CHAPTER XXVI.

It was not a pleasant contemplation, that of facing the dreary, desolate house where her experiences of that evening had been so frightful, and it was with a shiver of horror that Leonie turned from the door which she had closed upon herself.

She stood for a moment irresolutely, her womanly cowardice fighting with her strong desire to gain possession of the papers that she believed the house to contain, feeling that if she left it until the morrow that the opportunity might be forever lost; yet it was a hard fight.

She was but a girl, weak of courage when she had time in which to think of fear, and the occurrences of the evening were not calculated to eradicate nervousness, yet with a determination that was singularly strong, she put fear from her and walked up the stairs.

All about her was in utter darkness, save for a ray of light that seemed to creep disconsolately through the window by which she had made her escape.

She looked at it with a shudder, remembering the terrible tragedy that had followed her exit through it, but not daring to give herself time for reflection, she began a search for matches.

She knew where the candle had stood at the time the pistol put it out, and groping her way through the gloom she succeeded in finding it.

There were a few matches upon the waiter of the holder. The pale gleam cast a fitful glow over the room that was uncanny. By it the objects appeared ghostly, and she drew back with a low cry of fright as her foot struck the straw of which Dick's bed had been composed.

She smiled at her own timidity when she saw what it really was, but her courage was of that watery character that threatened to desert her at each moment.

She did not dare to even trust herself to the inactivity of waiting for the break of day, but set about looking for the papers of which Liz had spoken, and which she knew must exist somewhere. But where was she to begin to look? She glanced about her helplessly.

"I feel quite sure they are not in the secretary down-stairs!" she muttered. "There was not a drawer in it locked, and surely Ben would not leave things like that about carelessly. However, there was that letter that I read, and which I still have. No, they were not there, or I should have discovered at least some trace of them. Let me see!"

Carefully she gazed about her, then realizing that she could hope for nothing without making a beginning, she began a thorough investigation of the premises, hampered by the scarcity of the light.

Behind boxes, in closets, between the pictures and back of an old chromo that adorned the wall, under everything that promised a place of concealment, she looked, but all to no purpose.

She was about to give it up in despair, when, as a last resort, she tore the clothing from the bed upon which Dick had died.

Between the mattress and the cords that were drawn across the bed in lieu of either springs or slats, she saw an old tin box!

With a cry of joy, she seized it.

The box was locked, but after a delay that was most exasperating in her excited state, Leonie succeeded in breaking the lock with a hammer.

As the lid opened, she grasped the papers within, and seating herself at a table, began looking over them eagerly.

There were extracts from old, yellow newspapers, photographs that seemed to be the relics of ages, and letters by the score.

From the contents of the box, one would have thought the man possessed of a mania for preserving such things, a thought in which Leonie would have concurred before she had completed her self-imposed task.

There were letters from confederates, letters from friends, letters from his mother, a few from Liz, and underneath, as though those were the things that he wanted to preserve most, she found another box of paper.

She opened it eagerly.

Passing over the smaller papers, she opened a letter, addressed in the stylish penmanship which she knew belonged to Miss Chandler.

Breathlessly she read:

"SIR,--I have just read your letter delivered by special messenger. The surprise to me has been so painful that I scarcely know what I ought to say; but if you will meet me to-night at the address that I shall append, I will have thought the matter over. I understand but too clearly your reason for coming forward to claim the child whom you deserted in her infancy, because you know that now I am the adopted daughter of a wealthy man who knows nothing of the disgrace that the penitentiary attached to my parents, and you think that I shall be only too willing to purchase your silence at any cost. Perhaps you are right. We shall see. At all events, meet me as I have indicated, and if you have any regard for your own child whatever, be careful that this letter does not fall into the hands of any one.

"Yours regretfully,

"E. C."

With a thrill of satisfaction Leonie laid the letter aside, apart from the others that had been rejected, and took up another.

A single paragraph from it read:

"You have made me a thief. Were you not a fiend your conscience would burn you to death for so foul a thing, but instead you are going to force me into the cell of a convict, the same, perhaps, that held both you and my mother. I am half inclined to believe that Leonard Chandler already suspects me. Should he find his suspicions to be true, there is nothing upon this earth that could save me. Your revenue would cease. I know that it would be useless to plead with your sympathy for me, but for your own sake let your demands at least be within reason."

Then again:

"Your suggestion about Lynde Pyne is a stroke of genius. With several millions at his command he will be worthy of the hand of your illustrious daughter. Keep hold of the will and trust the rest to me."

Scarcely able to control her excitement, Leonie read the letters through.

"Surely that will be enough!" she exclaimed, her expression almost fierce. "I will take copies of these, I will show them to her, assuring her that the originals are in my possession, then surely she will not still refuse to abandon her plan of marrying Lynde Pyne. I can then place the will where the rightful heir can be restored and--go away."

The last words were scarcely more than a sob, but she resolutely closed her throat upon it, and turned to her work.

She began to look over them promiscuously.

First came several that amounted to nothing as far as she was concerned, then followed some smaller ones. The yellow one that she had in her hand was read twice.

It was the marriage certificate between Elizabeth Johnson and Benjamin Mauprat, dated thirty-two years before.

There was another one of the marriage of Eleanor Cuyler and Benjamin Mauprat dated between seven and eight years later, but across the face of it was written in Ben's own ungainly scrawl the words in red ink:

"An experiment in bigamy. For the edification of my daughter Evelyn. To be presented after my death, or immediately before."

There was a copy of the certificate of the birth of Evelyn Mauprat, and also another copy that was perhaps of more interest than all to Leonie.

It was the one of her own birth--"Leonie Pyne, daughter of Roger and Eleanor Pyne!"

How her heart beat as she read the words, knowing that she was a legitimate child!

After a long look she put it aside, and turned her attention entirely to looking for the will.

She found it at last at the bottom of the box, wrapped in a piece of tissue paper, and opening it began to read:

"Know ye all men by these presents, that----"

Then unable, through feminine curiosity, to wait further, she looked at the signature. It was clear enough, and duly witnessed: "Roger Pyne."

She could scarcely control her excitement as she read it.

Roger Pyne!

And Roger Pyne was her father!

She sat for some time with the will in her hand, unable to see the letters because of her trembling; then by a tremendous effort she controlled herself, and read it through to the end.

It stated clearly and concisely that all other wills made by him were revoked, and that he had discovered the reports brought to him by his nephew, Luis Kingsley, about Lynde Pyne to be utterly and entirely false, and that in consideration of the evil character which it showed the said Luis Kingsley to possess, he desired that it should be known that he made Lynde Pyne heir to all his estates, real and personal, cutting Luis Kingsley off with the proverbial dollar.

Then after it had been read and re-read, the will dropped into the girl's lap, and her eyes gazed dreamily from the window.

It was her father who had made that will, her father who had died believing that the woman he had made his wife was a bigamist.

Her father who had died in ignorance even of her birth.

She knew enough of law to know that all she would be required to do would be to produce that marriage certificate that was in her possession, together with the record of her birth, to break that will, having all those millions come to her; but the thought brought her no pleasure.

Even if she had desired to take from Lynde Pyne what his uncle had given him, she would be forced to make public her mother's disgrace in order to do that, and not all the money in the universe could have tempted her to even consider it.

Her duty was clear enough.

She must face Evelyn Chandler with the proofs in her possession; she must know beyond a doubt that the engagement between her and Lynde Pyne was broken, she must restore the will to the one most interested and then----

Her work would be accomplished, and for the sake of her mother's memory she must go away where the secret could be preserved.

It was not a pleasant prospect; and now that she felt her mission was about at an end, the desolation and loneliness of her position struck her with greater force than it ever had since that morning when she knew that her single friend had left her forever.

There, in her hands, were all the proofs that she needed; and as the thought came that there was no longer a necessity for bravery, a long, deep sob seemed to come straight from her heart. She bowed her head and sobbed.

But in the midst of her yielding to grief, a sudden sound attracted her, there in that silent house, where it seemed that even the noise of a mouse would sound deafening.

She straightened herself suddenly, and clasping her hands above her heart, listened.

There could be no mistake about it!

It was a footstep, clear and distinct, coming stealthily up the uncarpeted stairs.

For a moment her heart seemed to stand still; then, springing up, she dashed to the door.

Quivering with fright, she undertook to fasten it and bar it against entrance; but before she could succeed, a veiled figure, spectral under the light of the pale candle, stood before her, preventing the action.