Sir Donald Randolph and Esther remained several months at Paris.

While keeping fully advised of all developments reported to the London detective bureau, Sir Donald seemed absorbed in sight-seeing. His zeal in unmasking the conspiracy resulting in the double murder was unabated. That Paul Lanier, at the instigation of his father, committed the homicides, partial developments tended to prove. From Calcutta and Bombay advices received at London there was no doubt that some fraud had been perpetrated against the estate of William Webster by his partner in India.

Sir Donald felt much concern for the welfare of Esther. Not having his retributive zeal to support her in this trial, she brooded more over the recent past. He tried to divert her mind to pleasant subjects, thereby weaning from sorrowful memories.

There was much in Paris life to engross youthful attention. This, with her generous sympathy for her father’s troubles and effort to mitigate his painful remembrances, prevented gloomy melancholy. Yet Esther could not be joyous. Both Oswald and Alice were transfigured. Her love for the one and pity for the other grew in tender pathos. Oswald Langdon ever would be an ideal of courteous, refined, considerate, earnest, high-souled manhood, whose last of life had touched her being’s most sensitive vibratory chords.

Father and daughter were much admired by Parisian social elite. Their rare intelligence, culture, and refined manners had an irresistible charm. However, there was that about both which repelled familiar personal association. They moved amid gay festivities as if their thoughts were elsewhere.

This abstraction and mutual care for each other’s wants tinged their conduct with romantic interest. In all the whirl and surge of Parisian life, these unique faces never failed to attract notice. Neither seeking nor avoiding social recognition, they became quite extensively known among prominent French families and cosmopolitan notables domiciled at this Mecca of migratory moneyed aristocracy.

Sir Donald’s intellectual acumen and rare versatility could not fail to impress all with whom he came in contact. His elegance of manner and diction, easy grace, with air of accustomed self-poise suggested habitual luxurious environment.

Esther’s finely molded, expressive features, faultless form, pensive grace, and rare feminine accomplishments seemed natural paternal dower. Doors flew open as if by magic; desired entree smiled eager beckoning; refined circles gave freedom of their domain. Many arts of indirection were employed by eligible madames, monsieurs, and visiting notables of both sexes to remove that invisible yet formidable barrier of reserve. Courteous evasion or mild indifference or other countercraft parried every assault. In some few instances, vague or more positive-mannered “cuts” silenced curious inquiry, but these were rare. After one successful evasion, he remarked to Esther: “Refined, resolute reserve has many arts for warding off both vulgar and cultured impertinence.”

Esther found time to learn much about the condition of Paris poor. Sir Donald encouraged this whim as tending to divert her mind from the past and to exert a wholesome influence. Many little helpful ministries among this class could be credited to her brief sojourn in this European capital. Esther frequently visited at the hospitals. Her calls were so ordered that notoriety was avoided. Naturally timid, she now shrank from publicity as contagion, but would take necessary hazards.

Esther’s zeal grows with knowledge of human want. Service becomes high privilege. Ward of want is now sanctuary. She sometimes has glimpses of angelic competition.

Smiling at his daughter’s helpful infatuation, Sir Donald often accompanied her in these calls. He soon feels symptoms of mild interest. The contagion is pleasing. These visits grow in length and frequency. Sir Donald is losing zeal for man-capture. He is in danger of yielding to the delusive heresy which sees more of interest in human suffering than in crime.

One stormy day father and daughter are at a hospital. They had thought of staying away until after the rain was over, but Esther seemed lonely, and Sir Donald proposed an immediate call. They rode in a closed carriage, taking some delicacies to those who had learned to watch for their coming.

A piteous moan attracts Esther’s quick ear and sympathy. Going softly down the aisle, she places her hand upon the fevered brow of a new inmate. The sufferer opens his eyes with a startled look. She asks his name and ailment. There is an expression of supplication on the pale face.

“Am I dreaming? No, it cannot be Miss Randolph.”

“Yes, I am Esther Randolph. Won’t you kindly tell me your name?”

Seeing his hesitation, Esther added: “Whisper it! I will not tell!” Sir Donald came near, but was motioned to stop. He understood her reason, and moved away. There was no response.

“Perhaps I can do something for you!”

“Not now. I shall soon be where help never comes.”

Esther begged him to permit her to send for a minister.

“There is no use! My crimes are too great!”

Esther could not leave this strange sufferer with his goading conscience. She suggested that perhaps by telling her of his past life some good might result to the living. He remained silent for a while.

“Yes; but how atone for the death of the innocent? No, I did not kill them! I never knew about the murders until both were drowned!”

He seemed in fevered reverie. Esther, now excited, but controlling her voice, soothingly said:

“Tell me all your troubles. You are safe.”

“But they will kill me if I tell! They never fail to have revenge.”

“But if you are dying, why go before God without telling all? How can they hurt you for telling?” whispered Esther.

“True; but if I should not die?”

“Tell all, and you shall not be harmed.”

He looked long in her face and eyes.

“Yes, I will tell none but you. I have seen you and your father in London. Where is your father now?”

“Here in this ward.”

There is a startled look.

“But Sir Donald Randolph is my enemy!”

Esther assured him that her father never would betray the trust of a dying man.

He seemed convinced, but indulged in further soliloquy.

“Why should they care to follow me? The case is dismissed. I had nothing to do with the murders.”

Esther sees the tragic coherence of these rambling remarks. She urges him to confess all.

“Better to tell father also. Perhaps he can protect you from your enemies. I am sure father never will betray your trust.”

Sir Donald was called, and with Esther heard the confession.

“My name is William Dodge. Yes, I am the man who commenced that villainous suit against poor Alice Webster. Don’t look so hard at me! I did not kill her! I never murdered Oswald Langdon.

“It is so hard to be poor and out of work. To think of Mary and the four children without food or clothing! Why, I was so desperate at times that I would have murdered for money! What was the life of one rich, useless old man to that of my Mary and our starving children? But I was not to be a murderer. No, old Pierre Lanier saved me from that crime. Bad as he is, that must be said in his favor. How scared the old rascal was when I fired! He spoke so strangely. Said: ’My good man, you are surely mistaken, but what can I do for you? Here are some coins, all I have with me, but come along and you shall have more.’ I had fired at him, but missed my aim. There was no one in sight in that deserted part of Calcutta. I mistrusted his motives, but needing money, went with him. He stopped, and we sat down on a deserted bench by the side of an old vacant house. What a sly, insinuating old villain he was! Telling me that there must be some reason for my strange action in shooting, but that he would help me if I trusted him.

“I told him of my poverty and helpless family. He seemed to pity us, and said: ’I do not blame you in the least. I admire your spirit. What can you do?’

“I told him that my former work had been bookkeeping, but that I had been discharged for dishonesty, through the connivance of another employe, who stole the money and turned suspicion on me.

“Old Pierre Lanier then became very sympathetic. I could make a neat little fortune and provide for my family’s immediate wants without committing murder. He would commit any crime before those depending on him for support should suffer. If I would come with him, we would talk it over.

“I expressed fear that he would surrender me to the police.

“’Is not your revolver full of cartridges? Here, take my pistol. Soon as you see me attempting any treachery, shoot to kill. My good friend, I have use for you. If you can serve me, your family shall be well cared for, and I will find more money for you to-night.’

“With this strange assurance, so positively stated, I went with him. We entered his room, and the lights were turned on. Bringing pen, paper, and ink, he sat down by a table and wrote several names.

“‘Please copy these just like originals.’

“I did as requested.

“‘Good! Now these,’ handing me paper with other signatures.

“‘Very good! Please copy the body of the papers.’

“Then he told me of his wish to procure conveyances, purporting to come from the persons whose signatures I had copied, of property situated in London. This property was in the possession of a girl there. I was to draft these, and sign the proper names to them as grantors and witnesses. We would go to London, and at the right time begin the action for the possession of the property. He did not imagine the case ever would come to trial, but I must wait until advised to quit. My pay would be one thousand pounds and all expenses. He said the girl’s title was defective, but that easily could be remedied. In the mean time my family must be provided for. ‘Take these to bind the bargain.’

“What could I do but accept the offer and the money? It is easy for those having life’s comforts and luxuries to be honest. What idea have such of temptation’s power? Look in haggard, despairing face of wife and hear the cries of hungry children! Then be honest! Refuse to stain your soul for bread! I tell you, hunger has no soul!”

Overpowered by passionate memories, he fell back exhausted. Tears were streaming down the cheeks of Esther. Sir Donald’s vision was obscured by mists. He turned away his face.

Punish such criminal? It is more likely that both these would incur liability as “accessories after the fact.”

In a few minutes strength for further confessions returned.

“I often met Pierre and Paul Lanier in Calcutta. Neither of them told me directly that Paul desired to marry Alice Webster, but I was sure that this was the wish of both. I thought that if the marriage occurred, there would be a dismissal of the action, otherwise it would be pressed. In this I was but partly right. They never intended the case should be tried. It was begun to bring about the marriage. When Alice was drowned and the case was set for trial, it had to be dismissed. Paul and his father were with me when I told the solicitors to quit.

“I heard Paul tell his father before Alice Webster’s death that they would never hear from that girl again. She was at the bottom of the lake. Pierre Lanier replied:

“’It is bad business, Paul, but can’t be helped. Better an accident than intentionally, my boy.’

“They never knew I heard their talk. I suspected some foul play, but was surprised to have Alice and the rest of you pointed out after your arrival in London.

“Paul, his father, and I often met in London, but without being seen together. After it was rumored that Alice and Oswald Langdon had been drowned in the Thames, I felt much worried. That same evening of the night when they disappeared I heard Paul tell his father of the proposed boat-ride, but that Oswald and the two girls were going. They agreed that Paul should trail them and learn what he could. Paul told his father what he had heard in the park. Both seemed much enraged, but Pierre Lanier cautioned Paul to be patient and not lose his temper.

“‘Whatever happens, he must not marry her!’ said Paul.

“’That’s right, my boy; but remember the lake, and keep cool. Make no rash breaks next time.’

“I was present at this conversation, but appeared not to notice their subdued talk. My curiosity was aroused by their suggestive remarks. I left about dusk. Soon after, Paul came out. I kept out of his sight, but watched him closely. He stopped beyond where the boats were. I watched at a suitable distance. Soon Oswald and Alice came down to the stream, and procuring a boat, rowed up the river. Paul followed them. Very curious to know the result, I yet feared for my own safety. If he intended any violence, I would be safer elsewhere. It would be dangerous for him to learn that I knew of his crime. He would find an effective way of silencing a witness. Besides, I might be suspected.

“These thoughts determined me to return. My curiosity was sufficiently aroused for me to shadow the neighborhood of Paul’s room. My own room was in another block, but where I could see Paul if he came back the most direct route from the river. Part of the time I sat by the darkened window, looking out in the direction of the stream; at other times I strolled up and down the street. Then I would stand in the dark hallway.

“About three hours after his disappearance up the shore of the river I heard hurried steps, and slipped out into the hallway at entrance of the stairs and watched. Paul walked rapidly by, and I followed at safe distance. He soon entered his room. I returned and retired, but felt that some fearful crime had been committed.

“Next morning I bought daily papers, to learn if anything had happened to Oswald or Alice. Feeling uneasy, I haunted the neighborhood of Alice’s home, but saw no signs. In the afternoon I visited the point where the boat had been taken. The keeper remarked:

“‘What could have happened to that good-lookin’ jay and bloomin’ sweetheart of his’n? I doesn’t care how much they spoons, but I wants my boat.’

“Much excited, I was walking around, wondering what had happened, when you two were seen coming. Feeling ashamed to meet the friends of the girl against whom had been brought the villainous suit, I moved up the stream to where there would be a good view of your actions. Pretty soon both of you and the keeper started up the river in a boat. I then knew neither Oswald nor Alice had returned. That they had been killed by Paul Lanier I was now sure.

“A sense of indirect complicity in this crime oppressed my heart. I skulked away and hid in my room. Uneasy there, I went over to Paul’s quarters, but he was not in. His father was there, and seemed nervous. The old man asked if I had heard any news, adding that he had not been in the street yet. I noticed some of that morning’s papers upon the table. He watched me suspiciously, but I acted unconcerned. I affected not to notice his nervous manner, but noted all. Listening intently to every sound, he would answer me mechanically, then would get up, slowly yawn, and shuffle toward the window fronting the street. Glancing each way, he then would be seated. His questions, answers, remarks, pauses, and whole manner confirmed me in the conviction that he had been informed of some act of Paul’s resulting in the death of the missing parties. He finally became quiet, and made no responses to my talk. I knew he wished to be alone, and rose to go. Following to the door, he was extremely polite, begging me to call again next day, sure. As I left, the door closed quickly, the bolt was thrust, and the lock clicked. I waited near, but where he could not see me.

“In about fifteen minutes a stooped form, with snow-white, flowing beard, feebly emerged from the hallway. Bending over a heavy cane, this old man looked through large colored glasses up, down, and across the street. He slowly started in an opposite direction from where I was standing. After he had turned the corner, I walked rapidly around the block, and saw the old man still pegging away, watching everything along his path. Soon his steps quickened, and I was compelled to walk rapidly. Finally he turned a corner, entering a narrow alley extending between rows of low buildings. I crossed to the other side of the street, and passed down to the alley, but the old man had disappeared.

“I was sure that either Pierre or Paul Lanier, in this disguise, was now hiding in one of these low buildings along the alley. Though much excited, I knew better than longer to continue my stay in that quarter. I returned to watch the entrance to the room occupied by Paul and his father.

“In about two hours this same stooping figure slowly came up the street and entered the hallway. I was sure that Pierre Lanier had visited Paul, and was keeping him posted.

“That evening I went down to the boathouse and learned about the finding of Oswald’s hat. The boat had been found. I felt creepy, and that night retired early.

“Next morning’s papers told of the disappearances. In the afternoon I went over to Paul’s room. Both were in, and greeted me with great apparent pleasure. They wondered why I did not come sooner. After a while Paul carelessly asked me if I had read any of the morning papers. Neither he nor his father had been on the street, except for meals. I told him that there had been considerable in the papers about our mutual friends. Here were the accounts. I expressed doubt of their correctness, and carelessly remarked:

“’Guess it’s some reporter’s fake.

“Paul read, and seemed greatly surprised. His father looked it all over, and wondered if there were any truth in the reports. They suggested that if it should turn out true, we must consider well our course of action. Suspicion might point to me as the one interested in the death of Alice Webster. My suit recently commenced against her might be construed as interesting me in having the girl put out of the way.

“I was terribly shocked. They continued to arouse my fears until I was frantic. Both spoke of this mysterious disappearance as most unfortunate for me under the circumstances. It seemed to me there was little chance to escape. Old Pierre Lanier thought I must remain in seclusion until matters cleared up. It would not do for me to be seen. Perhaps if I kept out of sight, no one would think of me in connection with this affair. They advised me to change my room to a certain quarter of the city, and remain there until Paul procured suitable disguise.

“I was paralyzed with fear, and did as they told me. Going back to my room, I waited until Paul entered. He came in without knocking. I was startled by the appearance of a strange man with slouch hat and heavy brown whiskers. He removed the disguise. I was told to pack my valise and trunk and get ready to move. A false beard was handed me with some old clothes. Paul told me to put them on. Giving the name of my new quarters, and cautioning me to remain there until he called, Paul ran downstairs and brought up the man who was to remove my baggage. Telling me the man had his directions and would know just where to go, Paul left. After a roundabout trip we reached my destination. I was surprised to see the driver enter the same alley down which had passed on the previous day that strange old man. With feelings of dread I followed up a back stairway into a low room, where my stuff was deposited.

“‘This is the place,’ said the driver, and left.

“Soon after, Paul entered in the same disguise. This, he said, was to be my home until further arrangements could be made.

“’Father and I will be over every day and report. I will show you where to board near here. Your name is to be Joshua Wilkins.’

“I remained in this place several weeks, going out frequently. Both Pierre and Paul called often, always in disguise. Occasionally we went about London together. It seemed to me at times that we were being shadowed. Sometimes when I was alone, strangers in my hearing would speak about either Paul or Pierre Lanier, and watch me, as if they knew our acquaintance. Frequently the Dodge case against Alice Webster was mentioned. There would be talk about the disappearances of Alice and Oswald. It always seemed to me that I was being watched. Paul and Pierre Lanier were affected in the same way. Strangers would refer to these subjects in their presence. Both had denied ever seeing William Dodge.

“Oh, how miserable I was during all this time! I was suspicious of everybody and trembled at common noises. Any unexpected look of stranger caused a start. It was in vain that I reasoned against this foolish fear. My misery was so great that I contemplated suicide. It seemed to me that both of the Laniers gloated over my wretchedness. They enlarged on the perils of my situation. I really believe they wished me to take my own life. From things which I then did under their advice I often think they intended deserting me. If the bodies of Alice and Oswald had been found, I believe these villains would have procured my arrest for the murders. I was completely in their power, and it now seems that they were weaving a web for my destruction. They owed me nine hundred pounds, and I knew things against them. I bore up under it all, for the sake of Mary and the children. Old Pierre had given me in all one hundred pounds before we started for London. I gave most of this to Mary.

“Poor Mary! I have not heard from her for many weeks. Now I am here in this hospital, dying!

“Serves me right for killing that poor girl! Yes, I’m to blame that Oswald Langdon and Alice Webster were drowned! But tell the jury, Mary and the children were hungry! Tell them that. Tell the judge about Mary and the children. Don’t forget to tell the judge that! Tell everybody about that!”

There was a long silence. With scared faces Sir Donald and Esther bent over the motionless form. The attending physician felt the wrist, listened for heart-throbs. A cordial was administered. That deathlike swoon lasted for several minutes, followed by slow return to consciousness. It was evident that further attempt of the sick man to relate his experiences with these archconspirators then would be unadvisable. The physician said there was some hope of the man’s recovery, but that quiet and rest were imperative. Sir Donald and Esther were loth to go, but the hospital rules were strict. They left, much interested in the fate of William Dodge.

The confession, though confirming Sir Donald’s theory of this conspiracy, was startling. That Paul Lanier had murdered both Oswald and Alice was evident. But what had become of the bodies? Could it be that the hat and handkerchief were placed where found to mislead as to manner of deaths? Were the bodies still in the river, or buried elsewhere? Perhaps the remains of Oswald and Alice had been reduced to ashes and scattered to the winds. How could the necessary evidence be obtained? How bring their murderers to justice without proof of the “corpus delicti”? Could this dying man know other facts furnishing a clew to establish their deaths? Would it be right to harass him with further inquiry upon the verge of the tomb? Why employ his slender thread of life in unraveling this intricate web. Better point him to that hope which is the refuge of a sinful soul.

But is there any way of saving this guilty wretch, with his crimes unconfessed? First confession, then shriving of the penitent.

Limit the mercy of Heaven? Is the Infinite compassion contingent upon finite fellow tactics?

Sir Donald and Esther felt more solicitude for the sick man’s recovery than in further revelations.

Next day they are early callers at the hospital. William Dodge is still alive, but delirious. He slept much of the night, but is flighty, making many wild, incoherent speeches. Receiving permission to see him, Sir Donald and Esther approach the cot.

“No, Mary, I will never let you or the children starve! I got the money from Pierre Lanier! Dear old Pierre Lanier saved my Mary and the children! Put that down! Yes, the old rascal saved Mary and the children from starving! Put that down! Old Pierre saved me from being a murderer! Write that in the book, too! No, I never struck either of them! It was Paul Lanier! He murdered them! Your boy is not a murderer! Mother, I am innocent! Mary’s folks said William Dodge could not provide for Mary! I did though! But Mary cried about the children! How Mary and the children ate that night! I got it all from dear old Pierre Lanier!”

There was another pause, and the delirious man seemed to sleep. Suddenly he struck his clenched hand upon the spread and stared wildly.

“You miserable murderer! Keep that money, and I will hang you! Send it to me, or I will tell how Paul killed Alice Webster and Oswald Langdon! That’s right! Pay me, and it’s all right! I’ll never squeal! I need it for Mary and the children! They’ll be happy now!”

Sir Donald and Esther make daily calls until it is safe to see their interesting invalid. Recovery is slow. Sir Donald broaches the subject of the Thames tragedy. Dodge does not remember much of his former talk, but seems willing to divulge all he knows. He trusts that these kind friends will not betray his confidence. The Laniers would murder him if they heard.

Receiving positive assurance that there will be nothing said until Dodge is consulted, the narrative is again begun. Sir Donald tells him the substance of former statements.

“Well, I will complete the horrible story, relying on your promise never to tell without my consent. Those Laniers would surely find a swift way of silencing me if they knew I had told. Often I am afraid that they will have me assassinated, anyhow.

“Both of them came together to my hiding-place, much excited. My case against Alice was set for trial. Her barrister had procured the setting. They were much perplexed at this, and wondered if Alice and Oswald had turned up. Both were pale, and Paul trembled violently. He was not shamming this time. His father was nervous, but advised Paul to keep cool or all would be lost. We went together that night to see my solicitors. Pierre said he had seen them before, and that they would be in their office waiting for me. Pierre and Paul were disguised. I was to tell the solicitors that the case should be dismissed, as my witnesses could not be found.

“We entered the office, and found both solicitors there. When I told them to have the case dismissed they were much surprised.

“‘A continuance can be procured on proper showing.’

“Pierre Lanier scowled, and looking at me, shook his head.

“I insisted upon its dismissal, as the witnesses could not be relied upon. One solicitor said:

“’You have a complete chain of title deeds, and need no other witnesses, except to prove their genuineness.’

“Old Pierre frowned, and I replied:

“‘It is better to quit. I do not care to press the case.’

“They looked at each other and at us suspiciously.

“Old Pierre then spoke up, saying:

“’My friend wishes to drop the case. I understand that he owes you part of your fee. What were you to pay them, Mr. Dodge?’

“I replied, ‘Two hundred pounds.’

“‘How much have you paid?’

“‘Fifty pounds.’

“’Well, I know you have little money to waste on this case. These gentlemen have been paid well for what has been done thus far. If you need fifty pounds more to pay them off, I will loan the amount.’

“His proposition was promptly accepted. It was arranged that the case should be dismissed and the money paid. This was done.

“The Laniers now seemed anxious to get rid of me. I insisted on payment of the remaining nine hundred pounds. They expostulated with me; said it was outrageous; what good had I done them?

“To my remark that I was to quit upon their advice, and had done so, Pierre replied:

“‘Yes, but who imagined Alice would be drowned?’

“Paul said:

“‘You are suspected of putting her out of the way!’

“I was so angry that I looked straight at him, and said:

“‘You know more about that than I do!’

“I have often been sorry for this thrust, but it went home. Paul grew pale, and stared at me frightfully.

“‘Here, boys, none of your foolish quarreling!’ said Pierre. ’Mr. Dodge is entitled under the contract to the money. It shall never be said that Pierre Lanier failed to keep his word. We must stand by each other whatever happens. Mr. Dodge has a family, and long as I live they shall be provided for. I could beat him out of the money, as the contract was illegal and void. He could be prosecuted for conspiracy and fraud. Mr. Dodge will be suspected of murdering that man and girl. I have already heard rumors to that effect. But we must stand together. It would never do for Mr. Dodge to return home now. He must stay away from Calcutta a year, at least. Paul and I will go to Calcutta. We will let you know all that happens. You must not write to London, or to any one but me. I will deliver your letters to Mary, and mail hers to you. Your name must be James Wilton. When it is safe, I will write you to come home.’

“I saw the force of these directions, but asked how I was to live during my stay from home, and what provisions would be made for my family.

“Pierre replied: ’To-morrow you shall have one hundred pounds. I will give Mary one hundred pounds on my arrival in Calcutta. In one year I will pay each of you an additional hundred pounds. By that time, in all probability, you can return, and I will pay the balance in five equal annual installments.’

“This arrangement was made between us. I was in their power, and did just as he said. In a short time I sailed for Paris with the promised payment. The Laniers were to sail for Calcutta soon after. I have never received any letter from either of them since. A letter came to me from Mary, speaking of having received one hundred pounds, but not knowing from whom. It was placed to her credit in a Calcutta bank, and notice to that effect was left at the house. The letter was addressed to James Wilton in a disguised hand, but the inside sheet was in Mary’s handwriting. She had been told at the bank that I was in Bombay. Doubtless her letter went there, and was forwarded by some one instructed by Pierre Lanier to me at Paris.

“Letters from my wife came regularly. I continued to write, as directed by Pierre Lanier, and Mary received my letters. It was evident that Pierre had furnished the information of my being in Bombay, and I kept up the delusion.

“Life here in Paris, without employment, harassed by uncertainty, compelled to pass under an assumed name, away from my family, and obliged to keep up a deceitful correspondence with Mary, who supposed I was in Bombay, became very miserable. Still there was no alternative. I dreaded any failure to comply with the wishes of the Laniers. They would hesitate at no crime to protect themselves. I believed they suspected me of thinking Paul had murdered Oswald Langdon and Alice Webster. It would be safer for me to be away from them. Would they not plot my death if I were at Calcutta? If suspected or pursued, they might accuse me of the crime, and both conspire to secure my conviction.

“After some time spent in Paris, Mary’s letters ceased. I waited anxiously, but none came. Writing for explanations, I received no answer. My fears were aroused. Was she sick? Did my letters reach her? Were her letters and mine intercepted? Were detectives on my trail? Could it be that the Laniers were being pursued for those murders? Had they decided to throw me off?

“A thousand fears haunted me. I was in constant dread of being identified, yet looked daily for a letter from Mary. Sometimes I would fully decide to start for Calcutta, regardless of consequences, but abandoned the plan. I took sick. Becoming very weak, a physician was consulted. After a few visits, he directed that I be removed to the hospital. Here I have been for weeks, without hearing from my wife or family. What can I do to hear of them? Oh, can’t you do something in my behalf? Help me to hear from Mary and the children!”

Sir Donald asked many questions about the deaths of Oswald and Alice, but elicited little further information. He was convinced that nothing had been concealed. There was no positive proof of their deaths. How could this missing link be procured?

Both Sir Donald and Esther were much interested in the family of William Dodge. That this husband and father had been led into crime through poverty was apparent. His love for hungry wife and children placed him at the mercy of this archvillain, who, with his murderous son, had caused so much suffering.

Sir Donald well knew that to keep inviolate his agreement with William Dodge would be a technical concealment of crime. Yet he would have accepted any fate rather than betray such trust.

Strict compliance with penal statutes may require much individual meanness.

William Dodge was most unhappy. Each movement made seemed to further involve him in hopeless entanglement. The mistake which resulted in his wildly aimed cartridge missing its intended victim saved him from guilt of homicide.

But how judge of any event by its immediate circle? Only that far cycle whose ever-widening circuit merges eternal radii can fully compass the puissance of human action.

Under stress of immediate death he had fully confessed all. Now even the one dubious remnant of personal honor, according to crime’s unwritten code, is swept away.

How could the wretch, about to escape all human reckoning, making cowardly confession of crime involving fellow-guilt, hope that his confidences would remain inviolate? One of the penalties of faithless duplicity is that all trust in fellow-fealty dies.

William Dodge now feared that those who so kindly watched over his hospital cot would betray his trust. They doubtless were solicitous for his recovery, that he and the Laniers might be brought to ultimate justice. What respect could be expected of these for pledges given to one who had conspired against a helpless orphan? Why should they not speed the conviction of him whose intrigues were accessory to this double homicide?

How hard to conceive of better than self!

Neither Sir Donald nor Esther ever thought of punishment for the man just saved from the grave. Both felt that this poor fellow and his family were their special wards. All moral taint was covered by the mantle of sympathetic interest. Sir Donald had concluded that something must be done in behalf of those at Calcutta. It would not do to write, as this might in some way lead to inquiry for the absent father. He would avoid any course of action tending to affect the safety of this poor fellow with his burden of troubles.

There are persons who cannot do a mean act.

Though at times loth to leave Paris, Sir Donald and Esther will visit Calcutta. Thereby they may learn all about the Dodge family, and perhaps render needed assistance.

It has been three days since the hospital visit. Esther has been sick. When able to sit up, she insists upon his making a call upon their interesting convalescent and telling him of the proposed trip to India. Judge of Sir Donald’s surprise upon being informed that William Dodge had been removed from the hospital. At his request a conveyance bore him away the previous evening, but no one knew where. Not a word had been said by him giving any clew to his intentions. Nothing was uttered about Sir Donald or Esther.

This strange conduct greatly mystified Sir Donald. He framed all sorts of queries as to possible causes. Had their failure to make daily calls aroused Dodge’s suspicion? Was this poor fellow afraid of their betraying him? Did he think that having procured a full confession, they had no further interest except his conviction of crime? Had the identity and whereabouts of William Dodge been discovered? Were his silence and removal only parts of an adroitly planned detective ruse? Could it be that the Laniers were at the bottom of this strange move? What if William Dodge were to be tried for murdering Oswald Langdon and Alice Webster? Had the Laniers accused him of these crimes? Strange if Paul were to be tried as principal and the other two as accessories. Possibly the detectives had a complete chain of evidence connecting these with the murders and the bodies were discovered.

Sir Donald is much perplexed. This must not be communicated to the London office. In all this tangle there is one clear point. Whatever the result, Sir Donald will shield William Dodge. That family must be found and kept from want. Delay and premature action are alike precarious.

He compromises by a brief stay in Paris, better to know how to proceed. Failing to learn anything more, Sir Donald and Esther leave for Calcutta.