a way that could only be accounted for by the memories which the scene within had awakened ­“May the vengeance of Heaven light upon the head of him who has brought me to this pass!  May the fate that has come upon me be visited upon him, measure for measure, blow for blow, death for death!” ­turned with impressive gravity and asked if Miss Dare had not been hurt.

But Dr. Tredwell shook his head.

“She is not even bruised,” said he.

“And yet was on his arm?”

“Possibly, though I very much doubt it.”

“She was standing at his side,” uttered the quiet voice of Mr. Byrd in their ear; “and disappeared when he did, under the falling branch.  She must have been bruised, though she says not.  I do not think she is in a condition to feel her injuries.”

“You were present, then,” observed Mr. Ferris, with a meaning glance at the detective.

“I was present,” he returned, with a look the District Attorney did not find it difficult to understand.

“Is there any thing you ought to tell me?” Mr. Ferris inquired, when a moment or so later the coroner had been drawn away by a friend.

“I do not know,” said Byrd.  “Of the conversation that passed between Miss Dare and Mr. Orcutt, but a short portion came to our ears.  It is her manner, her actions, that have astonished us, and made us anxious to have you upon the spot.”  And he told with what an expression of fear she had fled from her interview with Mr. Orcutt in the library, and then gave, as nearly as he could, an account of what had passed between them before the falling of the fatal limb.  Finally he said:  “Hickory and I expected to find her lying crushed and bleeding beneath, but instead of that, no sooner was the bough lifted than she sprang to her knees, and seeing Mr. Orcutt lying before her insensible, bent over him with that same expression of breathless awe and expectation which you see in her now.  It looks as if she were waiting for him to rouse and finish the sentence that was cut short by this catastrophe.”

“And what was that sentence?”

“As near as I can recollect, it was this:  ’If any man suffers for this crime it shall not be Craik Mansell, but ­’ He did not have time to say whom.”

“My poor friend!” ejaculated Mr. Ferris, “cut down in the exercise of his duties!  It is a mysterious providence ­a very mysterious providence!” And crossing again to the sick-room, he went sadly in.

He found the aspect unchanged.  On the pillow the same white, immovable face; at the bedside the same constant and expectant watchers.  Imogene especially seemed scarcely to have made a move in all the time of his absence.  Like a marble image watching over a form of clay she sat silent, breathless, intent ­a sight to draw all eyes and satisfy none; for her look was not one of grief, nor of awe, nor of hope, yet it had that within it which made her presence there seem a matter of right even to those who did not know the exact character of the bond which united her to the unhappy sufferer.

Mr. Ferris, who had been only too ready to accept Mr. Byrd’s explanation of her conduct, allowed himself to gaze at her unhindered.

Overwhelmed, as he was, by the calamity which promised to rob the Bar of one of its most distinguished advocates, and himself of a long-tried friend, he could not but feel the throb of those deep interests which, in the estimation of this woman at least, hung upon a word which those dying lips might utter.  And swayed by this feeling, he unconsciously became a third watcher, though for what, and in hope of what, he could scarcely have told, so much was he benumbed by the suddenness of this great catastrophe, and the extraordinary circumstances by which it was surrounded.

And so one o’clock came and passed.

It was not the last time the clock struck before a change came.  The hour of two went by, then that of three, and still, to the casual eye, all remained the same.  But ere the stroke of four was heard, Mr. Ferris, who had relaxed his survey of Imogene to bestow a fuller attention upon his friend, felt an indefinable sensation of dismay assail him, and rising to his feet, drew a step or so nearer the bed, and looked at its silent occupant with the air of a man who would fain shut his eyes to the meaning of what he sees before him.  At the same moment Mr. Byrd, who had just come in, found himself attracted by the subtle difference he observed in the expression of Miss Dare.  The expectancy in her look was gone, and its entire expression was that of awe.  Advancing to the side of Mr. Ferris, he glanced down at the dying lawyer.  He at once saw what it was that had so attracted and moved the District Attorney.  A change had come over Mr. Orcutt’s face.  Though rigid still, and unrelieved by any signs of returning consciousness, it was no longer that of the man they knew, but a strange face, owning the same features, but distinguished now by a look sinister as it was unaccustomed, filling the breasts of those who saw it with dismay, and making any contemplation of his countenance more than painful to those who loved him.  Nor did it decrease as they watched him.  Like that charmed writing which appears on a blank paper when it is subjected to the heat, the subtle, unmistakable lines came out, moment by moment, on the mask of his unconscious face, till even Imogene trembled, and turned an appealing glance upon Mr. Ferris, as if to bid him note this involuntary evidence of nature against the purity and good intentions of the man who had always stood so high in the world’s regard.  Then, satisfied, perhaps, with the expression she encountered on the face of the District Attorney, she looked back; and the heavy minutes went on, only more drearily, and perhaps more fearfully, than before.

Suddenly ­was it at a gesture of the physician, or a look from Imogene? ­a thrill of expectation passed through the room, and Dr. Tredwell, Mr. Ferris, and a certain other gentleman who had but just entered at a remote corner of the apartment, came hurriedly forward and stood at the foot of the bed.  At the same instant Imogene rose, and motioning them a trifle aside, with an air of mingled entreaty and command, bent slowly down toward the injured man.  A look of recognition answered her from the face upon the pillow, but she did not wait to meet it, nor pause for the word that evidently trembled on his momentarily conscious lip.  Shutting out with her form the group of anxious watchers behind her, she threw all her soul into the regard with which she held him enchained; then slowly, solemnly, but with unyielding determination, uttered these words, which no one there could know were but a repetition of a question made a few eventful hours ago:  “If Craik Mansell is not the man who killed Mrs. Clemmens, do you, Mr. Orcutt, tell us who is!” and, pausing, remained with her gaze fixed demandingly on that of the lawyer, undeterred by the smothered exclamations of those who witnessed this scene and missed its clue or found it only in the supposition that this last great shock had unsettled her mind.

The panting sufferer just trembling on the verge of life thrilled all down his once alert and nervous frame, then searching her face for one sign of relenting, unclosed his rigid lips and said, with emphasis: 

“Has not Fate spoken?”

Instantly Imogene sprang erect, and, amid the stifled shrieks of the women and the muttered exclamations of the men, pointed at the recumbent figure before them, saying: 

“You hear!  Tremont Orcutt declares upon his death-bed that it is the voice of Heaven which has spoken in this dreadful calamity.  You who were present when Mrs. Clemmens breathed her imprecations on the head of her murderer, must know what that means.”

Mr. Ferris, who of all present, perhaps, possessed the greatest regard for the lawyer, gave an ejaculation of dismay at this, and bounding forward, lifted her away from the bedside he believed her to have basely desecrated.

“Madwoman,” he cried, “where will your ravings end?  He will tell no such tale to me.”

But when he bent above the lawyer with the question forced from him by Miss Dare’s words, he found him already lapsed into that strange insensibility which was every moment showing itself more and more to be the precursor of death.

The sight seemed to rob Mr. Ferris of his last grain of self-command.  Rising, he confronted the dazed faces of those about him with a severe look.

“This charge,” said he, “is akin to that which Miss Dare made against herself in the court yesterday morning.  When a woman has become crazed she no longer knows what she says.”

But Imogene, strong in the belief that the hand of Heaven had pointed out the culprit for whom they had so long been searching, shook her head in quiet denial, and simply saying, “None of you know this man as I do,” moved quietly aside to a dim corner, where she sat down in calm expectation of another awakening on the part of the dying lawyer.

It came soon ­came before Mr. Ferris had recovered himself, or Dr. Tredwell had had a chance to give any utterance to the emotions which this scene was calculated to awaken.

Rousing as the widow had done, but seeming to see no one, not even the physician who bent close at his side, Mr. Orcutt lifted his voice again, this time in the old stentorian tones which he used in court, and clearly, firmly exclaimed: 

“Blood will have blood!” Then in lower and more familiar accents, cried:  “Ah, Imogene, Imogene, it was all for you!” And with her name on his lips, the great lawyer closed his eyes again, and sank for the last time into a state of insensibility.

Imogene at once rose.

“I must go,” she murmured; “my duty in this place is done.”  And she attempted to cross the floor.

But the purpose which had sustained her being at an end, she felt the full weight of her misery, and looking in the faces about her, and seeing nothing there but reprobation, she tottered and would have fallen had not a certain portly gentleman who stood near by put forth his arm to sustain her.  Accepting the support with gratitude, but scarcely pausing to note from what source it came, she turned for an instant to Mr. Ferris.

“I realize,” said she, “with what surprise you must have heard the revelation which has just come from Mr. Orcutt’s lips.  So unexpected is it that you cannot yet believe it, but the time will come when, of all the words I have spoken, these alone will be found worthy your full credit:  that not Craik Mansell, not Gouverneur Hildreth, not even unhappy Imogene Dare herself, could tell you so much of the real cause and manner of Mrs. Clemmens’ death as this man who lies stricken here a victim of Divine justice.”

And merely stopping to cast one final look in the direction of the bed, she stumbled from the room.  A few minutes later and she reached the front door; but only to fall against the lintel with the moan: 

“My words are true, but who will ever believe them?”

“Pardon me,” exclaimed a bland and fatherly voice over her shoulder, “I am a man who can believe in any thing.  Put your confidence in me, Miss Dare, and we will see ­we will see.”

Startled by her surprise into new life, she gave one glance at the gentleman who had followed her to the door.  It was the same who had offered her his arm, and whom she supposed to have remained behind her in Mr. Orcutt’s room.  She saw before her a large comfortable-looking personage of middle age, of no great pretensions to elegance or culture, but bearing that within his face which oddly enough baffled her understanding while it encouraged her trust.  This was the more peculiar in that he was not looking at her, but stood with his eyes fixed on the fading light of the hall-lamp, which he surveyed with an expression of concern that almost amounted to pity.

“Sir, who are you?” she tremblingly asked.

Dropping his eyes from the lamp, he riveted them upon the veil she held tightly clasped in her right hand.

“If you will allow me the liberty of whispering in your ear, I will soon tell you,” said he.

She bent her weary head downward; he at once leaned toward her and murmured a half-dozen words that made her instantly start erect with new light in her eyes.

“And you will help me?” she cried.

“What else am I here for?” he answered.

And turning toward a quiet figure which she now saw for the first time standing on the threshold of a small room near by, he said with the calmness of a master: 

“Hickory, see that no one enters or leaves the sick-room till I return.”  And offering Imogene his arm, he conducted her into the library, the door of which he shut to behind them.

CHAPTER XIII - MR. GRYCE.

          What you have spoke, it may be so, perchance. 
          This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues,
          Was once thought honest. ­MACBETH.

AN hour later, as Mr. Ferris was leaving the house in company with Dr. Tredwell, he felt himself stopped by a slight touch on his arm.  Turning about he saw Hickory.

“Beg pardon, sirs,” said the detective, with a short bow, “but there’s a gentleman, in the library who would like to see you before you go.”

They at once turned to the room indicated.  But at sight of its well-known features ­its huge cases of books, its large centre-table profusely littered with papers, the burnt-out grate, the empty arm-chair ­they paused, and it was with difficulty they could recover themselves sufficiently to enter.  When they did, their first glance was toward the gentleman they saw standing in a distant window, apparently perusing a book.

“Who is it?” inquired Mr. Ferris of his companion.

“I cannot imagine,” returned the other.

Hearing voices, the gentleman advanced.

“Ah,” said he, “allow me to introduce myself.  I am Mr. Gryce, of the New York Detective Service.”

“Mr. Gryce!” repeated the District Attorney, in astonishment.

The famous detective bowed.  “I have come,” said he, “upon a summons received by me in Utica not six hours ago.  It was sent by a subordinate of mine interested in the trial now going on before the court.  Horace Byrd is his name.  I hope he is well liked here and has your confidence.”

“Mr. Byrd is well enough liked,” rejoined Mr. Ferris, “but I gave him no orders to send for you.  At what hour was the telegram dated?”

“At half-past eleven; immediately after the accident to Mr. Orcutt.”

“I see.”

“He probably felt himself inadequate to meet this new emergency.  He is a young man, and the affair is certainly a complicated one.”

The District Attorney, who had been studying the countenance of the able detective before him, bowed courteously.

“I am not displeased to see you,” said he.  “If you have been in the room above ­”

The other gravely bowed.

“You know probably of the outrageous accusation which has just been made against our best lawyer and most-esteemed citizen.  It is but one of many which this same woman has made; and while it is to be regarded as the ravings of lunacy, still your character and ability may weigh much in lifting the opprobrium which any such accusation, however unfounded, is calculated to throw around the memory of my dying friend.”

“Sir,” returned Mr. Gryce, shifting his gaze uneasily from one small object to another in that dismal room, till all and every article it contained seemed to partake of his mysterious confidence, “this is a world of disappointment and deceit.  Intellects we admired, hearts in which we trusted, turn out frequently to be the abodes of falsehood and violence.  It is dreadful, but it is true.”

Mr. Ferris, struck aghast, looked at the detective with severe disapprobation.

“Is it possible,” he asked, “that you have allowed yourself to give any credence to the delirious utterances of a man suffering from a wound on the head, or to the frantic words of a woman who has already abused the ears of the court by a deliberate perjury?” While Dr. Tredwell, equally indignant and even more impatient, rapped with his knuckles on the table by which he stood, and cried: 

“Pooh, pooh, the man cannot be such a fool!”

A solemn smile crossed the features of the detective.

“Many persons have listened to the aspersion you denounce.  Active measures will be needed to prevent its going farther.”

“I have commanded silence,” said Dr. Tredwell.  “Respect for Mr. Orcutt will cause my wishes to be obeyed.”

“Does Mr. Orcutt enjoy the universal respect of the town?”

“He does,” was the stern reply.

“It behooves us, then,” said Mr. Gryce, “to clear his memory from every doubt by a strict inquiry into his relations with the murdered woman.”

“They are known,” returned Mr. Ferris, with grim reserve.  “They were such as any man might hold with the woman at whose house he finds it convenient to take his daily dinner.  She was to him the provider of a good meal.”

Mr. Gryce’s eye travelled slowly toward Mr. Ferris’ shirt stud.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “do you forget that Mr. Orcutt was on the scene of murder some minutes before the rest of you arrived?  Let the attention of people once be directed toward him as a suspicious party, and they will be likely to remember this fact.”

Astounded, both men drew back.

“What do you mean by that remark?” they asked.

“I mean,” said Mr. Gryce, “that Mr. Orcutt’s visit to Mrs. Clemmens’ house on the morning of the murder will be apt to be recalled by persons of a suspicious tendency as having given him an opportunity to commit the crime.”

“People are not such fools,” cried Dr. Tredwell; while Mr. Ferris, in a tone of mingled incredulity and anger, exclaimed: 

“And do you, a reputable detective, and, as I have been told, a man of excellent judgment, presume to say that there could be found any one in this town, or even in this country, who could let his suspicions carry him so far as to hint that Mr. Orcutt struck this woman with his own hand in the minute or two that elapsed between his going into her house and his coming out again with tidings of her death?”

“Those who remember that he had been a participator in the lengthy discussion which had just taken place on the court-house steps as to how a man might commit a crime without laying himself open to the risk of detection, might ­yes, sir.”

Mr. Ferris and the coroner, who, whatever their doubts or fears, had never for an instant seriously believed the dying words of Mr. Orcutt to be those of confession, gazed in consternation at the detective, and finally inquired: 

“Do you realize what you are saying?”

Mr. Gryce drew a deep breath, and shifted his gaze to the next stud in Mr. Ferris’ shirt-front.

“I have never been accused of speaking lightly,” he remarked.  Then, with quiet insistence, asked:  “Where was Mrs. Clemmens believed to get the money she lived on?”

“It is not known,” rejoined the District Attorney.

“Yet she left a nice little sum behind her?”

“Five thousand dollars,” declared the coroner.

“Strange that, in a town like this, no one should know where it came from?” suggested the detective.

The two gentlemen were silent.

“It was a good deal to come from Mr. Orcutt in payment of a single meal a day!” continued Mr. Gryce.

“No one has ever supposed it did come from Mr. Orcutt,” remarked Mr. Ferris, with some severity.

“But does any one know it did not?” ventured the detective.

Dr. Tredwell and the District Attorney looked at each other, but did not reply.

“Gentlemen,” pursued Mr. Gryce, after a moment of quiet waiting, “this is without exception the most serious moment of my life.  Never in the course of my experience ­and that includes much ­have I been placed in a more trying position than now.  To allow one’s self to doubt, much less to question, the integrity of so eminent a man, seems to me only less dreadful than it does to you; yet, for all that, were I his friend, as I certainly am his admirer, I would say:  ’Sift this matter to the bottom; let us know if this great lawyer has any more in favor of his innocence than the other gentlemen who have been publicly accused of this crime.’”

“But,” protested Dr. Tredwell, seeing that the District Attorney was too much moved to speak, “you forget the evidences which underlay the accusation of these other gentlemen; also that of all the persons who, from the day the widow was struck till now, have been in any way associated with suspicion, Mr. Orcutt is the only one who could have had no earthly motive for injuring this humble woman, even if he were all he would have to be to first perform such a brutal deed and then carry out his hypocrisy to the point of using his skill as a criminal lawyer to defend another man falsely accused of the crime.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the detective, “but I forget nothing.  I only bring to the consideration of this subject a totally unprejudiced mind and an experience which has taught me never to omit testing the truth of a charge because it seems at first blush false, preposterous, and without visible foundation.  If you will recall the conversation to which I have just alluded as having been held on the court-house steps on the morning Mrs. Clemmens was murdered, you will remember that it was the intellectual crime that was discussed ­the crime of an intelligent man, safe in the knowledge that his motive for doing such a deed was a secret to the world.”

“My God!” exclaimed Mr. Ferris, under his breath, “the man seems to be in earnest!”

“Gentlemen,” pursued Mr. Gryce, with more dignity than he had hitherto seen fit to assume, “it is not my usual practice to express myself as openly as I have done here to-day.  In all ordinary cases I consider it expedient to reserve intact my suspicions and my doubts till I have completed my discoveries and arranged my arguments so as to bear out with some show of reason whatever statement I may feel obliged to make.  But the extraordinary features of this affair, and the fact that so many were present at the scene we have just left, have caused me to change my usual tactics.  Though far from ready to say that Mr. Orcutt’s words were those of confession, I still see much reason to doubt his innocence, and, feeling thus, am quite willing you should know it in time to prepare for the worst.”

“Then you propose making what has occurred here public?” asked Mr. Ferris, with emotion.

“Not so,” was the detective’s ready reply.  “On the contrary, I was about to suggest that you did something more than lay a command of silence upon those who were present.”

The District Attorney, who, as he afterward said, felt as if he were laboring under some oppressive nightmare, turned to the coroner and said: 

“Dr. Tredwell, what do you advise me to do?  Terrible as this shock has been, and serious as is the duty it possibly involves, I have never allowed myself to shrink from doing what was right simply because it afforded suffering to myself or indignity to my friends.  Do you think I am called upon to pursue this matter?”

The coroner, troubled, anxious, and nearly as much overwhelmed as the District Attorney, did not immediately reply.  Indeed, the situation was one to upset any man of whatever calibre.  Finally he turned to Mr. Gryce.

“Mr. Gryce,” said he, “we are, as you have observed, friends of the dying man, and, being so, may miss our duty in our sympathy.  What do you think ought to be done, in justice to him, the prisoner, and the positions which we both occupy?”

“Well, sirs,” rejoined Mr. Gryce, “it is not usual, perhaps, for a man in my position to offer actual advice to gentlemen in yours; but if you wish to know what course I should pursue if I were in your places, I should say:  First, require the witnesses still lingering around the dying man to promise that they will not divulge what was there said till a week has fully elapsed; next, adjourn the case now before the court for the same decent length of time; and, lastly, trust me and the two men you have hitherto employed, to find out if there is any thing in Mr. Orcutt’s past history of a nature to make you tremble if the world hears of the words which escaped him on his death-bed.  We shall probably need but a week.”

“And Miss Dare?”

“Has already promised secrecy.”

There was nothing in all this to alarm their fears; every thing, on the contrary, to allay them.

The coroner gave a nod of approval to Mr. Ferris, and both signified their acquiescence in the measures proposed.

Mr. Gryce at once assumed his usual genial air.

“You may trust me,” said he, “to exercise all the discretion you would yourselves show under the circumstances.  I have no wish to see the name of such a man blasted by an ineffaceable stain.”  And he bowed as if about to leave the room.

But Mr. Ferris, who had observed this movement with an air of some uneasiness, suddenly stepped forward and stopped him.

“I wish to ask,” said he, “whether superstition has had any thing to do with this readiness on your part to impute the worst meaning to the chance phrases which have fallen from the lips of our severely injured friend.  Because his end seems in some regards to mirror that of the widow, have you allowed a remembrance of the words she made use of in the face of death to influence your good judgment as to the identity of Mr. Orcutt with her assassin?”

The face of Mr. Gryce assumed its grimmest aspect.

“Do you think this catastrophe was necessary to draw my attention to Mr. Orcutt?  To a man acquainted with the extraordinary coincidence that marked the discovery of Mrs. Clemmens’ murder, the mystery must be that Mr. Orcutt has gone unsuspected for so long.”  And assuming an argumentative air, he asked: 

“Were either of you two gentlemen present at the conversation I have mentioned as taking place on the court-house steps the morning Mrs. Clemmens was murdered?”

“I was,” said the District Attorney.

“You remember, then, the hunchback who was so free with his views?”

“Most certainly.”

“And know, perhaps, who that hunchback was?”

“Yes.”

“You will not be surprised, then, if I recall to you the special incidents of that hour.  A group of lawyers, among them Mr. Orcutt, are amusing themselves with an off-hand chat concerning criminals and the clumsy way in which, as a rule, they plan and execute their crimes.  All seem to agree that a murder is usually followed by detection, when suddenly a stranger speaks and tells them that the true way to make a success of the crime is to choose a thoroughfare for the scene of tragedy, and employ a weapon that has been picked up on the spot.  What happens?  Within five minutes after this piece of gratuitous information, or as soon as Mr. Orcutt can cross the street, Mrs. Clemmens is found lying in her blood, struck down by a stick of wood picked up from her own hearth-stone.  Is this chance?  If so, ’tis a very curious one.”

“I don’t deny it,” said Doctor Tredwell.

“I believe you never did deny it,” quickly retorted the detective.  “Am I not right in saying that it struck you so forcibly at the time as to lead you into supposing some collusion between the hunchback and the murderer?”

“It certainly did,” admitted the coroner.

“Very well,” proceeded Mr. Gryce.  “Now as there could have been no collusion between these parties, the hunchback being no other person than myself, what are we to think of this murder?  That it was a coincidence, or an actual result of the hunchback’s words?”

Dr. Tredwell and Mr. Ferris were both silent.

“Sirs,” continued Mr. Gryce, feeling, perhaps, that perfect openness was necessary in order to win entire confidence, “I am not given to boasting or to a too-free expression of my opinion, but if I had been ignorant of this affair, and one of my men had come to me and said:  ’A mysterious murder has just taken place, marked by this extraordinary feature, that it is a precise reproduction of a supposable case of crime which has just been discussed by a group of indifferent persons in the public street,’ and then had asked me where to look for the assassin, I should have said:  ’Search for that man who heard the discussion through, was among the first to leave the group, and was the first to show himself upon the scene of murder.’  To be sure, when Byrd did come to me with this story, I was silent, for the man who fulfilled these conditions was Mr. Orcutt.”

“Then,” said Mr. Ferris, “you mean to say that you would have suspected Mr. Orcutt of this crime long ago if he had not been a man of such position and eminence?”

“Undoubtedly,” was Mr. Gryce’s reply.

If the expression was unequivocal, his air was still more so.  Shocked and disturbed, both gentlemen fell back.  The detective at once advanced and opened the door.

It was time.  Mr. Byrd had been tapping upon it for some minutes, and now hastily came in.  His face told the nature of his errand before he spoke.

“I am sorry to be obliged to inform you ­” he began.

“Mr. Orcutt is dead?” quickly interposed Mr. Ferris.

The young detective solemnly bowed.

CHAPTER XIV - IN THE PRISON.

          The jury passing on the prisoner’s life,
          May in the sworn twelve have a thief or two
          Guiltier than him they try. 
                     ­MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

          Such welcome and unwelcome things at once
          ’Tis hard to reconcile. ­MACBETH.

MR. MANSELL sat in his cell, the prey of gloomy and perturbed thought.  He knew Mr. Orcutt was dead; he had been told of it early in the morning by his jailer, but of the circumstances which attended that death he knew nothing, save that the lawyer had been struck by a limb falling from a tree in his own garden.

The few moments during which the court had met for the purpose of re-adjournment had added but little to his enlightenment.  A marked reserve had characterized the whole proceedings; and though an indefinable instinct had told him that in some mysterious way his cause had been helped rather than injured by this calamity to his counsel, he found no one ready to volunteer those explanations which his great interest in the matter certainly demanded.  The hour, therefore, which he spent in solitude upon his return to prison was one of great anxiety, and it was quite a welcome relief when the cell door opened and the keeper ushered in a strange gentleman.  Supposing it to be the new counsel he had chosen at haphazard from a list of names that had been offered him, Mr. Mansell rose.  But a second glance assured him he had made a mistake in supposing this person to be a lawyer, and stepping back he awaited his approach with mingled curiosity and reserve.

The stranger, who seemed to be perfectly at home in the narrow quarters in which he found himself, advanced with a frank air.

“My name is Gryce,” said he, “and I am a detective.  The District Attorney, who, as you know, has been placed in a very embarrassing situation by the events of the last two days, has accepted my services in connection with those of the two men already employed by him, in the hope that my greater experience may assist him in determining which, of all the persons who have been accused, or who have accused themselves, of murdering Mrs. Clemmens, is the actual perpetrator of that deed.  Do you require any further assurance of my being in the confidence of Mr. Ferris than the fact that I am here, and in full liberty to talk with you?”

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

“Very well, then,” continued the detective, with a comfortable air of ease, “I will speak to the point; and the first thing I will say is, that upon looking at the evidence against you, and hearing what I have heard from various sources since I came to town, I know you are not the man who killed Mrs. Clemmens.  To be sure, you have declined to explain certain points, but I think you can explain them, and if you will only inform me ­”

“Pardon me,” interrupted Mr. Mansell, gravely; “but you say you are a detective.  Now, I have no information to give a detective.”

“Are you sure?” was the imperturbable query.

“Quite,” was the quick reply.

“You are then determined upon going to the scaffold, whether or no?” remarked Mr. Gryce, somewhat grimly.

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

“Then you do wrong,” declared the other; “as I will immediately proceed to show you.  Mr. Mansell, you are, of course, aware of the manner of Mr. Orcutt’s death?”

“I know he was struck by a falling limb.”

“Do you know what he was doing when this occurred?”

“No.”

“He was escorting Miss Dare down to the gate.”

The prisoner, whose countenance had brightened at the mention of his lawyer, turned a deadly white at this.

“And ­and was Miss Dare hurt?” he asked.

The detective shook his head.

“Then why do you tell me this?”

“Because it has much to do with the occasion of my coming here, Mr. Mansell,” proceeded Mr. Gryce, in that tone of completely understanding himself which he knew so well how to assume with men of the prisoner’s stamp.  “I am going to speak to you without circumlocution or disguise.  I am going to put your position before you just as it is.  You are on trial for a murder of which not only yourself, but another man, was suspected.  Why are you on trial instead of him?  Because you were reticent in regard to certain matters which common-sense would say you ought to be able to explain.  Why were you reticent?  There can be but one answer.  Because you feared to implicate another person, for whose happiness and honor you had more regard than for your own.  Who was that other person?  The woman who stood up in court yesterday and declared she had herself committed this crime.  What is the conclusion?  You believe, and have always believed, Miss Dare to be the assassin of Mrs. Clemmens.”

The prisoner, whose pallor had increased with every word the detective uttered, leaped to his feet at this last sentence.

“You have no right to say that!” he vehemently asseverated.  “What do you know of my thoughts or my beliefs?  Do I carry my convictions on my sleeve?  I am not the man to betray my ideas or feelings to the world.”

Mr. Gryce smiled.  To be sure, this expression of silent complacency was directed to the grating of the window overhead, but it was none the less effectual on that account.  Mr. Mansell, despite his self-command, began to look uneasy.

“Prove your words!” he cried.  “Show that these have been my convictions!”

“Very well,” returned Mr. Gryce.  “Why were you so long silent about the ring?  Because you did not wish to compromise Miss Dare by declaring she did not return it to you, as she had said.  Why did you try to stop her in the midst of her testimony yesterday?  Because you saw it was going to end in confession.  Finally, why did you throw aside your defence, and instead of proclaiming yourself guilty, simply tell how you were able to reach Monteith Quarry Station in ninety minutes?  Because you feared her guilt would be confirmed if her statements were investigated, and were willing to sacrifice every thing but the truth in order to save her.”

“You give me credit for a great deal of generosity,” coldly replied the prisoner.  “After the evidence brought against me by the prosecution, I should think my guilt would be accepted as proved the moment I showed that I had not left Mrs. Clemmens’ house at the time she was believed to be murdered.”

“And so it would,” responded Mr. Gryce, “if the prosecution had not seen reason to believe that the moment of Mrs. Clemmens’ death has been put too early.  We now think she was not struck till some time after twelve, instead of five minutes before.”

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

Mr. Gryce, whose carelessly roving eye told little of the close study with which he was honoring the man before him, nodded with grave decision.

“You could add very much to our convictions on this point,” he observed, “by telling what it was you saw or heard in Mrs. Clemmens’ house at the moment you fled from it so abruptly.”

“How do you know I fled from it abruptly?”

“You were seen.  The fact has not appeared in court, but a witness we might name perceived you flying from your aunt’s door to the swamp as if your life depended upon the speed you made.”

“And with that fact added to all the rest you have against me, you say you believe me innocent?” exclaimed Mr. Mansell.

“Yes; for I have also said I believe Mrs. Clemmens not to have been assaulted till after the hour of noon.  You fled from the door at precisely five minutes before it.”

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

“And may I ask,” said he, “what has happened to make you believe she was not struck at the moment hitherto supposed?”

“Ah, now,” replied the detective, “we come down to facts.”  And leaning with a confidential air toward the prisoner, he quietly said:  “Your counsel has died, for one thing.”

Astonished as much by the tone as the tenor of these words, Mr. Mansell drew back from his visitor in some distrust.  Seeing it, Mr. Gryce edged still farther forward, and calmly continued: 

“If no one has told you the particulars of Mr. Orcutt’s death, you probably do not know why Miss Dare was at his house last evening?”

The look of the prisoner was sufficient reply.

“She went there,” resumed Mr. Gryce, with composure, “to tell him that her whole evidence against you had been given under the belief that you were guilty of the crime with which you had been charged; that by a trick of my fellow-detectives, Hickory and Byrd, she had been deceived into thinking you had actually admitted your guilt to her; and that she had only been undeceived after she had uttered the perjury with which she sought to save you yesterday morning.”

“Perjury?” escaped involuntarily from Craik Mansell’s lips.

“Yes,” repeated the detective, “perjury.  Miss Dare lied when she said she had been to Mrs. Clemmens’ cottage on the morning of the murder.  She was not there, nor did she lift her hand against the widow’s life.  That tale she told to escape telling another which she thought would insure your doom.”

“You have been talking to Miss Dare?” suggested the prisoner, with subdued sarcasm.

“I have been talking to my two men,” was the unmoved retort, “to Hickory and to Byrd, and they not only confirm this statement of hers in regard to the deception they played upon her, but say enough to show she could not have been guilty of the crime, because at that time she honestly believed you to be so.”

“I do not understand you,” cried the prisoner, in a voice that, despite his marked self-control, showed the presence of genuine emotion.

Mr. Gryce at once went into particulars.  He was anxious to have Craik Mansell’s mind disabused of the notion that Imogene had committed this crime, since upon that notion he believed his unfortunate reticence to rest.  He therefore gave him a full relation of the scene in the hut, together with all its consequences.

Mr. Mansell listened like a man in a dream.  Some fact in the past evidently made this story incredible to him.

Seeing it, Mr. Gryce did not wait to hear his comments, but upon finishing his account, exclaimed, with a confident air: 

“Such testimony is conclusive.  It is impossible to consider Miss Dare guilty, after an insight of this kind into the real state of her mind.  Even she has seen the uselessness of persisting in her self-accusation, and, as I have already told you, went to Mr. Orcutt’s house in order to explain to him her past conduct, and ask his advice for the future.  She learned something else before her interview with Mr. Orcutt ended,” continued the detective, impressively.  “She learned that she had not only been mistaken in supposing you had admitted your guilt, but that you could not have been guilty, because you had always believed her to be so.  It has been a mutual case of suspicion, you see, and argues innocence on the part of you both.  Or so it seems to the prosecution.  How does it seem to you?”

“Would it help my cause to say?”

“It would help your cause to tell what sent you so abruptly from Mrs. Clemmens’ house the morning she was murdered.”

“I do not see how,” returned the prisoner.

The glance of Mr. Gryce settled confidentially on his right hand where it lay outspread upon his ample knee.

“Mr. Mansell,” he inquired, “have you no curiosity to know any details of the accident by which you have unexpectedly been deprived of a counsel?”

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

“If I had not hoped you would understand my anxiety and presently relieve it, I could not have shown you as much patience as I have.”

“Very well,” rejoined Mr. Gryce, altering his manner with a suddenness that evidently alarmed his listener.  “Mr. Orcutt did not die immediately after he was struck down.  He lived some hours; lived to say some words that have materially changed the suspicions of persons interested in the case he was defending.”

“Mr. Orcutt?”

The tone was one of surprise.  Mr. Gryce’s little finger seemed to take note of it, for it tapped the leg beneath it in quite an emphatic manner as he continued:  “It was in answer to a question put to him by Miss Dare.  To the surprise of every one, she had not left him from the moment they were mutually relieved from the weight of the fallen limb, but had stood over him for hours, watching for him to rouse from his insensibility.  When he did, she appealed to him in a way that showed she expected a reply, to tell her who it was that killed the Widow Clemmens.”

“And did Mr. Orcutt know?” was Mansell’s half-agitated, half-incredulous query.

“His answer seemed to show that he did.  Mr. Mansell, have you ever had any doubts of Mr. Orcutt?”

“Doubts?”

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

“No.”

“You will, then, be greatly surprised,” Mr. Gryce went on, with increased gravity, “when I tell you that Mr. Orcutt’s reply to Miss Dare’s question was such as to draw attention to himself as the assassin of Widow Clemmens, and that his words and the circumstances under which they were uttered have so impressed Mr. Ferris, that the question now agitating his mind is not, ’Is Craik Mansell innocent, but was his counsel, Tremont Orcutt, guilty?’”

The excited look which had appeared on the face of Mansell at the beginning of this speech, changed to one of strong disgust.

“This is too much!” he cried.  “I am not a fool to be caught by any such make-believe as this!  Mr. Orcutt thought to be an assassin?  You might as well say that people accuse Judge Evans of killing the Widow Clemmens.”

Mr. Gryce, who had perhaps stretched a point when he so unequivocally declared his complete confidence in the innocence of the man before him, tapped his leg quite affectionately at this burst of natural indignation, and counted off another point in favor of the prisoner.  His words, however, were dry as sarcasm could make them.

“No,” said he, “for people know that Judge Evans was without the opportunity for committing this murder, while every one remembers how Mr. Orcutt went to the widow’s house and came out again with tidings of her death.”

The prisoner’s lip curled disdainfully.

“And do you expect me to believe you regard this as a groundwork for suspicion?  I should have given you credit for more penetration, sir.”

“Then you do not think Mr. Orcutt knew what he was saying when, in answer to Miss Dare’s appeal for him to tell who the murderer was, he answered:  ‘Blood will have blood!’ and drew attention to his own violent end?”

“Did Mr. Orcutt say that?”

“He did.”

“Very well, a man whose whole mind has for some time been engrossed with defending another man accused of murder, might say any thing while in a state of delirium.”

Mr. Gryce uttered his favorite “Humph!” and gave his leg another pat, but added, gravely enough:  “Miss Dare believes his words to be those of confession.”

“You say Miss Dare once believed me to have confessed.”

“But,” persisted the detective, “Miss Dare is not alone in her opinion.  Men in whose judgment you must rely, find it difficult to explain the words of Mr. Orcutt by means of any other theory than that he is himself the perpetrator of that crime for which you are yourself being tried.”

“I find it difficult to believe that possible,” quietly returned the prisoner.  “What!” he suddenly exclaimed; “suspect a man of Mr. Orcutt’s abilities and standing of a hideous crime ­the very crime, too, with which his client is charged, and in defence of whom he has brought all his skill to bear!  The idea is preposterous, unheard of!”

“I acknowledge that,” dryly assented Mr. Gryce; “but it has been my experience to find that it is the preposterous things which happen.”

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

“You really appear to be in earnest.”

“I was never more so in my life,” was Mr. Gryce’s rejoinder.

Drawing back, Craik Mansell looked at the detective with an emotion that had almost the character of hope.  Presently he said: 

“If you do distrust Mr. Orcutt, you must have weightier reasons for it than any you have given me.  What are they?  You must be willing I should know, or you would not have gone as far with me as you have.”

“You are right,” Gryce assured him.  “A case so complicated as this calls for unusual measures.  Mr. Ferris, feeling the gravity of his position, allows me to take you into our confidence, in the hope that you will be able to help us out of our difficulty.”

“I help you!  You’d better release me first.”

“That will come in time.”

“If I help you?”

“Whether you help or not, if we can satisfy ourselves and the world that Mr. Orcutt’s words were a confession.  You may hasten that conviction.”

“How?”

“By clearing up the mystery of your flight from Mrs. Clemmens’ house.”

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

“That would not help you at all,” said he.

“I should like to be the judge,” said Mr. Gryce.

The prisoner shook his head.

“My word must go for it,” said he.

The detective had been the hero of too many such scenes to be easily discouraged.  Bowing as if accepting this conclusion from the prisoner, he quietly proceeded with the recital he had planned.  With a frankness certainly unusual to him, he gave the prisoner a full account of Mr. Orcutt’s last hours, and the interview which had followed between himself and Miss Dare.  To this he added his own reasons for doubting the lawyer, and, while admitting he saw no motive for the deed, gave it as his serious opinion, that the motive would be found if once he could get at the secret of Mr. Orcutt’s real connection with the deceased.  He was so eloquent, and so manifestly in earnest, Mr. Mansell’s eye brightened in spite of himself, and when the detective ceased he looked up with an expression which convinced Mr. Gryce that half the battle was won.  He accordingly said, in a tone of great confidence: 

“A knowledge of what went on in Mrs. Clemmens’ house before he went to it would be of great help to us.  With that for a start, all may be learned.  I therefore put it to you for the last time whether it would not be best for you to explain yourself on this point.  I am sure you will not regret it.”

“Sir,” said Mansell, with undisturbed composure, “if your purpose is to fix this crime on Mr. Orcutt, I must insist upon your taking my word that I have no information to give you that can in any way affect him.”

“You could give us information, then, that would affect Miss Dare?” was the quick retort.  “Now, I say,” the astute detective declared, as the prisoner gave an almost imperceptible start, “that whatever your information is, Miss Dare is not guilty.”

“You say it!” exclaimed the prisoner.  “What does your opinion amount to if you haven’t heard the evidence against her?”

“There is no evidence against her but what is purely circumstantial.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because she is innocent.  Circumstantial evidence may exist alike against the innocent and the guilty; real evidence only against the guilty.  I mean to say that as I am firmly convinced Miss Dare once regarded you as guilty of this crime, I must be equally convinced she didn’t commit it herself.  This is unanswerable.”

“You have stated that before.”

“I know it; but I want you to see the force of it; because, once convinced with me that Miss Dare is innocent, you will be willing to tell all you know, even what apparently implicates her.”

Silence answered this remark.

“You didn’t see her strike the blow?”

Mansell roused indignantly.

“No, of course not!” he cried.

“You did not see her with your aunt that moment you fled from the house immediately before the murder!”

“I didn’t see her.”

That emphasis, unconscious, perhaps, was fatal.  Gryce, who never lost any thing, darted on this small gleam of advantage as a hungry pike darts upon an innocent minnow.

“But you thought you heard her,” he cried; “her voice, or her laugh, or perhaps merely the rustle of her dress in another room?”

“No,” said Mansell, “I didn’t hear her.”

“Of course not,” was the instantaneous reply.  “But something said or done by somebody ­a something which amounts to nothing as evidence ­gives you to understand she was there, and so you hold your tongue for fear of compromising her.”

“Amounts to nothing as evidence?” echoed Mansell.  “How do you know that?”

“Because Miss Dare was not in the house with your aunt at that time.  Miss Dare was in Professor Darling’s observatory, a mile or so away.”

“Does she say that?”

“We will prove that.”

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

“I should be glad to have you,” he said.

“But you must first tell me in what room you were when you received this intimation of Miss Dare’s presence?”

“I was in no room; I was on the stone step outside of the dining-room door.  I did not go into the house at all that morning, as I believe I have already told Mr. Ferris.”

“Very good!  It will all be simpler than I thought.  You came up to the house and went away again without coming in; ran away, I may say, taking the direction of the swamp.”

The prisoner did not deny it.

“You remember all the incidents of that short flight?”

The prisoner’s lip curled.

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

“Yes.”

“Very well; now tell me how could Miss Dare see you do that from Mrs.
Clemmens’ house?”

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

“She did.”

“And yet was in Professor Darling’s observatory, a mile or so away?”

“Yes.”

A satirical laugh broke from the prisoner.

“I think,” said he, “that instead of my telling you how she could have seen this from Mrs. Clemmens’ house, you should tell me how she could have seen it from Professor Darling’s observatory.”

“That is easy enough.  She was looking through a telescope.”

“What?”

“At the moment you were turning from Mrs. Clemmens’ door, Miss Dare, perched in the top of Professor Darling’s house, was looking in that very direction through a telescope.”

“I ­I would like to believe that story,” said the prisoner, with suppressed emotion.  “It would ­”

“What?” urged the detective, calmly.

“Make a new man of me,” finished Mansell, with a momentary burst of feeling.

“Well, then, call up your memories of the way your aunt’s house is situated.  Recall the hour, and acknowledge that, if Miss Dare was with her, she must have been in the dining-room.”

“There is no doubt about that.”

“Now, how many windows has the dining-room?”

“One.”

“How situated?”

“It is on the same side as the door.”

“There is none, then, which looks down to that place where you leaped the fence?”

“No.”

“How account for her seeing that little incident, then, of your stumbling?”

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

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

Craik Mansell was silent.

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

“We must probe the matter a little deeper,” said he.  “I see I have a hard head to deal with.”  And, bringing his glance a little nearer to the prisoner, he remarked: 

“If she had been standing there you could not have turned round without seeing her?”

“No.”

“Now, did you see her standing there?”

“No.”

“Yet you turned round?”

“I did?”

“Miss Dare says so.”

The prisoner struck his forehead with his hand.

“And it is so,” he cried.  “I remember now that some vague desire to know the time made me turn to look at the church clock.  Go on.  Tell me more that Miss Dare saw.”

His manner was so changed ­his eye burned so brightly ­the detective gave himself a tap of decided self-gratulation.

“She saw you hurry over the bog, stop at the entrance of the wood, take a look at your watch, and plunge with renewed speed into the forest.”

“It is so.  It is so.  And, to have seen that, she must have had the aid of a telescope.”

“Then she describes your appearance.  She says you had your pants turned up at the ankles, and carried your coat on your left arm.”

“Left arm?”

“Yes.”

“I think I had it on my right.”

“It was on the arm toward her, she declares.  If she was in the observatory, it was your left side that she saw.”

“Yes, yes; but the coat was over the other arm.  I remember using my left hand in vaulting over the fence when I came up to the house.”

“It is a vital point,” said Mr. Gryce, with a quietness that concealed his real anxiety and chagrin.  “If the coat was on the arm toward her, the fact of its being on the right ­”

“Wait!” exclaimed Mr. Mansell, with an air of sudden relief.  “I recollect now that I changed it from one arm to the other after I vaulted the fence.  It was just at the moment I turned to come back to the side door, and, as she does not pretend to have seen me till after I left the door, of course the coat was, as she says, on my left arm.”

“I thought you could explain it,” returned Mr. Gryce, with an air of easy confidence.  “But what do you mean when you say that you changed it at the moment you turned to come back to the side door?  Didn’t you go at once to the dining-room door from the swamp?”

“No.  I had gone to the front door on my former visit, and was going to it this time; but when I got to the corner of the house I saw the tramp coming into the gate, and not wishing to encounter any one, turned round and came back to the dining-room door.”

“I see.  And it was then you heard ­”

“What I heard,” completed the prisoner, grimly.

“Mr. Mansell,” said the other, “are you not sufficiently convinced by this time that Miss Dare was not with Mrs. Clemmens, but in the observatory of Professor Darling’s house, to tell me what that was?”

“Answer me a question and I will reply.  Can the entrance of the woods be seen from the position which she declares herself to have occupied?”

“It can.  Not two hours ago I tried the experiment myself, using the same telescope and kneeling in the same place where she did.  I found I could not only trace the spot where you paused, but could detect quite readily every movement of my man Hickory, whom I had previously placed there to go through the motions.  I should not have come here if I had not made myself certain on that point.”

Yet the prisoner hesitated.

“I not only made myself sure of that,” resumed Mr. Gryce, “but I also tried if I could see as much with my naked eye from Mrs. Clemmens’ side door.  I found I could not, and my sight is very good.”

“Enough,” said Mansell; “hard as it is to explain, I must believe Miss Dare was not where I thought her.”

“Then you will tell me what you heard?”

“Yes; for in it may lie the key to this mystery, though how, I cannot see, and doubt if you can.  I am all the more ready to do it,” he pursued, “because I can now understand how she came to think me guilty, and, thinking so, conducted herself as she has done from the beginning of my trial.  All but the fact of her denouncing herself yesterday; that I cannot comprehend.”

“A woman in love can do any thing,” quoth Mr. Gryce.  Then admonished by the flush of the prisoner’s cheek that he was treading on dangerous ground, he quickly added:  “But she will explain all that herself some day.  Let us hear what you have to tell me.”

Craik Mansell drooped his head and his brow became gloomy.

“Sir,” said he, “it is unnecessary for me to state that your surmise in regard to my past convictions is true.  If Miss Dare was not with my aunt just before the murder, I certainly had reasons for thinking she was.  To be sure, I did not see her or hear her voice, but I heard my aunt address her distinctly and by name.”

“You did?” Mr. Gryce’s interest in the tattoo he was playing on his knee became intense.

“Yes.  It was just as I pushed the door ajar.  The words were these:  ’You think you are going to marry him, Imogene Dare; but I tell you you never shall, not while I live.’”

“Humph!” broke involuntarily from the detective’s lips, and, though his face betrayed nothing of the shock this communication occasioned him, his fingers stopped an instant in their restless play.

Mr. Mansell saw it and cast him an anxious look.  The detective instantly smiled with great unconcern.  “Go on,” said he, “what else did you hear?”

“Nothing else.  In the mood in which I was this very plain intimation that Miss Dare had sought my aunt, had pleaded with her for me and failed, struck me as sufficient.  I did not wait to hear more, but hurried away in a state of passion that was little short of frenzy.  To leave the place and return to my work was now my one wish.  When I found, then, that by running I might catch the train at Monteith, I ran, and so unconsciously laid myself open to suspicion.”

“I see,” murmured the detective; “I see.”

“Not that I suspected any evil then,” pursued Mr. Mansell, earnestly.  “I was only conscious of disappointment and a desire to escape from my own thoughts.  It was not till next day ­”

“Yes ­yes,” interrupted Mr. Gryce, abstractedly, “but your aunt’s words!  She said:  ’You think you are going to marry him, Imogene Dare; but you never shall, not while I live.’  Yet Imogene Dare was not there.  Let us solve that problem.”

“You think you can?”

“I think I must.”

“How? how?”

The detective did not answer.  He was buried in profound thought.  Suddenly he exclaimed: 

“It is, as you say, the key-note to the tragedy.  It must be solved.”  But the glance he dived deep into space seemed to echo that “How? how?” of the prisoner, with a gloomy persistence that promised little for an immediate answer to the enigma before them.  It occurred to Mansell to offer a suggestion.

“There is but one way I can explain it,” said he.  “My aunt was speaking to herself.  She was deaf and lived alone.  Such people often indulge in soliloquizing.”

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

“There,” he cried, “who says extraordinary measures are not useful at times?  You’ve hit the very explanation.  Of course she was speaking to herself.  She was just the woman to do it.  Imogene Dare was in her thoughts, so she addressed Imogene Dare.  If you had opened the door you would have seen her standing there alone, venting her thoughts into empty space.”

“I wish I had,” said the prisoner.

Mr. Gryce became exceedingly animated.  “Well, that’s settled,” said he.  “Imogene Dare was not there, save in Mrs. Clemmens’ imagination.  And now for the conclusion.  She said:  ’You think you are going to marry him, Imogene Dare; but you never shall, not while I live.’  That shows her mind was running on you.”

“It shows more than that.  It shows that, if Miss Dare was not with her then, she must have been there earlier in the day.  For, when I left my aunt the day before, she was in entire ignorance of my attachment to Miss Dare, and the hopes it had led to.”

“Say that again,” cried Gryce.

Mr. Mansell repeated himself, adding:  “That would account for the ring being found on my aunt’s dining-room floor ­”

But Mr. Gryce waved that question aside.

“What I want to make sure of is that your aunt had not been informed of your wishes as concerned Miss Dare.”

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

“There were no neighbors to betray you?”

“There wasn’t a neighbor who knew any thing about the matter.”

The detective’s eye brightened till it vied in brilliancy with the stray gleam of sunshine which had found its way to the cell through the narrow grating over their heads.

“A clue!” he murmured; “I have received a clue,” and rose as if to leave.

The prisoner, startled, rose also.

“A clue to what?” he cried.

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

“You shall hear soon.  Enough that you have given me an idea that may eventually lead to the clearing up of this mystery, if not to your own acquittal from a false charge of murder.”

“And Miss Dare?”

“Is under no charge, and never will be.”

“And Mr. Orcutt?”

“Wait,” said Mr. Gryce ­“wait.”

CHAPTER XV - A LINK SUPPLIED.

Upon his bloody finger he doth wear
A precious ring. 
­TITUS ANDRONICUS.

Make me to see it; or at the least so prove it,
That the probation bear no hinge nor loop
To hang a doubt on. 

                                                       ­OTHELLO.

MR. GRYCE did not believe that Imogene Dare had visited Mrs. Clemmens before the assault, or, indeed, had held any communication with her.  Therefore, when Mansell declared that he had never told his aunt of the attachment between himself and this young lady, the astute detective at once drew the conclusion that the widow had never known of that attachment, and consequently that the words which the prisoner had overheard must have referred, not to himself, as he supposed, but to some other man, and, if to some other man ­why to the only one with whom Miss Dare’s name was at that time associated; in other words, to Mr. Orcutt!

Now it was not easy to measure the importance of a conclusion like this.  For whilst there would have been nothing peculiar in this solitary woman, with the few thousands in the bank, boasting of her power to separate her nephew from the lady of his choice, there was every thing that was significant in her using the same language in regard to Miss Dare and Mr. Orcutt.  Nothing but the existence of some unsuspected bond between herself and the great lawyer could have accounted, first, for her feeling on the subject of his marriage; and, secondly, for the threat of interference contained in her very emphatic words, ­a bond which, while evidently not that of love, was still of a nature to give her control over his destiny, and make her, in spite of her lonely condition, the selfish and determined arbitrator of his fate.

What was that bond?  A secret shared between them?  The knowledge on her part of some fact in Mr. Orcutt’s past life, which, if revealed, might serve as an impediment to his marriage?  In consideration that the great mystery to be solved was what motive Mr. Orcutt could have had for killing this woman, an answer to this question was manifestly of the first importance.

But before proceeding to take any measures to insure one, Mr. Gryce sat down and seriously asked himself whether there was any known fact, circumstantial or otherwise, which refused to fit into the theory that Mr. Orcutt actually committed this crime with his own hand, and at the time he was seen to cross the street and enter Mrs. Clemmens’ house.  For, whereas the most complete chain of circumstantial evidence does not necessarily prove the suspected party to be guilty of a crime, the least break in it is fatal to his conviction.  And Mr. Gryce wished to be as fair to the memory of Mr. Orcutt as he would have been to the living man.

Beginning, therefore, with the earliest incidents of the fatal day, he called up, first, the letter which the widow had commenced but never lived to finish.  It was a suggestive epistle.  It was addressed to her most intimate friend, and showed in the few lines written a certain foreboding or apprehension of death remarkable under the circumstances.  Mr. Gryce recalled one of its expressions.  “There are so many,” wrote she, “to whom my death would be more than welcome.”  So many!  Many is a strong word; many means more than one, more than two; many means three at least.  Now where were the three?  Hildreth, of course, was one, Mansell might very properly be another, but who was the third?  To Mr. Gryce, but one name suggested itself in reply.  So far, then, his theory stood firm.  Now what was the next fact known?  The milkman stopped with his milk; that was at half-past eleven.  He had to wait a few minutes, from which it was concluded she was up-stairs when he rapped.  Was it at this time she was interrupted in her letter-writing?  If so, she probably did not go back to it, for when Mr. Hildreth called, some fifteen minutes later, she was on the spot to open the door.  Their interview was short; it was also stormy.  Medicine was the last thing she stood in need of; besides, her mind was evidently preoccupied.  Showing him the door, she goes back to her work, and, being deaf, does not notice that he does not leave the house as she expected.  Consequently her thoughts go on unhindered, and, her condition being one of anger, she mutters aloud and bitterly to herself as she flits from dining-room to kitchen in her labor of serving up her dinner.  The words she made use of have been overheard, and here another point appears.  For, whereas her temper must have been disturbed by the demand which had been made upon her the day before by her favorite relative and heir, her expressions of wrath at this moment were not levelled against him, but against a young lady who is said to have been a stranger to her, her language being:  “You think you are going to marry him, Imogene Dare; but I tell you you never shall, not while I live.”  Her chief grievance, then, and the one thing uppermost in her thoughts, even at a time when she felt that there were many who desired her death, lay in this fact that a young and beautiful woman had manifested, as she supposed, a wish to marry Mr. Orcutt, the word him which she had used, necessarily referring to the lawyer, as she knew nothing of Imogene’s passion for her nephew.

But this is not the only point into which it is necessary to inquire.  For to believe Mr. Orcutt guilty of this crime one must also believe that all the other persons who had been accused of it were truthful in the explanations which they gave of the events which had seemingly connected them with it.  Now, were they?  Take the occurrences of that critical moment when the clock stood at five minutes to twelve.  If Mr. Hildreth is to be believed, he was at that instant in the widow’s front hall musing on his disappointment and arranging his plans for the future; the tramp, if those who profess to have watched him are to be believed, was on the kitchen portico; Craik Mansell on the dining-room door-step; Imogene Dare before her telescope in Professor Darling’s observatory.  Mr. Hildreth, with two doors closed between him and the back of the house, knew nothing of what was said or done there, but the tramp heard loud talking, and Craik Mansell the actual voice of the widow raised in words which were calculated to mislead him into thinking she was engaged in angry altercation with the woman he loved.  What do all three do, then?  Mr. Hildreth remains where he is; the tramp skulks away through the front gate; Craik Mansell rushes back to the woods.  And Imogene Dare?  She has turned her telescope toward Mrs. Clemmens’ cottage, and, being on the side of the dining-room door, sees the flying form of Craik Mansell, and marks it till it disappears from her sight.  Is there any thing contradictory in these various statements?  No.  Every thing, on the contrary, that is reconcilable.

Let us proceed then.  What happens a few minutes later?  Mr. Hildreth, tired of seclusion and anxious to catch the train, opens the front door and steps out.  The tramp, skulking round some other back door, does not see him; Imogene, with her eye on Craik Mansell, now vanishing into the woods, does not see him; nobody sees him.  He goes, and the widow for a short interval is as much alone as she believed herself to be a minute or two before when three men stood, unseen by each other, at each of the three doors of her house.  What does she do now?

Why, she finishes preparing her dinner, and then, observing that the clock is slow, proceeds to set it right.  Fatal task!  Before she has had an opportunity to finish it, the front door has opened again, Mr. Orcutt has come in, and, tempted perhaps by her defenceless position, catches up a stick of wood from the fireplace and, with one blow, strikes her down at his feet, and rushes forth again with tidings of her death.

Now, is there any thing in all this that is contradictory?  No; there is only something left out.  In the whole of this description of what went on in the widow’s house, there has been no mention made of the ring ­the ring which it is conceded was either in Craik Mansell’s or Imogene Dare’s possession the evening before the murder, and which was found on the dining-room floor within ten minutes after the assault took place.  If Mrs. Clemmens’ exclamations are to be taken as an attempt to describe her murderer, then this ring must have been on the hand which was raised against her, and how could that have been if the hand was that of Mr. Orcutt?  Unimportant as it seemed, the discovery of this ring on the floor, taken with the exclamations of the widow, make a break in the chain that is fatal to Mr. Gryce’s theory.  Yet does it?  The consternation displayed by Mr. Orcutt when Imogene claimed the ring and put it on her finger may have had a deeper significance than was thought at the time.  Was there any way in which he could have come into possession of it before she did? and could it have been that he had had it on his hand when he struck the blow?  Mr. Gryce bent all his energies to inquire.

First, where was the ring when the lovers parted in the wood the day before the murder?  Evidently in Mr. Mansell’s coat-pocket.  Imogene had put it there, and Imogene had left it there.  But Mansell did not know it was there, so took no pains to look after its safety.  It accordingly slipped out; but when?  Not while he slept, or it would have been found in the hut.  Not while he took the path to his aunt’s house, or it would have been found in the lane, or, at best, on the dining-room door-step.  When, then?  Mr. Gryce could think of but one instant, and that was when the young man threw his coat from one arm to the other at the corner of the house toward the street.  If it rolled out then it would have been under an impetus, and, as the coat was flung from the right arm to the left, the ring would have flown in the direction of the gate and fallen, perhaps, directly on the walk in front of the house.  If it had, its presence in the dining-room seemed to show it had been carried there by Mr. Orcutt, since he was the next person who went into the house.

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

Sending for Horace Byrd, he said to him: 

“You were on the court-house steps when Mr. Orcutt left and crossed over to the widow’s house?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Were you watching him?  Could you describe his manner as he entered the house; how he opened the gate; or whether he stopped to look about him before going in?”

“No, sir,” returned Byrd; “my eyes may have been on him, but I don’t remember any thing especial that he did.”

Somewhat disappointed, Mr. Gryce went to the District Attorney and put to him the same question.  The answer he received from him was different.  With a gloomy contraction of his brow, Mr. Ferris said: 

“Yes, I remember his look and appearance very well.  He stepped briskly, as he always did, and carried his head ­ Wait!” he suddenly exclaimed, giving the detective a look in which excitement and decision were strangely blended.  “You think Mr. Orcutt committed this crime; that he left us standing on the court-house steps and crossed the street to Mrs. Clemmens’ house with the deliberate intention of killing her, and leaving the burden of his guilt to be shouldered by the tramp.  Now, you have called up a memory to me that convinces me this could not have been.  Had he had any such infernal design in his breast he would not have been likely to have stopped as he did to pick up something which he saw lying on the walk in front of Mrs. Clemmens’ house.”

“And did Mr. Orcutt do that?” inquired Mr. Gryce, with admirable self-control.

“Yes, I remember it now distinctly.  It was just as he entered the gate.  A man meditating a murder of this sort would not be likely to notice a pin lying in his path, much less pause to pick it up.”

“How if it were a diamond ring?”

“A diamond ring?”

“Mr. Ferris,” said the detective, gravely, “you have just supplied a very important link in the chain of evidence against Mr. Orcutt.  The question is, how could the diamond ring which Miss Dare is believed to have dropped into Mr. Mansell’s coat-pocket have been carried into Mrs. Clemmens’ house without the agency of either herself or Mr. Mansell?  I think you have just shown.”  And the able detective, in a few brief sentences, explained the situation to Mr. Ferris, together with the circumstances of Mansell’s flight, as gleaned by him in his conversation with the prisoner.

The District Attorney was sincerely dismayed.  The guilt of the renowned lawyer was certainly assuming positive proportions.  Yet, true to his friendship for Mr. Orcutt, he made one final effort to controvert the arguments of the detective, and quietly said: 

“You profess to explain how the ring might have been carried into Mrs. Clemmens’ house, but how do you account for the widow having used an exclamation which seems to signify it was on the hand which she saw lifted against her life?”

“By the fact that it was on that hand.”

“Do you think that probable if the hand was Mr. Orcutt’s?”

“Perfectly so.  Where else would he be likely to put it in the preoccupied state of mind in which he was?  In his pocket?  The tramp might have done that, but not the gentleman.”

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

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

“By the most natural process in the world.  The ring made for Miss Dare’s third finger was too large for Mr. Orcutt’s little finger, and so slipped off when he dropped the stick of wood from his hand.”

“And he left it lying where it fell?”

“He probably did not notice its loss.  If, as I suppose, he had picked it up and placed it on his finger, mechanically, its absence at such a moment would not be observed.  Besides, what clue could he suppose a diamond ring he had never seen before, and which he had had on his finger but an instant, would offer in a case like this?”

“You reason close,” said the District Attorney; “too close,” he added, as he recalled, with painful distinctness, the look and attitude of Mr. Orcutt at the time this ring was first brought into public notice, and realized that so might a man comport himself who, conscious of this ring’s association with the crime he had just secretly perpetrated, sees it claimed and put on the finger of the woman he loves.

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

“If our surmises are correct,” he remarked, “it was a grim moment for the lawyer when, secure in his immunity from suspicion, he saw Miss Dare come upon the scene with eager inquiries concerning this murder.  To you, who had not the clue, it looked as if he feared she was not as innocent as she should be; but, if you will recall the situation now, I think you will see that his agitation can only be explained by his apprehension of her intuitions and an alarm lest her interest sprang from some mysterious doubt of himself.”

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

“Miss Dare tells me,” the detective resumed, “that his first act upon their meeting again at his house was to offer himself to her in marriage.  Now you, or any one else, would say this was to show he did not mistrust her, but I say it was to find out if she mistrusted him.”

Still Mr. Ferris remained silent.

“The same reasoning will apply to what followed,” continued Mr. Gryce.  “You cannot reconcile the thought of his guilt with his taking the case of Mansell and doing all he could to secure his acquittal.  But you will find it easier to do so when I tell you that, without taking into consideration any spark of sympathy which he might feel for the man falsely accused of his crime, he knew from Imogene’s lips that she would not survive the condemnation of her lover, and that, besides this, his only hope of winning her for his wife lay in the gratitude he might awaken in her if he succeeded in saving his rival.”

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

“And was not that the language of his own countenance as he lay dying?” inquired the detective.

Mr. Ferris could not say No.  He had himself been too deeply impressed by the sinister look he had observed on the face of his dying friend.  He therefore confined himself to remarking, not without sarcasm: 

“And now for the motive of this hideous crime ­for I suppose your ingenuity has discovered one before this.”

“It will be found in his love for Miss Dare,” returned the detective; “but just how I am not prepared to-day to say.”

“His love for Miss Dare?  What had this plain and homespun Mrs. Clemmens to do with his love for Miss Dare?”

“She was an interference.”

“How?”

“Ah, that, sir, is the question.”

“So then you do not know?”

Mr. Gryce was obliged to shake his head.

The District Attorney drew himself up.  “Mr. Gryce,” said he, “the charge which has been made against this eminent man demands the very strongest proof in order to substantiate it.  The motive, especially, must be shown to have been such as to offer a complete excuse for suspecting him.  No trivial or imaginary reason for his wishing this woman out of the world will answer in his case.  You must prove that her death was absolutely necessary to the success of his dearest hopes, or your reasoning will only awaken distrust in the minds of all who hear it.  The fame of a man like Mr. Orcutt is not to be destroyed by a passing word of delirium, or a specious display of circumstantial evidence such as you evolve from the presence of the ring on the scene of murder.”

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

“Then you still believe you can find such a motive?”

The smile which Mr. Gryce bestowed upon the favored object then honored by his gaze haunted the District Attorney for the rest of the week.

CHAPTER XVI - CONSULTATIONS.

          That he should die is worthy policy;
          But yet we want a color for his death;
          ’Tis meet he be condemned by course of law. 
                                         ­HENRY VI.

MR. GRYCE was perfectly aware that the task before him was a difficult one.  To be himself convinced that Mr. Orcutt had been in possession of a motive sufficient to account for, if not excuse, this horrible crime was one thing; to find out that motive and make it apparent to the world was another.  But he was not discouraged.  Summoning his two subordinates, he laid the matter before them.

“I am convinced,” said he, “that Mrs. Clemmens was a more important person to Mr. Orcutt than her plain appearance and humble manner of life would suggest.  Do either of you know whether Mr. Orcutt’s name has ever been associated with any private scandal, the knowledge of which might have given her power over him?”

“I do not think he was that kind of a man,” said Byrd.  “Since morning I have put myself in the way of such persons as I saw disposed to converse about him, and though I have been astonished to find how many there are who say they never quite liked or altogether trusted this famous lawyer, I have heard nothing said in any way derogatory to his private character.  Indeed, I believe, as far as the ladies were concerned, he was particularly reserved.  Though a bachelor, he showed no disposition to marry, and until Miss Dare appeared on the scene was not known to be even attentive to one of her sex.”

“Some one, however, I forget who, told me that for a short time he was sweet on a certain Miss Pratt,” remarked Hickory.

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

“But nothing came of it,” Hickory continued.  “She was not over and above smart they say, and though pretty enough, did not hold his fancy.  Some folks declare she was so disappointed she left town.”

“Pratt, Pratt!” repeated Byrd to himself.  “Ah!  I know now,” he suddenly exclaimed.  “While I stood around amongst the crowd, the morning Mrs. Clemmens was murdered, I remember overhearing some one say how hard she was on the Pratt girl.”

“Humph!” ejaculated Mr. Gryce.  “The widow was hard on any one Mr. Orcutt chose to admire.”

“I don’t understand it,” said Byrd.

“Nor I,” rejoined Mr. Gryce; “but I intend to before the week is out.”  Then abruptly:  “When did Mrs. Clemmens come to this town?”

“Fifteen years ago,” replied Byrd.

“And Orcutt ­when did he first put in an appearance here?”

“At very much the same time, I believe.”

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

“Some say Yes, some say No.”

“Where did he come from ­have you learned?”

“From some place in Nebraska, I believe.”

“And she?”

“Why, she came from some place in Nebraska too!”

“The same place?”

“That we must find out.”

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

“Mr. Orcutt was renowned in his profession.  Do you know any thing about his career ­whether he brought a reputation for ability with him, or whether his fame was entirely made in this place?”

“I think it was made here.  Indeed, I have heard that it was in this court he pleaded his first case.  Don’t you know more about it, Hickory?”

“Yes; Mr. Ferris told me this morning that Orcutt had not opened a law-book when he came to this town.  That he was a country schoolmaster in some uncivilized district out West, and would never have been any thing more, perhaps, if the son of old Stephen Orcutt had not died, and thus made a vacancy in the law-office here which he was immediately sent for to fill.”

“Stephen Orcutt?  He was the uncle of this man, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“And quite a lawyer too?”

“Yes, but nothing like Tremont B. He was successful from the start.  Had a natural aptitude, I suppose ­must have had, to pick up the profession in the way he did.”

“Boys,” cried Mr. Gryce, after another short ruminative pause, “the secret we want to know is of long standing; indeed, I should not be surprised if it were connected with his life out West.  I will tell you why I think so.  For ten years Mrs. Clemmens has been known to put money in the bank regularly every week.  Now, where did she get that money?  From Mr. Orcutt, of course.  What for?  In payment for the dinner he usually took with her?  No, in payment of her silence concerning a past he desired kept secret.”

“But they have been here fifteen years and she has only received money for ten.”

“She has only put money in the bank for ten; she may have been paid before that and may not.  I do not suppose he was in a condition to be very lavish at the outset of his career.”

“You advise us, then, to see what we can make out of his early life out West?”

“Yes; and I will see what I can make out of hers.  The link which connects the two will be found.  Mr. Orcutt did not say:  ’It was all for you, Imogene,’ for nothing.”

And, dismissing the two young men, Mr. Gryce proceeded to the house of Mr. Orcutt, where he entered upon an examination of such papers and documents as were open to his inspection, in the hope of discovering some allusion to the deceased lawyer’s early history.  But he was not successful.  Neither did a like inspection of the widow’s letters bring any new facts to light.  The only result which seemed to follow these efforts was an increased certainty on his part that some dangerous secret lurked in a past that was so determinedly hidden from the world, and resorting to the only expedient now left to him, he resolved to consult Miss Firman, as being the only person who professed to have had any acquaintance with Mrs. Clemmens before she came to Sibley.  To be sure, she had already been questioned by the coroner, but Mr. Gryce was a man who had always found that the dryest well could be made to yield a drop or two more of water if the bucket was dropped by a dexterous hand.  He accordingly prepared himself for a trip to Utica.

CHAPTER XVII - MRS. FIRMAN.

          Hark! she speaks.  I will set down what comes from her.... 
          Heaven knows what she has known. ­MACBETH.

“MISS FIRMAN, I believe?” The staid, pleasant-faced lady whom we know, but who is looking older and considerably more careworn than when we saw her at the coroner’s inquest, rose from her chair in her own cozy sitting-room, and surveyed her visitor curiously.  “I am Mr. Gryce,” the genial voice went on.  “Perhaps the name is not familiar?”

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

“Well, then, let me explain,” said he.  “You are a relative of the Mrs. Clemmens who was so foully murdered in Sibley, are you not?  Pardon me, but I see you are; your expression speaks for itself.”  How he could have seen her expression was a mystery to Miss Firman, for his eyes, if not attention, were seemingly fixed upon some object in quite a different portion of the room.  “You must, therefore,” he pursued, “be in a state of great anxiety to know who her murderer was.  Now, I am in that same state, madam; we are, therefore, in sympathy, you see.”

The respectful smile and peculiar intonation with which these last words were uttered, robbed them of their familiarity and allowed Miss Firman to perceive his true character.

“You are a detective,” said she, and as he did not deny it, she went on:  “You say I must be anxious to know who my cousin’s murderer was.  Has Craik Mansell, then, been acquitted?”

“A verdict has not been given,” said the other.  “His trial has been adjourned in order to give him an opportunity to choose a new counsel.”

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

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

The detective was silent.  It was but for a moment, but in that moment he seemed to read to the bottom of this woman’s mind.

“Well,” said he, “I will tell you.  You believe Craik Mansell to be innocent?”

“I do,” she returned.

“Very well; so do I.”

“Let me shake hands with you,” was her abrupt remark.  And without a smile she reached forth her hand, which he took with equal gravity.

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

“We are fortunately not in a court of law, and so can talk freely together.  Why do you think Mansell innocent?  I am sure the evidence has not been much in his favor.”

“Why do you think him innocent?” was the brisk retort.

“I have talked with him.”

“Ah!”

“I have talked with Miss Dare.”

A different “Ah!” this time.

“And I was present when Mr. Orcutt breathed his last.”

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

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

The detective took another tone.

“You did not know Mr. Orcutt then?” he inquired.

“I had not that honor,” was the formal reply.

“You have never, then, visited your cousin in Sibley?”

“Yes, I was there once; but that did not give me an acquaintance with Mr. Orcutt.”

“Yet he went almost every day to her house.”

“And he came while I was there, but that did not give me an acquaintance with him.”

“He was reserved, then, in his manners, uncommunicative, possibly morose?”

“He was just what I would expect such a gentleman to be at the table with women like my cousin and myself.”

“Not morose, then; only reserved.”

“Exactly,” the short, quick bow of the amiable spinster seemed to assert.

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

“Why do you ask me about Mr. Orcutt?  Has his death in any way affected young Mansell’s prospects?”

“That is what I want to find out,” declared Mr. Gryce.  Then, without giving her time for another question, said:  “Where did Mrs. Clemmens first make the acquaintance of Mr. Orcutt?  Wasn’t it in some town out West?”

“Out West?  Not to my knowledge, sir.  I always supposed she saw him first in Sibley.”

This well was certainly very dry.

“Yet you are not positive that this is so, are you?” pursued the patient detective.  “She came from Nebraska, and so did he; now, why may they not have known each other there?”

“I did not know that he came from Nebraska.”

“She has never talked about him then?”

“Never.”

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

“I thought your cousin spent her childhood in Toledo?”

“She did, sir.”

“How came she to go to Nebraska then?”

“Well, she was left an orphan and had to look out for herself.  A situation in some way opened to her in Nebraska, and she went there to take it.”

“A situation at what?”

“As waitress in some hotel.”

“Humph!  And was she still a waitress when she married?”

“Yes, I think so, but I am not sure about it or any thing else in connection with her at that time.  The subject was so painful we never discussed it.”

“Why painful?”

“She lost her husband so soon.”

“But you can tell me the name of the town in which this hotel was, can you not?”

“It was called Swanson then, but that was fifteen years ago.  Its name may have been changed since.”

Swanson!  This was something to learn, but not much.  Mr. Gryce returned to his first question.  “You have not told me,” said he, “why you believe Craik Mansell to be innocent?”

“Well,” replied she, “I believe Craik Mansell to be innocent because he is the son of his mother.  I think I know him pretty well, but I am certain I knew her.  She was a woman who would go through fire and water to attain a purpose she thought right, but who would stop in the midst of any project the moment she felt the least doubt of its being just or wise.  Craik has his mother’s forehead and eyes, and no one will ever make me believe he has not her principles also.”

“I coincide with you, madam,” remarked the attentive detective.

“I hope the jury will,” was her energetic response.

He bowed and was about to attempt another question, when an interruption occurred.  Miss Firman was called from the room, and Mr. Gryce found himself left for a few moments alone.  His thoughts, as he awaited her return, were far from cheerful, for he saw a long and tedious line of inquiry opening before him in the West, which, if it did not end in failure, promised to exhaust not only a week, but possibly many months, before certainty of any kind could be obtained.  With Miss Dare on the verge of a fever, and Mansell in a position calling for the utmost nerve and self-control, this prospect looked any thing but attractive to the benevolent detective; and, carried away by his impatience, he was about to give utterance to an angry ejaculation against the man he believed to be the author of all this mischief, when he suddenly heard a voice raised from some unknown quarter near by, saying in strange tones he was positive did not proceed from Miss Firman: 

“Was it Clemmens or was it Orcutt?  Clemmens or Orcutt?  I cannot remember.”

Naturally excited and aroused, Mr. Gryce rose and looked about him.  A door stood ajar at his back.  Hastening toward it, he was about to lay his hand on the knob when Miss Firman returned.

“Oh, I beg you,” she entreated.  “That is my mother’s room, and she is not at all well.”

“I was going to her assistance,” asserted the detective, with grave composure.  “She has just uttered a cry.”

“Oh, you don’t say so!” exclaimed the unsuspicious spinster, and hurrying forward, she threw open the door herself.  Mr. Gryce benevolently followed.  “Why, she is asleep,” protested Miss Firman, turning on the detective with a suspicious look.

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

“She certainly appears to be,” said he, “and yet I am positive she spoke but an instant ago; I can even tell you the words she used.”

“What were they?” asked the spinster, with something like a look of concern.

“She said:  ’Was it Clemmens or was it Orcutt?  Clemmens or Orcutt?  I cannot remember.’”

“You don’t say so!  Poor ma!  She was dreaming.  Come into the other room and I will explain.”

And leading the way back to the apartment they had left, she motioned him again toward a chair, and then said: 

“Ma has always been a very hale and active woman for her years; but this murder seems to have shaken her.  To speak the truth, sir, she has not been quite right in her mind since the day I told her of it; and I often detect her murmuring words similar to those you have just heard.”

“Humph!  And does she often use his name?”

“Whose name?”

“Mr. Orcutt’s.”

“Why, yes; but not with any understanding of whom she is speaking.”

“Are you sure?” inquired Mr. Gryce, with that peculiar impressiveness he used on great occasions.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” returned the detective, dryly, “that I believe your mother does know what she is talking about when she links the name of Mr. Orcutt with that of your cousin who was murdered.  They belong together; Mr. Orcutt was her murderer.”

“Mr. Orcutt?”

“Hush!” cried Mr. Gryce, “you will wake up your mother.”

And, adapting himself to this emergency as to all others, he talked with the astounded and incredulous woman before him till she was in a condition not only to listen to his explanations, but to discuss the problem of a crime so seemingly without motive.  He then said, with easy assurance: 

“Your mother does not know that Mr. Orcutt is dead?”

“No, sir.”

“She does not even know he was counsel for Craik Mansell in the trial now going on.”

“How do you know that?” inquired Miss Firman, grimly.

“Because I do not believe you have even told her that Craik Mansell was on trial.”

“Sir, you are a magician.”

“Have you, madam?”

“No, sir, I have not.”

“Very good; what does she know about Mr. Orcutt, then; and why should she connect his name with Mrs. Clemmens?”

“She knows he was her boarder, and that he was the first one to discover she had been murdered.”

“That is not enough to account for her frequent repetition of his name.”

“You think not?”

“I am sure not.  Cannot your mother have some memories connected with his name of which you are ignorant?”

“No, sir; we have lived together in this house for twenty-five years, and have never had a thought we have not shared together.  Ma could not have known any thing about him or Mary Ann which I did not.  The words she has just spoken sprang from mental confusion.  She is almost like a child sometimes.”

Mr. Gryce smiled.  If the cream-jug he happened to be gazing at on a tray near by had been full of cream, I am far from certain it would not have turned sour on the spot.

“I grant the mental confusion,” said he; “but why should she confuse those two names in preference to all others?” And, with quiet persistence, he remarked again:  “She may be recalling some old fact of years ago.  Was there never a time, even while you lived here together, when she could have received some confidence from Mrs. Clemmens ­”

“Mary Ann, Mary Ann!” came in querulous accents from the other room, “I wish you had not told me; Emily would be a better one to know your secret.”

It was a startling interruption to come just at that moment The two surprised listeners glanced toward each other, and Miss Firman colored.

“That sounds as if your surmise was true,” she dryly observed.

“Let us make an experiment,” said he, and motioned her to re-enter her mother’s room, which she did with a precipitation that showed her composure had been sorely shaken by these unexpected occurrences.

He followed her without ceremony.

The old lady lay as before in a condition between sleeping and waking, and did not move as they came in.  Mr. Gryce at once withdrew out of sight, and, with finger on his lip, put himself in the attitude of waiting.  Miss Firman, surprised, and possibly curious, took her stand at the foot of the bed.

A few minutes passed thus, during which a strange dreariness seemed to settle upon the room; then the old lady spoke again, this time repeating the words he had first heard, but in a tone which betrayed an increased perplexity.

“Was it Clemmens or was it Orcutt?  I wish somebody would tell me.”

Instantly Mr. Gryce, with his soft tread, drew near to the old lady’s side, and, leaning over her, murmured gently: 

“I think it was Orcutt.”

Instantly the old lady breathed a deep sigh and moved.

“Then her name was Mrs. Orcutt,” said she, “and I thought you always called her Clemmens.”

Miss Firman, recoiling, stared at Mr. Gryce, on whose cheek a faint spot of red had appeared ­a most unusual token of emotion with him.

“Did she say it was Mrs. Orcutt,” he pursued, in the even tones he had before used.

“She said ­” But here the old lady opened her eyes, and, seeing her daughter standing at the foot of her bed, turned away with a peevish air, and restlessly pushed her hand under the pillow.

Mr. Gryce at once bent nearer.

“She said ­” he suggested, with careful gentleness.

But the old lady made no answer.  Her hand seemed to have touched some object for which she was seeking, and she was evidently oblivious to all else.  Miss Firman came around and touched Mr. Gryce on the shoulder.

“It is useless,” said she; “she is awake now, and you won’t hear any thing more; come!”

And she drew the reluctant detective back again into the other room.

“What does it all mean?” she asked, sinking into a chair.

Mr. Gryce did not answer.  He had a question of his own to put.

“Why did your mother put her hand under her pillow?” he asked.

“I don’t know, unless it was to see if her big envelope was there.”

“Her big envelope?”

“Yes; for weeks now, ever since she took to her bed, she has kept a paper in a big envelope under her pillow.  What is in it I don’t know, for she never seems to hear me when I inquire.”

“And have you no curiosity to find out?”

“No, sir.  Why should I?  It might easily be my father’s old letters sealed up, or, for that matter, be nothing more than a piece of blank paper.  My mother is not herself, as I have said before.”

“I should like a peep at the contents of that envelope,” he declared.

“You?”

“Is there any name written on the outside?”

“No.”

“It would not be violating any one’s rights, then, if you opened it.”

“Only my mother’s, sir.”

“You say she is not in her right mind?”

“All the more reason why I should respect her whims and caprices.”

“Wouldn’t you open it if she were dead?”

“Yes.”

“Will it be very different then from what it is now?  A father’s letters! a blank piece of paper!  What harm would there be in looking at them?”

“My mother would know it if I took them away.  It might excite and injure her.”

“Put another envelope in the place of this one, with a piece of paper folded up in it.”

“It would be a trick.”

“I know it; but if Craik Mansell can be saved even by a trick, I should think you would be willing to venture on one.”

“Craik Mansell?  What has he got to do with the papers under my mother’s pillow?”

“I cannot say that he has any thing to do with them; but if he has ­if, for instance, that envelope should contain, not a piece of blank paper, or even the letters of your father, but such a document, say, as a certificate of marriage ­”

“A certificate of marriage?”

“Yes, between Mrs. Clemmens and Mr. Orcutt, it would not take much perspicacity to prophesy an acquittal for Craik Mansell.”

“Mary Ann the wife of Mr. Orcutt!  Oh, that is impossible!” exclaimed the agitated spinster.  But even while making this determined statement, she turned a look full of curiosity and excitement toward the door which separated them from her mother’s apartment.

Mr. Gryce smiled in his wise way.

“Less improbable things than that have been found to be true in this topsy-turvy world,” said he.  “Mrs. Clemmens might very well have been Mrs. Orcutt.”

“Do you really think so?” she asked; and yielding with sudden impetuosity to the curiosity of the moment, she at once dashed from his side and disappeared in her mother’s room.  Mr. Gryce’s smile took on an aspect of triumph.

It was some few moments before she returned, but when she did, her countenance was flushed with emotion.

“I have it,” she murmured, taking out a packet from under her apron and tearing it open with trembling fingers.

A number of closely written sheets fell out.

CHAPTER XVIII - THE WIDOW CLEMMENS.

                      Discovered
          The secret that so long had hovered
          Upon the misty verge of Truth. ­LONGFELLOW.

“WELL, and what have you to say?” It was Mr. Ferris who spoke.  The week which Mr. Gryce had demanded for his inquiries had fully elapsed, and the three detectives stood before him ready with their report.

It was Mr. Gryce who replied.

“Sir,” said he, “our opinions have not been changed by the discoveries which we have made.  It was Mr. Orcutt who killed Mrs. Clemmens, and for the reason already stated that she stood in the way of his marrying Miss Dare.  Mrs. Clemmens was his wife.”

“His wife?”

“Yes, sir; and, what is more, she has been so for years; before either of them came to Sibley, in fact.”

The District Attorney looked stunned.

“It was while they lived West,” said Byrd.  “He was a poor school-master, and she a waitress in some hotel.  She was pretty then, and he thought he loved her.  At all events, he induced her to marry him, and then kept it secret because he was afraid she would lose her place at the hotel, where she was getting very good wages.  You see, he had the makings in him of a villain even then.”

“And was it a real marriage?”

“There is a record of it,” said Hickory.

“And did he never acknowledge it?”

“Not openly,” answered Byrd.  “The commonness of the woman seemed to revolt him after he was married to her, and when in a month or so he received the summons East, which opened up before him the career of a lawyer, he determined to drop her and start afresh.  He accordingly left town without notifying her, and actually succeeded in reaching the railway depot twenty miles away before he was stopped.  But here, a delay occurring in the departure of the train, she was enabled to overtake him, and a stormy scene ensued.  What its exact nature was, we, of course, cannot say, but from the results it is evident that he told her his prospects had changed, and with them his tastes and requirements; that she was not the woman he thought her, and that he could not and would not take her East with him as his wife:  while she, on her side, displayed full as much spirit as he, and replied that if he could desert her like this he wasn’t the kind of a man she could live with, and that he could go if he wished; only that he must acknowledge her claims upon him by giving her a yearly stipend, according to his income and success.  At all events, some such compromise was effected, for he came East and she went back to Swanson.  She did not stay there long, however; for the next we know she was in Sibley, where she set up her own little house-keeping arrangements under his very eye.  More than that, she prevailed upon him to visit her daily, and even to take a meal at her house, her sense of justice seeming to be satisfied if he showed her this little attention and gave to no other woman the place he denied her.  It was the weakness shown in this last requirement that doubtless led to her death.  She would stand any thing but a rival.  He knew this, and preferred crime to the loss of the woman he loved.”

“You speak very knowingly,” said Mr. Ferris.  “May I ask where you received your information?”

It was Mr. Gryce who answered.

“From letters.  Mrs. Clemmens was one of those women who delight in putting their feelings on paper.  Fortunately for us, such women are not rare.  See here!” And he pulled out before the District Attorney a pile of old letters in the widow’s well-known handwriting.

“Where did you find these?” asked Mr. Ferris.

“Well,” said Mr. Gryce, “I found them in rather a curious place.  They were in the keeping of old Mrs. Firman, Miss Firman’s mother.  Mrs. Clemmens, or, rather, Mrs. Orcutt, got frightened some two years ago at the disappearance of her marriage certificate from the place where she had always kept it hidden, and, thinking that Mr. Orcutt was planning to throw her off, she resolved to provide herself with a confidante capable of standing by her in case she wished to assert her rights.  She chose old Mrs. Firman.  Why, when her daughter would have been so much more suitable for the purpose, it is hard to tell; possibly the widow’s pride revolted from telling a woman of her own years the indignities she had suffered.  However that may be, it was to the old lady she told her story and gave these letters ­letters which, as you will see, are not written to any special person, but are rather the separate leaves of a journal which she kept to show the state of her feelings from time to time.”

“And this?” inquired Mr. Ferris, taking up a sheet of paper written in a different handwriting from the rest.

“This is an attempt on the part of the old lady to put on paper the story which had been told her.  She evidently thought herself too old to be entrusted with a secret so important, and, fearing loss of memory, or perhaps sudden death, took this means of explaining how she came into possession of her cousin’s letters.  ’T was a wise precaution.  Without it we would have missed the clue to the widow’s journal.  For the old lady’s brain gave way when she heard of the widow’s death, and had it not been for a special stroke of good-luck on my part, we might have remained some time longer in ignorance of what very valuable papers she secretly held in her possession.”

“I will read the letters,” said Mr. Ferris.

Seeing from his look that he only waited their departure to do so, Mr. Gryce and his subordinates arose.

“I think you will find them satisfactory,” drawled Hickory.

“If you do not,” said Mr. Gryce, “then give a look at this telegram.  It is from Swanson, and notifies us that a record of a marriage between Benjamin Orcutt ­Mr. Orcutt’s middle name was Benjamin ­and Mary Mansell can be found in the old town books.”

Mr. Ferris took the telegram, the shade of sorrow settling heavier and heavier on his brow.

“I see,” said he, “I have got to accept your conclusions.  Well, there are those among the living who will be greatly relieved by these discoveries.  I will try and think of that.”

Yet, after the detectives were gone, and he sat down in solitude before these evidences of his friend’s perfidy, it was many long and dreary moments before he could summon up courage to peruse them.  But when he did, he found in them all that Mr. Gryce had promised.  As my readers may feel some interest to know how the seeming widow bore the daily trial of her life, I will give a few extracts from these letters.  The first bears date of fourteen years back, and was written after she came to Sibley: 

“NOVEMBER 8, 1867. ­In the same town!  Within a stone’s throw of the court-house, where, they tell me, his business will soon take him almost every day!  Isn’t it a triumph? and am I not to be congratulated upon my bravery in coming here?  He hasn’t seen me yet, but I have seen him.  I crept out of the house at nightfall on purpose.  He was sauntering down the street and he looked ­it makes my blood boil to think of it ­he looked happy.”

“NOVEMBER 10, 1867. ­Clemmens, Clemmens ­that is my name, and I have taken the title of widow.  What a fate for a woman with a husband in the next street!  He saw me to-day.  I met him in the open square, and I looked him right in the face.  How he did quail!  It just does me good to think of it!  Perk and haughty as he is, he grew as white as a sheet when he saw me, and though he tried to put on airs and carry it off with a high hand, he failed, just as I knew he would when he came to meet me on even ground.  Oh, I’ll have my way now, and if I choose to stay in this place where I can keep my eye on him, he won’t dare to say No.  The only thing I fear is that he will do me a secret mischief some day.  His look was just murderous when he left me.”

“FEBRUARY 24, 1868. ­Can I stand it?  I ask myself that question every morning when I get up.  Can I stand it?  To sit all alone in my little narrow room and know that he is going about as gay as you please with people who wouldn’t look at me twice.  It’s awful hard; but it would be worse still to be where I couldn’t see what he was up to.  Then I should imagine all sorts of things.  No, I will just grit my teeth and bear it.  I’ll get used to it after a while.”

“OCTOBER 7, 1868. ­If he says he never loved me he lies.  He did, or why did he marry me?  I never asked him to.  He teased me into it, saying my saucy ways had bewitched him.  A month after, it was common ways, rude ways, such ways as he wouldn’t have in a wife.  That’s the kind of man he is.”

“MAY 11, 1869. ­One thing I will say of him.  He don’t pay no heed to women.  He’s too busy, I guess.  He don’t seem to think of any thing but to get along, and he does get along remarkable.  I’m awful proud of him.  He’s taken to defending criminals lately.  They almost all get off.”

“OCTOBER 5, 1870. ­He pays me but a pittance.  How can I look like any thing, or hold my head up with the ladies here if I cannot get enough together to buy me a new fall hat.  I will not go to church looking like a farmer’s wife, if I haven’t any education or any manners.  I’m as good as anybody here if they but knew it, and deserve to dress as well.  He must give me more money.”

“NOVEMBER 2, 1870. ­No, he sha’n’t give me a cent more.  If I can’t go to church I will stay at home.  He sha’n’t say I stood in his way of becoming a great man.  He is too good for me.  I saw it to-day when he got up in the court to speak.  I was there with a thick veil over my face, for I was determined to know whether he was as smart as folks say or not.  And he just is!  Oh, how beautiful he did look, and how everybody held their breaths while he was speaking!  I felt like jumping up and saying:  ’This is my husband; we were married three years ago.’  Wouldn’t I have raised a rumpus if I had!  I guess the poor man he was pleading for would not have been remembered very long after that.  My husband! the thought makes me laugh.  No other woman can call him that, anyhow.  He is mine, mine, mine, and I mean he shall stay so.”

“JANUARY 9, 1871. ­I feel awful blue to-night.  I have been thinking about those Hildreths.  How they would like to have me dead!  And so would Tremont, though he don’t say nothing.  I like to call him Tremont; it makes me feel as if he belonged to me.  What if that wicked Gouverneur Hildreth should know I lived so much alone?  I don’t believe he would stop at killing me!  And my husband!  He is equal to telling him I have no protector.  Oh, what a dreadful wickedness it is in me to put that down on paper!  It isn’t so ­it isn’t so; my husband wouldn’t do me any harm if he could.  If ever I’m found dead in my bed, it will be the work of that Toledo man and of nobody else.”

“MARCH 2, 1872. ­I hope I am going to have some comfort now.  Tremont has begun to pay me more money.  He had to.  He isn’t a poor man any more, and when he moves into his big house, I am going to move into a certain little cottage I have found, just around the corner.  If I can’t have no other pleasures, I will at least have a kitchen I can call my own, and a parlor too.  What if there don’t no company come to it; they would if they knew.  I’ve just heard from Adelaide; she says Craik is getting to be a big boy, and is so smart.”

“JUNE 10, 1872. ­What’s the use of having a home?  I declare I feel just like breaking down and crying.  I don’t want company:  if women folks, they’re always talking about their husbands and children; and if men, they’re always saying:  ’My wife’s this, and my wife’s that.’  But I do want him.  It’s my right; what if I couldn’t say three words to him that was agreeable, I could look at him and think:  ’This splendid gentleman is my husband, I ain’t so much alone in the world as folks think.’  I’ll put on my bonnet and run down the street.  Perhaps I’ll see him sitting in the club-house window!”

“EVENING. ­I hate him.  He has a hard, cruel, wicked heart.  When I got to the club-house window he was sitting there, so I just went walking by, and he saw me and came out and hustled me away with terrible words, saying he wouldn’t have me hanging round where he was; that I had promised not to bother him, and that I must keep my word, or he would see me ­he didn’t say where, but it’s easy enough to guess.  So ­so! he thinks he’ll put an end to my coming to see him, does he?  Well, perhaps he can; but if he does, he shall pay for it by coming to see me.  I’ll not sit day in and day out alone without the glimpse of a face I love, not while I have a husband in the same town with me.  He shall come, if it is only for a moment each day, or I’ll dare every thing and tell the world I am his wife.”

“JUNE 16, 1872. ­He had to consent!  Meek as I have been, he knows it won’t do to rouse me too much.  So to-day he came in to dinner, and he had to acknowledge it was a good one.  Oh, how I did feel when I saw his face on the other side of the table!  I didn’t know whether I hated him or loved him.  But I am sure now I hated him, for he scarcely spoke to me all the time he was eating, and when he was through, he went away just as a stranger would have done.  He means to act like a boarder, and, goodness me, he’s welcome to if he isn’t going to act like a husband!  The hard, selfish ­ Oh, oh, I love him!”

“AUGUST 5, 1872. ­It is no use; I’ll never be a happy woman.  Tremont has been in so regularly to dinner lately, and shown me such a kind face, I thought I would venture upon a little familiarity.  It was only to lay my hand upon his arm, but it made him very angry, and I thought he would strike me.  Am I then actually hateful to him? or is he so proud he cannot bear the thought of my having the right to touch him?  I looked in the glass when he went out.  I am plain and homespun, that’s a fact.  Even my red cheeks are gone, and the dimples which once took his fancy.  I shall never lay the tip of a finger on him again.”

“FEBRUARY 13, 1873. ­What shall I cook for him to-day?  Some thing that he likes.  It is my only pleasure, to see how he does enjoy my meals.  I should think they would choke him; they do me sometimes.  But men are made of iron ­ambitious men, anyhow.  Little they care what suffering they cause, so long as they have a good time and get all the praises they want. He gets them more and more every day.  He will soon be as far above me as if I had married the President himself.  Oh, sometimes when I think of it and remember he is my own husband, I just feel as if some awful fate was preparing for him or me!”

          “JUNE 7, 1873. ­Would he send for me if he was
          dying?  No.  He hates me; he hates me.”

“SEPTEMBER 8, 1874. ­Craik was here to-day; he is just going North to earn a few dollars in the logging business.  What a keen eye he has for a boy of his years!  I shouldn’t wonder if he made a powerful smart man some day.  If he’s only good, too, and kind to his women-folks, I sha’n’t mind.  But a smart man who is all for himself is an awful trial to those who love him.  Don’t I know?  Haven’t I suffered?  Craik must never be like him.”

“DECEMBER 21, 1875. ­One thousand dollars.  That’s a nice little sum to have put away in the bank.  So much I get out of my husband’s fame, anyhow.  I think I will make my will, for I want Craik to have what I leave.  He’s a fine lad.”

“FEBRUARY 19, 1876. ­I was thinking the other day, suppose I did die suddenly.  It would be dreadful to have the name of Clemmens put on my tombstone!  But it would be.  Tremont would never let the truth be known, if he had to rifle my dead body for my marriage certificate.  What shall I do, then?  Tell anybody who I am?  It seems just as if I couldn’t.  Either the whole world must know it, or just himself and me alone.  Oh, I wish I had never been born!”

“JUNE 17, 1876. ­Why wasn’t I made handsome and fine and nice?  Think where I would be if I was!  I’d be in that big house of his, curtesying to all the grand folks as go there.  I went to see it last night.  It was dark as pitch in the streets, and I went into the gate and all around the house.  I walked upon the piazza too, and rubbed my hand along the window-ledges and up and down the doors.  It’s mighty nice, all of it, and there sha’n’t lie a square inch on that whole ground that my foot sha’n’t go over.  I wish I could get inside the house once.”

“JULY 1, 1876. ­I have done it.  I went to see Mr. Orcutt’s sister.  I had a right.  Isn’t he away, and isn’t he my boarder, and didn’t I want to know when he was coming home?  She’s a soft, good-natured piece, and let me peek into the library without saying a word.  What a room it is!  I just felt like I’d been struck when I saw it and spied his chair setting there and all those books heaped around and the fine things on the mantel-shelf and the pictures on the walls.  What would I do in such a place as that?  I could keep it clean, but so could any gal he might hire.  Oh, me!  Oh, me!  I wish he’d given me a chance.  Perhaps if he had loved me I might have learned to be quiet and nice like that silly sister of his.”

“JANUARY 12, 1877. ­Some women would take a heap of delight in having folks know they were the wife of a great man, but I find lots of pleasure in being so without folks knowing it.  If I lived in his big house and was called Mrs. Orcutt, why, he would have nothing to be afraid of and might do as he pleased; but now he has to do what I please.  Sometimes, when I sit down of an evening in my little sitting-room to sew, I think how this famous man whom everybody is afraid of has to come and go just as humble me wants him to; and it makes me hug myself with pride.  It’s as if I had a string tied round his little finger, which I can pull now and then.  I don’t pull it much; but I do sometimes.”

“MARCH 30, 1877. ­Gouverneur Hildreth is dead.  I shall never be his victim, at any rate.  Shall I ever be the victim of anybody?  I don’t feel as if I cared now.  For one kiss I would sell my life and die happy.

          “There is a young Gouverneur, but it will be years
          before he will be old enough to make me afraid of
          him.”

“NOVEMBER 16, 1878. ­I should think that Tremont would be lonely in that big house of his.  If he had a heart he would.  They say he reads all the time.  How can folks pore so over books?  I can’t.  I’d rather sit in my chair and think.  What story in all the books is equal to mine?”

“APRIL 23, 1879. ­I am growing very settled in my ways.  Now that Tremont comes in almost every day, I’m satisfied not to see any other company.  My house affairs keep me busy too.  I like to have it all nice for him.  I believe I could almost be happy if he’d only smile once in a while when he meets my eye.  But he never does.  Oh, well, we all have our crosses, and he’s a very great man.”

          “JANUARY 18, 1880. ­He went to a ball last night. 
          What does it mean?  He never seemed to care for
          things like that.  Is there any girl he is after?”

“FEBRUARY 6, 1880. ­Oh, he has been riding with a lady, has he?  It was in the next town, and he thought I wouldn’t hear.  But there’s little he does that I don’t know about; let him make himself sure of that.  I even know her name; it is Selina Pratt.  If he goes with her again, look out for a disturbance.  I’ll not stand his making love to another woman.”

“MAY 26, 1880. ­My marriage certificate is missing.  Can it be that Tremont has taken it?  I have looked all through the desk where I have kept it for so many years, but I cannot find it.  He was left alone in the house a few minutes the other day.  Could he have taken the chance to rob me of the only proof I have that we are man and wife?  If he has he is a villain at heart, and is capable of doing any thing, even of marrying this Pratt girl who he has taken riding again.  The worst is that I dare not accuse him of having my certificate; for if he didn’t take it and should find out it is gone, he’d throw me off just as quick as if he had.  What shall I do then?  Something.  He shall never marry another woman while I live.”

“MAY 30, 1880. ­The Pratt girl is gone.  If he cared for her it was only for a week, like an old love I could mention.  I think I feel safe again, only I am convinced some one ought to know my secret besides myself.  Shall it be Emily?  No.  I’d rather tell her mother.”

“JUNE 9TH, 1880. ­I am going to Utica.  I shall take these letters with me.  Perhaps I shall leave them.  For the last time, then, let me say ’I am the lawful wife of Tremont Benjamin Orcutt, the lawyer, who lives in Sibley, New York.’  We were married in Swanson, Nevada, on the 3d of July, 1867, by a travelling minister, named George Sinclair.

“MARY ANN ORCUTT, Sibley, N. Y.”

CHAPTER XIX - MR. GRYCE SAYS GOOD-BYE.

There still are many rainbows in your sky. ­BYRON.

“HELEN?”

“Yes, Imogene.”

“What noise is that?  The people seem to be shouting down the street.  What does it mean?”

Helen Richmond ­whom we better know as Helen Darling ­looked at the worn, fever-flushed countenance of her friend, and for a moment was silent; then she whispered: 

“I have not dared to tell you before, you seemed so ill; but I can tell you now, because joyful news never hurts.  The people shout because the long and tedious trial of an innocent man has come to an end.  Craik Mansell was acquitted from the charge of murder this morning.”

“Acquitted!  O Helen!”

“Yes, dear.  Since you have been ill, very strange and solemn revelations have come to light.  Mr. Orcutt ­”

“Ah!” cried Imogene, rising up in the great arm-chair in which she was half-sitting and half-reclining.  “I know what you are going to say.  I was with Mr. Orcutt when he died.  I heard him myself declare that fate had spoken in his death.  I believe Mr. Orcutt to have been the murderer of Mrs. Clemmens, Helen.”

“Yes, there can be no doubt about that,” was the reply.

“It has been proved then?”

“Yes.”

Moved to the depths of her being, Imogene covered her face with her hands.  Presently she murmured: 

“I do not understand it.  Why should such a great man as he have desired the death of a woman like her?  He said it was all for my sake.  What did he mean, Helen?”

“Don’t you know?” questioned the other, anxiously.

“How should I?  It is the mystery of mysteries to me.”

“Ah, then you did not suspect that she was his wife?”

“His wife!” Imogene rose in horror.

“Yes,” repeated the little bride with decision.  “She was his lawfully wedded wife.  They were married as long ago as when we were little children.”

“Married!  And he dared to approach me with words of love!  Dared to offer himself to me as a husband while his hands were still wet with the life-blood of his wife!  O the horror of it!  The amazing wickedness and presumption of it!”

“He is dead,” whispered the gentle little lady at her side.

With a sigh of suppressed feeling, Imogene sank back.

“I must not think of him,” she cried.  “I am not strong enough.  I must think only of Craik.  He has been acquitted, you say ­acquitted.”

“Yes, and the whole town is rejoicing.”

A smile, exquisite as it was rare, swept like a sunbeam over Imogene’s lips.

“And I rejoice with the rest,” she cried.  Then, as if she felt all speech to be a mockery, she remained for a long time silent, gazing with ever-deepening expression into the space before her, till Helen did not know whether the awe she felt creeping over her sprang from admiration of her companion’s suddenly awakened beauty or from a recognition of the depths of that companion’s emotions.  At last Imogene spoke: 

“How came Mr. Mansell to be acquitted?  Mr. Gryce did not tell me to look for any such reinstatement as that.  The most he bade me expect was that Mr. Ferris would decline to prosecute Mr. Mansell any further, in which event he would be discharged.”

“I know,” said Helen, “but Mr. Mansell was not satisfied with that.  He demanded a verdict from the jury.  So Mr. Ferris, with great generosity, asked the Judge to recommend the jury to bring in a verdict of acquittal, and when the Judge hesitated to do this, the foreman of the jury himself rose, and intimated that he thought the jury were ready with their verdict.  The Judge took advantage of this, and the result was a triumphant acquittal.”

“O Helen, Helen!”

“That was just an hour ago,” cried the little lady, brightly, “but the people are not through shouting yet.  There has been a great excitement in town these last few days.”

“And I knew nothing of it!” exclaimed Imogene.  Suddenly she looked at Helen.  “How did you hear about what took place in the court-room to-day?” she asked.

“Mr. Byrd told me.”

“Ah, Mr. Byrd?”

“He came to leave a good-bye for you.  He goes home this afternoon.”

“I should like to have seen Mr. Byrd,” said Imogene.

“Would you?” queried the little lady, quietly shaking her head.  “I don’t know; I think it is just as well you did not see him,” said she.

But she made no such demur when a little while later Mr. Gryce was announced.  The fatherly old gentleman had evidently been in that house before, and Mrs. Richmond was not the woman to withstand a man like him.

He came immediately into the room where Imogene was sitting.  Evidently he thought as Helen did, that good news never hurts.

“Well!” he cried, taking her trembling hand in his, with his most expressive smile.  “What did I tell you?  Didn’t I say that if you would only trust me all would come right?  And it has, don’t you see?  Right as a trivet.”

“Yes,” she returned; “and I never can find words with which to express my gratitude.  You have saved two lives, Mr. Gryce:  his ­and mine.”

“Pooh! pooh!” cried the detective, good-humoredly.  “You mustn’t think too much of any thing I have done.  It was the falling limb that did the business.  If Mr. Orcutt’s conscience had not been awakened by the stroke of death, I don’t know where we should have been to-day.  Affairs were beginning to look pretty dark for Mansell.”

Imogene shuddered.

“But I haven’t come here to call up unpleasant memories,” he continued.  “I have come to wish you joy and a happy convalescence.”  And leaning toward her, he said, with a complete change of voice:  “You know, I suppose, why Mr. Mansell presumed to think you guilty of this crime?”

“No,” she murmured, wearily; “unless it was because the ring he believed me to have retained was found on the scene of murder.”

“Bah!” cried Mr. Gryce, “he had a much better reason than that.”

And with the air of one who wishes to clear up all misunderstandings, he told her the words which her lover had overheard Mrs. Clemmens say when he came up to her dining-room door.

The effect on Imogene was very great.  Hoping to hide it, she turned away her face, showing in this struggle with herself something of the strength of her old days.  Mr. Gryce watched her with interest.

“It is very strange,” was her first remark.  “I had such reasons for thinking him guilty; he such good cause for thinking me so.  What wonder we doubted each other.  And yet I can never forgive myself for doubting him; I can sooner forgive him for doubting me.  If you see him ­”

“If I see him?” interrupted the detective, with a smile.

“Yes,” said she.  “If you see him tell him that Imogene Dare thanks him for his noble conduct toward one he believed to be stained by so despicable a crime, and assure him that I think he was much more justified in his suspicions than I was in mine, for there were weaknesses in my character which he had ample opportunities for observing, while all that I knew of him was to his credit.”

“Miss Dare,” suggested the detective, “couldn’t you tell him this much better yourself?”

“I shall not have the opportunity,” she said.

“And why?” he inquired.

“Mr. Mansell and I have met for the last time.  A woman who has stained herself by such declarations as I made use of in court the last time I was called to the stand has created a barrier between herself and all earthly friendship.  Even he for whom I perjured myself so basely cannot overleap the gulf I dug between us two that day.”

“But that is hard,” said Mr. Gryce.

“My life is hard,” she answered.

The wise old man, who had seen so much of life and who knew the human heart so well, smiled, but did not reply.  He turned instead to another subject.

“Well,” he declared, “the great case is over!  Sibley, satisfied with having made its mark in the world, will now rest in peace.  I quit the place with some reluctance myself.  ’Tis a mighty pretty spot to do business in.”

“You are going?” she asked.

“Immediately,” was the reply.  “We detectives don’t have much time to rest.”  Then, as he saw how deep a shadow lay upon her brow, added, confidentially:  “Miss Dare, we all have occasions for great regret.  Look at me now.  Honest as I hold myself to be, I cannot blind myself to the fact that I am the possible instigator of this crime.  If I had not shown Mr. Orcutt how a man like himself might perpetrate a murder without rousing suspicion, he might never have summoned up courage to attempt it.  For a detective with a conscience, that is a hard thought to bear.”

“But you were ignorant of what you were doing,” she protested.  “You had no idea there was any one present who was meditating crime.”

“True; but a detective shouldn’t be ignorant.  He ought to know men; he has opportunity enough to learn them.  But I won’t be caught again.  Never in any company, not if it is composed of the highest dignitaries in the land, will I ever tell again how a crime of any kind can be perpetrated without risk.  One always runs the chance of encountering an Orcutt.”

Imogene turned pale.  “Do not speak of him,” she cried.  “I want to forget that such a man ever lived.”

Mr. Gryce smiled again.

“It is the best thing you can do,” said he.  “Begin a new life, my child; begin a new life.”

And with this fatherly advice, he said good-bye, and she saw his wise, kind face no more.

The hour that followed was a dreary one for Imogene.  Her joy at knowing Craik Mansell was released could not blind her to the realization of her own ruined life.  Indeed she seemed to feel it now as never before; and as the slow minutes passed, and she saw in fancy the strong figure of Mansell surrounded by congratulating admirers and friends, the full loneliness of her position swept over her, and she knew not whether to be thankful or not to the fever for having spared her blighted and dishonored life.

Mrs. Richmond, seeing her so absorbed, made no attempt at consolation.  She only listened, and when a step was heard, arose and went out, leaving the door open behind her.

And Imogene mused on, sinking deeper and deeper into melancholy, till the tears, which for so long a time had been dried at their source, welled up to her eyes and fell slowly down her cheeks.  Their touch seemed to rouse her.  Starting erect, she looked quickly around as if to see if anybody was observing her.  But the room seems quite empty, and she is about to sink back again with a sigh when her eyes fall on the door-way and she becomes transfixed.  A sturdy form is standing there!  A manly, eager form in whose beaming eyes and tender smile shine a love and a purpose which open out before her quite a different future from that which her fancy had been so ruthlessly picturing.