Chapter 5

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."

XLI.

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.

XLII.

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.

XLIII.

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.

XLIV.

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."

XLV.

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.

THE END.

PUBLICATIONS OF G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS.

=THE LEAVENWORTH CASE.= A Lawyer's Story. By ANNA KATHERINE GREEN. 16mo, paper, 60 cents; cloth, $1.00.

"In one respect at least, 'The Leavenworth Case' is the peer of Gaboriau's best efforts--the wonderful skill with which the author draws the reader, now this way, now that, in the search for the perpetrator of the mysterious crime with which the story begins, and deludes him until he reaches almost the last page."--_New Haven Palladium._

"Wilkie Collins, in his best period, never invented a more ingeniously constructed plot, nor held the reader in such suspense until the final denouement. The most blasé novel-reader will be unable to put aside 'The Leavenworth Case' until he has read the last sentence and mastered the mystery which has baffled him from the beginning."--_N. Y. Express._

"She has proved herself as well able to write an interesting story of mysterious crime as any man living."--_The Academy, (London.)_

"She has worked up a _cause celèbre_ with a fertility of device and ingenuity of treatment hardly second to Wilkie Collins or Edgar Allen Poe."--_Christian Union._

"We have read no story for a long time which has had so much of the Wilkie Collins, and Edgar Allen Poe flavor of reality in the telling."--_Congregationalist._

"We do not propose to give the plot of the work, however, but merely to say that it is one of the most ingenious of the kind we have ever read."--_Buffalo Express._

"This is the sort of book to be eagerly read and thoroughly enjoyed."--_St. Paul Pioneer._

"A new novel by a new writer, which enchains our attention from the very first sentence of the first page, is a pleasant surprise. * * * Told with a force and power that indicate great dramatic talent in the writer."--_St. Louis Post._

"Its interest is undoubted and it is thoroughly well sustained."--_N. Y. Evening Post._

"The story is developed with great skill and shows ingenuity of the highest order."--_Troy Times._

"A story of mystery and crime and is here narrated with an artistic skill which inevitably holds the interest of the reader, even to the point of the highest tension, to the close of the last chapter. * * * A real marvel of fiction."--_Davenport Gazette._

=A STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE.= By ANNA KATHARINE GREEN. 16mo, paper, 50 cents, cloth, $1.00.

"The plot is marked with striking originality, and the story is narrated with a vigor and power rarely met in modern novels. It is deeply interesting from beginning to end, and holds the reader entranced from the moment the first page is read until the last sentence is reached. It is, in fact, a revelation in American romance-writing, and we heartily commend it to the public."--_Baltimore Gazette._

"Catches the fancy and chains the interest of the reader to such a degree that he is unwilling to lay it down until every page is devoured."--_Toledo Journal._

"The author has chosen a department of fiction where only the best writers succeed, but she has shown herself capable of sustaining her role with wonderful vigor."--_Boston Evening Traveller._

"It is an ingenious plot, admirably worked up, and told so straightforward as to be wholly pleasing."--_Chicago Inter-Ocean._

"One of the best police detective stories written in America."--_Hartford Courant._

"Wilkie Collins would not be ashamed of the construction of this story. * * * It keeps the reader's close attention from first to last."--_N. Y. Evening Post._

"A most ingenious and absorbingly interesting story. The readers are held spell-bound till the last page."--_Cincinnati Commercial._

"Ingenious in construction, powerful in dramatic interest, and artistic in development."--_Boston Gazette._

"A most intensely interesting work of fiction. The story is developed with skill, and the work written in a strong, powerful style."--_Augusta (Me.) Farmer._

"The plot is new and sparkling, and the story is carried to its denouement with an ingenuity and brightness of manner that makes it impossible to lay the volume down until completed. * * * It is a marvel of fiction."--_Columbus Sunday Capital._

"The plot is very ingenious. * * * The interest in the tale is remarkably well sustained until its conclusion, and the mystery which envelopes the principal character is concealed with a great deal of artistic skill. * * * Shows a spirit of patient research that speaks well for the industry of the writer, and an analytical faculty rarely seen in a woman."--_Boston Courier._

=X. Y. Z.= A Detective Story. By ANNA KATHARINE GREEN. 16mo, paper, 25 cents.

"Well written and extremely exciting and captivating. * * * She is a perfect genius in the construction of a plot."--_N. Y. Commercial Advertiser._

"Will keep the sleepiest reader wide-awake from title to finis."--_Boston Transcript._

"An extremely interesting story, * * * the development of the plot is kept well in hand, and the denouement is as dramatic as any that could be desired."--_Albany Argus._

=THE DEFENCE OF THE BRIDE=, and Other Poems. By ANNA KATHARINE GREEN. Sq. 16mo, flex. cloth, $1.00.

"Written with a spirit and force that are impressive."--_Congregationalist._

PUBLICATIONS OF G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS.

BAYARD TAYLOR'S NOVELS.

I. =Hannah Thurston.= A STORY OF AMERICAN LIFE 12mo. Household edition, $1.50

"If Bayard Taylor has not placed himself, as we are half inclined to suspect, in the front rank of novelists, he has produced a very remarkable book--a really original story, admirably told, crowded with life-like characters full of delicate and subtle sympathies, with ideas the most opposite to his own, and lighted up throughout with that playful humor which suggests always wisdom rather than mere fun."--_London Spectator._

II. =John Godfrey's Fortunes.= RELATED BY HIMSELF 12mo. Household edition, $1.50

"'John Godfrey's Fortunes,' without being melodramatic or morbid, is one of the most fascinating novels which we have ever read. Its portraiture of American social life, though not flattering, is eminently truthful; its delineation of character is delicate and natural; its English, though sometimes careless, is singularly grateful and pleasant."--_Cleveland Leader._

III. =The Story of Kennett.= 12mo. Household edition, $1.50

"Mr. Bayard Taylor's book is _delightful and refreshing reading_, and great rest after the crowded artistic effects and the conventional interests of even the better kind of English novels."--_London Spectator._

"As a picture of rural life, we think this novel of Mr. Taylor's excels any of his previous productions."--_N. Y. Evening Post._

"A tale of absorbing interest."--_Syracuse Standard._

IV. =Joseph and his Friend.= A STORY OF PENNSYLVANIA 12mo. Household edition, $1.50

"In Bayard Taylor's happiest vein."--_Buffalo Express._

"By far the best novel of the season."--_Cleveland Leader._

V. =Beauty and the Beast= and =Tales of Home=. 12mo Household edition, $1.50

Bayard Taylor's Complete Works.

=The Complete Works of Bayard Taylor.= In sixteen volumes. Household edition, $24.00

=The Travels=, separate, eleven volumes. Household edition, $16.50

The Novels, separate, five volumes, boards. Cedarcroft edition, $6.25

* * * * *

Transcriber's note:

The original text had page v before pages iii and iv. This was rearranged in this edition. The List of Illustrations now follows the Table of Contents.

The text uses both "vail" and "veil," "depot" and "depôt."

Obvious punctuation errors were corrected.

Page 17, "have'nt" changed to "haven't" (that haven't much)

Page 29, "vengance" changed to "vengeance" (May the vengeance of Heaven)

Page 138, "yon" changed to "you" (you would be likely)

Page 140, "notwithstandingt he" changed to "notwithstanding the" (notwithstanding the humiliating)

Page 221, "infinitesmal" changed to "infinitesimal" (an infinitesimal chip from)

Page 227, "obstancy" changed to "obstinacy" (selfishness and obstinacy)

Page 235, "Ferrris" changed to "Ferris" (cried Mr. Ferris, looking)

Page 267, "where" changed to "were" (you were when you)

Page 288, "desparing" changed to "despairing" (The despairing influence)

Page 326, "a" changed to "at" (I am boarding at present)

Page 402, "band" changed to "hand" (lay his hand upon)

Page 410, "unneccessary" changed to "unnecessary" (an unnecessary display)

Page 417, "his" changed to "is" (he is trying his influence)

Page 431, "disegarded" changed to "disregarded" (it shall be disregarded)

Page 462, "Sueh" changed to "Such" (Such--as--Gouvernour)

Page 526, "thumselves" changed to "themselves" (are amusing themselves)

Page 552, "sor" changed to "for" (promised little for an)

Page 558, "most" changed to "must" (one must also believe)

Page 565, "Gyrce" changed to "Gryce" (Mr. Gryce, with his usual)

Page 591, "surbordinates" changed to "subordinates" (his subordinates arose)