CHAPTER VII.

ONLY TOO TRUE.

Mr. Jacobs was as punctual as usual in his early attendance in the box-office of the Varieties on the morning after the first appearance of the Bryan Duval troupe, when he was lightly touched on the shoulder, and, turning round, was astonished to perceive the great London star himself.

'Ha, ha, my dear boy, it is you, is it?' cried Mr. Jacobs, with unctuous familiarity. 'Looking after business--always got an eye to the dollars--come down to see how the places are going? Well, you need not look so anxious about it; we're going right ahead, we are, this time.'

'It wasn't for that, Jacobs,' said Bryan, with a faint smile. 'I want to look at the sheet for last night. I want to see what names certain places were taken in.'

'O, that's the game, is it?' said Mr. Jacobs, handing him the sheet required. 'Want to see whether any of your old flames came to welcome you back. Hallo! what's the matter?' he cried, as Duval uttered a short groan.

'Nothing,' said Bryan; 'nothing at all. As Jacobs looked up at him he saw his finger resting motionless on a certain portion of the box sheet. 'Thank you, I won't intrude upon you any more. Good-morning, Jacobs;' and he sauntered off.

'Mrs. Alston E. Griswold,' murmured Jacobs to himself, reading the name underneath which Bryan's finger had been fixed. 'That's it; there's the mark of his black glove on the sheet now. Alston Griswold? Why, that's the name of one of your Wall-street customers, with a fine up-town house and--ah, Bryan, my boy, your propensities will get you into mischief one of these days.'

'All doubt is at an end now,' said Bryan, as he walked up to the hotel, 'and Clara was right. The case seems to me even darker and worse than she seems to think at present. It is lucky that she has a head upon her shoulders, for I shall have to take her into consultation.'

Thereupon he despatched an elderly Irishman to Miss Montressor's room, with a message intimating his desire to be allowed access to her as soon as possible. Bryan Duval's messenger returned with an affirmatory answer to his inquiry whether Miss Montressor could let him see her; they had not yet met on that morning, and she was in a high state of expectation of what the interview might bring forth.

Miss Montressor had been thinking intently on the subject in discussion during all her waking moments since she and Bryan Duval had parted on the preceding night. It had not kept her from sleeping; her nerves were in too good order and her constitution was too sound for her to be subjected to inconveniences of that sort by any abstract cause of emotion; but she had thought over it until she fell asleep, and it had recurred to her with her first consciousness on waking. She had endeavoured, in anticipation of Bryan Duval's possible line of interrogation, to recall everything that had been said during the conversation between herself and Mr. Foster on the terrace at Richmond, and, strangely as she considered it, she found this very difficult to do. If Miss Montressor had understood the laws of mental processes better, she would have known that this difficulty was of ordinary occurrence, and to be anticipated in her case. She was not in the habit of thinking about anything systematically, and a beginning in this direction is no easier than any other mental process directed with intention. So that Miss Montressor had got herself rather into a muddle between what had really been said by Mr. Foster and her general impression of the interview, when she found Bryan Duval in the small ante-room in which the residents at the hotel usually received their friends.

Neither was insensible to the gravity and incongruity of the occasion. That two strangers, come to New York in the trifling and superficial character of actors, should be--to their own almost indubitable persuasion, and quite unsuspected by the public--able to supply the key of one of the most terrible mysteries of crime which had for a long time startled and disturbed society, was a circumstance full of oddity and interest that they appreciated to the full. Literally nothing could have influenced, impressed, surprised, or agitated Duval out of the instincts of the dramatist who combines, and the actor who reproduces, the situations supplied by human events. When this story should be complete in its reality, it would find its way to the pigeon-holes in which Bryan Duval's materials, the pabulum of his ever-active brain, were stored up, with the regularity, in order and in date, of a privately edited edition of the _Annual Register_. In due, not in undue time--Bryan Duval was never so wanting in taste and judgment as to incur the charge of indecent haste--this drama of real life would no doubt be put upon the stage, with charming accessories of scenery, decoration, and padding-out. Bryan Duval saw his way to it already, though as yet the knowledge of the murderer and his motive were wanting to the story.

It had occupied his thoughts also almost exclusively; and though he had been trained to habits of mental precision, and the following of clues to human nature altogether beyond Miss Montressor's ken and capacity, he had not reached a much clearer state of mind than that in which his fair friend was about to join him. Bryan Duval was a man of too much natural keenness and too much acquired experience to accept generalities as bases for argument, or to seek conclusions in them. While he constructed a system with the skill and minuteness of a Procureur Impérial, he did not lend his judgment to one hypothesis, and turn the facts to fit it. Without ignoring or depreciating the influence of women in all human events, he regarded the 'Who is she?' which has become axiomatic as rather smart than sound, and was disposed to believe that dollars are quite as often to be found as women at the bottom of the crimes, as they assuredly are of the misfortunes, of men. In the present instance, if anything could be said to induce an explanation in the midst of the mystery of this crime, it was Bryan Duval's conviction that money was in question. Mr. Foster's private business in London; the disguise about his name, which he had avowed, but not explained; the perfectly conceivable rivalry and envy which his expedition might have excited--all these were plain to the mind of Bryan Duval as he pondered the matter, and they pointed each and all to another conclusion than that of 'Who is she?' Of Mr. Foster, or, as he had almost come to name the murdered man in his thoughts, Alston Griswold, he had not known very much, and their term of acquaintance had been short; but it had sufficed to create a strong regard for him, and Bryan Duval had formed a pretty accurate estimate of the New York merchant's character.

'An honest, true-hearted fellow,' said Duval to himself, 'and profoundly in love with his wife, who seems to have been equally attached to him. There was no woman in this case--no woman on either side the Atlantic. The murderer must be looked for in the ordinary category of ruffians, or if it is a put-up job, the wire-puller is here in New York among his rivals in business.'

The scene and circumstances of the crime, imperfectly as they could be gathered from the newspaper reports, made a very vivid picture to the mind's eye of the dramatist, accustomed to seize upon salient points; and he thought he discerned in them tokens of a surprise and a discovery, rather than of the common assault of a robber.

'Why should he have gone with any man into an empty warehouse?' Bryan Duval asked himself. 'May he not have been enticed thither by a promise of information of some kind? May he not have been suddenly set upon and murdered, because he refused to give certain information?'

The circumstance of Mr. Foster having lingered in Liverpool later than the departure of the train by which he mentioned to Duval it was his intention to return to London, did not make any impression upon the actor's mind.

'Business men have business matters to attend to in many places,' he thought. 'If the poor fellow strained a point a little in letting me suppose that he had nothing to do and nobody to see in Liverpool, and only came down on our account, it was a harmless little bit of compliment, and I daresay he did. No man is bound to tell a far closer friend than I was _all_ about any matter in which he is concerned, and this one may have had an extensive connection in Liverpool, and lots to do there for anything I know to the contrary. I have, to be sure, no very solid grounds for my belief; but it is certainly more than an impression that this poor fellow's business in England lies at the root of this matter, and that there is no woman in the case.'

The words were passing through his mind as Miss Montressor entered the room.

'You were only too right,' said Bryan Duval, as Miss Montressor entered the room with face full of inquiry: 'the lady who occupied the seat you described to me last night was indeed Mrs. Alston Griswold; here is the memorandum from the box-office, giving the name and address. This is certainty on one side of the question; certainty on the other will, I fear, be only too readily attained.'

Miss Montressor sat down and looked, as she felt, very much concerned. The condition of the unconscious wife appealed at once to her womanly and her artistic feelings; the truth and the situation alike struck her as deeply impressive.

'I shall communicate at once with the city authorities,' said Bryan Duval; 'it will be impossible for me to keep out of this sad affair, and it is manifestly my duty to volunteer all the information it is in my power to give. I suppose there will be some person who will be deputed to break this terrible news to her?'

'No, no,' said Miss Montressor; 'do not act in the matter in that way. What do the ends of justice matter in comparison with the wife who is widowed in such a horrible manner, and who knows nothing of the calamity which has befallen her? Let them wait; let us first try to find some personal friend of the poor thing, and tell him.'

'Of course,' said Bryan Duval, 'that would be the proper line of action if we knew anything about a personal friend; but we must first discover the identity of a person of the sort, and how am I to do that except by communicating with the authorities? Very likely the officials with whom it will be my duty to confer may all, or some of them, be acquainted with Mrs. Griswold. Full particulars of the murder cannot be known until the arrival of the mail, and it is just possible that no suspicion may arise, unless I awaken it, that Mr. Foster is the well-known Mr. Griswold I now firmly believe him to be. To keep the knowledge of such a possibility from the police authorities here for a moment longer than it can be avoided may seriously impede action on the other side, as it must prevent the supplying of information from thence.'

Miss Montressor had listened to Bryan Duval with a troubled countenance and an equally troubled heart. A line of action was suggesting itself to her, which had the full consent of her judgment and her feelings, but a consideration of self-interest was striving to withhold her from propounding it. She knew that the means of acquiring the information which would enable Bryan Duval to communicate direct with some acquaintance or friend of Mrs. Griswold's lay ready at her hand, but she hesitated to use it. Bess was that means--it would cost her something to avail herself of Bess. The struggle in Miss Montressor's mind was not lasting. The kindly remembrance of the man who had treated her with such gentlemanly consideration, with such unfeigned respect, a thought of the fair woman whom she had seen on the previous night and her pathetic ignorance, overcame her misgivings.

'I think,' she said, 'I can supply you with a hint which may change your view of the most judicious course for you to pursue. Do you remember that I told you yesterday that I had a friend who knew Mrs. Griswold, and had given me indications by which I recognised her--or, as I thought, recognised Mrs. Foster--at the theatre?'

'Yes, I remember,' said Bryan Duval. 'How stupid I am not to have remembered it sooner! I suppose you can put yourself in communication with her?'

'Easily,' said Miss Montressor. 'She is'--here she hesitated for one last moment--'she is in a very humble station--no higher than that of nurse to Mrs. Griswold's child.'

'Capital,' said Bryan Duval, passing over the explanation with an absolute carelessness highly reassuring to Miss Montressor; 'nothing could be better. She is positively in the house, and knows all about them.'

'Well, she has only been in the house since Mr. Griswold's departure; but I have no doubt she can give us the information we require.'

'Can you get it from her?' said Bryan Duval, in that curt business tone which Miss Montressor had come to know so thoroughly, and which had in it something extremely satisfactory to everybody who wanted to transact business with the man who spoke thus to the purpose.

'I can,' she replied, 'but it will be a little difficult to do without exciting suspicion and precipitating discovery, if indeed the discovery is to be made. I cannot send for her to come to me openly--such an invitation would astonish Mrs. Griswold, and she might meet it with an objection--neither can I go in my proper capacity to Mrs. Griswold's house to visit one of Mrs. Griswold's servants.'

'Why can't you go as a servant yourself?' said Bryan Duval. 'Your make-up in that line is unexceptionable; try it off the boards at once!'

'I will,' said Miss Montressor; 'that is a capital idea. I will go disguised, and discover whether the lady at the play really was Mrs. Griswold. If I cannot see her, which I may manage to do by some contrivance, I shall at least be sure to see a portrait of her. A man like her husband was not likely to be satisfied with a mere miniature of his wife while a full-length portrait was to be had for money. We are, of course, morally certain that the fact is what we take it to be, but the first thing to be done is to achieve actual certainty. Taking it for granted that I see Mrs. Griswold and identify her with the miniature, what will you do next?'

'I cannot decide upon that until I have received your report,' said Bryan Duval, 'on these two heads--first, the identity of Mrs. Griswold with the portrait Mr. Foster showed you; secondly, the name and address of some intimate friend of the family, with whom I may at once communicate.'

'I am quite sure there is such a person,' interrupted Miss Montressor. 'I could not distinctly recall everything that Mr. Foster told me, in the hurry and confusion of last night; but since then I have remembered a good deal. He mentioned to me, but not by name, one friend in particular, in whose charge he had confided not only his business interests in New York during his absence, but also his household treasures. Poor fellow, he quite amused me--though I am conscious now that I did not respond very warmly or graciously--by his simple talk about his wife and child. He would try to describe the baby to me, and he did describe the mother as well as showing me her picture. He was a good soul. But I quite remember now that he told me he had this trusty friend.'

'A piece of information which makes your suggestion all the more admirable and your aid all the more valuable. We now have some definite basis of action. When we discover this friend of Foster's, or Griswold's, we shall not only have found the man who will be our best guide as to what we ought to do, but we shall have found the man who will be sure to hit upon the motive of the crime. And now lose no time. Set about your task at once; the sooner it is over, the better for you and for what I have to do. I do not say to you, do it well and do it delicately--that I feel is unnecessary. We have not had half sufficient time to realise how horrid this thing is which has happened; and so much the better, since it has so strangely fallen out that we have come to this side of the world to act in such a tragedy.'

Miss Montressor rose and was about to leave the room, when she said:

'Suppose by any possibility I should be wrong, and that this lady is not the original of the miniature, consequently that Mr. Griswold, her husband, is not the murdered man--what will you do in that case?'

'In that case,' said Bryan Duval, 'I shall simply have to communicate with the authorities the fact that Mr. Foster is not the murdered man's real name; this on his own authority, and of course it will be immediately transmitted to London. Go now. You will find me here on your return; I shall not leave the house.'

Miss Montressor left him, and, going to her own room, made rapid preparation for the arduous task she had been set. She hurriedly turned over such articles of her wardrobe as had yet been unpacked, searching for those most suitable to the part she was to play. While doing this, her thoughts reverted to the last unprofessional masquerade in which she had indulged, and, by a natural transition, to Mr. Dolby. She had thought very little about him during her voyage out, but as it approached its termination she had occasionally speculated upon whether that gentleman would present himself at the wharf, or whether he would wait and pay her a more dignified visit at her hotel. She had actually spared him a few moments' recollection in all the triumph of her first brilliantly successful appearance on the previous evening. 'Was Mr. Dolby in the house?' she had wondered. 'Was his hand among the number of those which had flung prodigal floral tributes at her feet? Or--was he sulky still?' She had, however, completely forgotten him from the announcement of the supper, and in all the hurry, agitation, and confusion of the ensuing hours of the night, her mind had never once glanced towards him. But now--she selected a plain gray skirt, originally intended to fulfil the once humble office of petticoat, but which was rather an unduly smart morning walking dress for the part she was assuming--she remembered the day on which she had gone to the house in Queen-street, and inquired ineffectually for her angry lover. Even now it was only a passing remembrance; her feelings were unaffectedly and deeply engaged in the matter in hand. Miss Montressor's wardrobe contained nothing suitable to be worn as an out-door dress of the sort which she required; but she remedied the deficiency by putting on a thick dark shawl, which she found among the parcel of wraps, and removing the too conspicuous feather from her hat, over which she pinned a veil.

As she unfolded the shawl the sharp end of a pin caught her finger. 'How tiresome of Justine,' she muttered, 'to leave pins stuck in shawls! I have so often spoken to her about it;' and she turned over the folds of the garment to find the obnoxious object. It was a long gold pin with a carved head, rather intended for a gentleman's necktie than as a shawl fastener; the stone was a very fine specimen of intaglio work, and Miss Montressor looked at it without any recognition of whence it came. It was not hers; and as it was a very uncommon article, it was not the sort of thing to be picked up on the floor or anywhere, as people pick up ordinary pins. 'I wonder whose it is, and how I came by it?' she thought, as she mechanically used it to fasten the shawl.

She then went quickly clown the stairs, and passed out of the door, comparatively unnoticed. It was early in the day, and the customary groups of loungers had not yet assembled. On leaving the hotel, Miss Montressor turned to the right, and making inquiry of the first person whom she met as to the distance which divided her from that portion of Fifth-avenue in which Mrs. Griswold's house was situate, learned that she would be overtaken in about a minute by a street car, which would deposit her close by. She had barely thanked her informant when the car came up, and the man to whom she had spoken signalled to the conductor; the next moment Miss Montressor was making her first experience of the marvellously-convenient and well-arranged street locomotion of New York. As she seated herself, a sudden recollection flashed across her that the pin which she had been so surprised to find in her shawl had belonged to Mr. Foster. With the suddenness of the vision, the little circumstance which had placed it in her possession returned to her memory--again she felt the slight chill of the evening air; she saw Mr. Foster's face, and felt his careful hands drawing the warm folds around her; remembering that he held them together with one hand, as he removed the pin from his own necktie with the other. How came she to have forgotten this pin--to have omitted returning it to him? It was a strange oversight. How curious and mysterious, should it be now destined to be an important coincidence! 'His wife will remember it,' she thought. 'If we are right in our terrible belief, my bringing it to her, my requesting her to identify it, will enable me to prove my sad story to the poor lady.' What was it Mr. Foster had told her about this pin? She must try to recollect all he had said very exactly; she must not add a word or subtract a word if possible. He had said that it was a sleeve button that had belonged to his wife; that on his arrival in London he had found it among his things, where it had no doubt been put by accident, and that he had had it made into a pin--yes, that was exactly what he had said. She took out her pocket-book, and in the few minutes occupied by the transit she wrote down, with all the accuracy attainable by her memory, the words in which Mr. Foster had told her these facts.

She had hardly concluded the memorandum when she was set down, and in a few minutes found herself at the door of Mrs. Griswold's house. A good-humoured coloured servant answered the summons of the bell, and, on her inquiry for Mrs. Jenkins, ushered her into a small waiting-room on the right of the hall. Several newspapers lay upon the table; she turned them over hurriedly, and found in each great prominence given to the appalling murder in Liverpool of an American gentleman. She had no time to read the details, which were afforded in every variety of type, and embellished with every device to attract curiosity and direct attention, for she was joined by her sister within a few moments. 'Civil people these,' she thought, in the way that people will think of trifles amid the most serious occupations of the mind; 'civil people these, to give a message to a servant with such celerity.'

'You see I have come to visit you, Bess, after all'

Mrs. Jenkins received her sister with unbounded delight, but had hardly greeted her and recounted with what eloquent praises Mrs. Griswold had spoken of the performance, and especially of Clara's part in it, that morning, when she was helping to dress her, when she broke off to ask about the very subject which was occupying Miss Montressor's thoughts.

'My dear,' she said, 'of course you have heard of this horrible murder? It gave me a dreadful turn last night, when I heard the boys crying out, about an hour after Mrs. Griswold went to the play, and Jim went out to find out all about it. Mrs. Griswold hadn't heard anything of it when she came in, and I was very glad; for really it is enough to make one nervous. You heard all about it, of course?'

'O, yes,' said Miss Montressor; 'we have heard all about it. It happened the very day after we sailed. Does every one know about it in the house now?'

'Of course,' said Mrs. Jenkins.

'I didn't mean to ask that,' said Miss Montressor; 'my mind is wandering. I meant to say, was Mrs. Griswold acquainted with Mr. Foster?'

'Lor' bless you! no, Clara,' said her sister, laughing. 'I think you Londoners imagine London is the only big place in the world, and think people who live anywhere else must know everybody who ever came from the place where they live. There are lots of Fosters in New York, I should think, and there is not anything known about this poor gentleman except that his name is Foster. Mrs. Griswold saw it this morning, and she said she did not think Mr. Griswold knew any one of the name; but it made her quite downhearted--set her off thinking of Mr. Griswold, I suppose.'

'Well, I am glad she hadn't heard it before she left the theatre,' said Miss Montressor; 'it isn't pleasant news to wind up the evening with, even when one knows nothing at all of the parties concerned, a dreary epilogue to the play. I saw Mrs. Griswold last night, Bess.'

'I am glad you did. What do you think of her--though I suppose you couldn't judge very well at that distance?'

'Well, in the first place, I should like to be sure that it was Mrs. Griswold. People change places occasionally, you know, at the theatre, and I didn't catch sight of her until the third act, nor see her very distinctly then; but I could make out the gown, and that she wore gold ornaments of the new fashion--warming-pan style, all clink and clatter when you are near them, and very like harness when you are not. I saw the blue-and-gold fan, too; so I suppose there is no doubt that was the lady?'

'No doubt at all,' said Mrs. Jenkins. 'She was in the seat I told you to look at, and said how comfortable it was, and what a capital view of the stage she had from it. She was highly delighted, I can tell you, Clara, and said she liked your acting better than any she had ever seen. I told her it was not your best part, that it was nothing to your Juliet; but she said she was afraid she was too stupid to care about Shakespeare--not that she is stupid. I am sure I don't set myself up for a judge, but I think she is as bright as she is pretty.'

'I don't exactly know whether she is pretty or not,' said Miss Montressor, 'and I take a great interest in your Mrs. Griswold: a lady who is so kind to her dependents as you make her out to be, and has the good sense and the good taste to be an admirer of the drama, is a legitimate subject of interest. I am sorry I did not see her face more distinctly; could you give me a sight of her now?'

'Now,' said Mrs. Jenkins, 'and in that dress, Clara! What would she think?'

'Why, my dear Bess, you do not imagine I want you to introduce me as Miss Montressor in this costume, and thus deliberately tell on myself the very thing which I have been impressing upon you must be kept profoundly secret? Not at all. But nursery visitors are not impossibilities in a house of this sort, I suppose? Couldn't I be a humble friend, a former fellow-servant somewhere--I suppose she thinks you were a servant before you came to her--who has just dropped in to have a look at baby?'

Mrs. Jenkins laughed. 'It would be good fun to have a private play of that sort on our own account, Clara, but unfortunately it cannot be done, for Mrs. Griswold is not in the nursery, and she is not likely to come to it. She caught cold last night at the play, and I could not persuade her not to get up this morning; but she felt very tired after breakfast, and I did persuade her to go and lie down: she is lying down in her own room, and the orders are that she is not to be disturbed for anything less important than a cable message from Mr. Griswold. She is always expecting one, though, as far as I can see, he is too sensible to waste money in them, and satisfies himself with writing by the mail--precious long letters they are, and doesn't she prize them just! However, she is lying down, and I cannot disturb her, above all by taking a stranger into the room; so you cannot see her at present.'

'O, never mind,' said Miss Montressor; 'so much the better that she is in the room. I shall have plenty of chances of seeing her. And now I should like a look at the house, Bess. It is the first house I have been in in New York, and I have a fancy for that sort of thing, and I like to get hints about carpets and curtains and drawing-room fixings. Can't you take me round--it is allowed, I suppose?'

'O, certainly, it is allowed,' said Mrs. Jenkins; 'we are under no restraint here. Come along up-stairs;' and the unsuspecting woman led Miss Montressor up the broad staircase to the white-and-gold folding-doors which gave access to the reception-rooms.

'What a simple creature it is,' thought Miss Montressor, 'that it has never occurred to her to ask me why I have so decidedly changed mv mind as to come here to see her, that being the very exact thing which I so positively assured her yesterday I could not do! Very handsome rooms, indeed,' she said aloud; 'fitted up in capital taste, and evidently quite regardless of expense. That's a fine picture on the wall opposite.'

She stepped across the floor rapidly, and stood still in front of it. It was a fine picture; an admirably executed portrait of Helen Griswold. The artist had painted her in an unconventional attitude, and the whole picture was pleasing to the general eye, interested in the work of art rather than in the likeness. It represented a slight, almost girlish figure, in soft white muslin robes slightly trimmed with lace, touched here and there with a knot of ribbon, a lace veil being loosely tied over the rich chestnut-brown hair, softening its masses, but hiding neither its richness nor its colour; the hands were clad in gardening-gloves; in the right was a large pair of scissors, just about to be applied to a rose-bush, one blossom of which was held apart from the stem by the left; a basket of roses already cut stood at the feet, and the scene of the picture was a conservatory, the original of which Miss Montressor had caught a glimpse of on the first floor of the house.

'That is Mrs. Griswold's portrait,' said Mrs. Jenkins, in reply to her sister's observation, 'and it is not at all flattered; so now you can see, if you had got a near view of her last night, you would have agreed with me about her beauty.'

'Yes,' said Miss Montressor slowly, 'that is a pretty face, and one cannot say of it, as one does of so many pretty faces, that there is nothing in it. I should think she was a very sensible woman, as well as a very kind-hearted one?'

'She is just that,' said Mrs. Jenkins enthusiastically. 'Sit down here, Clara, and have a good look at it.'

The sisters placed themselves side by side upon an ottoman which commanded a good view of the portrait, at which Miss Montressor continued steadfastly to gaze. All doubt was over now, all hope that she had been mistaken was at an end; the miniature she had seen in the watch that day as she paced the terrace at Richmond was but a reduced copy without the veil, and the face that looked mildly, beaming down upon her out of its gilded frame, was as fresh and fair as the roses in the feet. Miss Montressor was not of a classic turn of mind; her education had not gone far in any direction, nor at all in that; she did not refer the suggestiveness of the open scissors in the woman's hand, about to snip the fresh young life of the beautiful rose, to any recollection of the Pareae; but it had a certain something in it which impressed her, something of suspicion which filled her eyes with tears unseen by Mrs. Jenkins.

'Is there a portrait of Mr. Griswold?' she asked.

'Only a small one, half-sized, and since he went away Mrs. Griswold has had it moved to her bedroom. It hangs on the wall just over her dressing-table, and opposite the foot of her bed. It is the first thing she must see in the morning when she opens her eyes. They say it is uncommonly like him; it is painted by the same artist who did this one; but Mrs. Griswold will have it the picture in her bracelet--much handsomer and much younger--is more like Mr. Griswold.'

'Does any one of her family stay with her while he is away?' was Miss Montressor's next question.

'There is not any family. She has no relatives, I am told, not only in New York, but in all the world; she was an orphan when Mr. Griswold married her, and I do not believe he has any relatives; for I have never seen any nor heard them spoken of, either by her or among the servants.'

'That's lonely for Mrs. Griswold. Has she much company while he is away? But I think you said not yesterday?'

'O dear, no she leads the quietest life that any lady could live. Many a one would think it very dull; but she doesn't, what with her books, and music, and baby, and her letters to Mr. Griswold. She is sometimes sorrowful, but never dull. She has some visitors at times, but I don't think she cares for them--one person is pretty much the same to her as another, when it is not Mr. Griswold--and one day she said to me, "I have no intimates, and my husband has very few for so wonderfully sociable a man, and such a general favourite as he is."'

'Then there is no one to take care of her in particular?' said Miss Montressor; 'for she is young, you know, to be left alone with so much to look after and to do as there must be in the care of all this,'--with a comprehensive sweep of her arm, intended to take in all the household goods at once.

'O, no, there is no one to take care of her,' said Mrs. Jenkins; 'but she can take very good care of herself. She always wishes to do, and she always does, what is right and good and kind towards every one.'

Miss Montressor was profoundly discouraged. Her embassy was not prospering; the worst that they feared was true, and the aid on which they had speculated did not seem to be forthcoming. Mrs. Griswold had no relatives and no intimates. Mr. Griswold had no relatives, and if he had any intimates, Mrs. Jenkins could evidently have no information concerning them. What was to be done now? Miss Montressor dared not pursue her questioning of her sister any further, and hastily decided that the best thing she could do would be to return to the hotel and narrate to Bryan Duval exactly what had passed. She felt that her mission was but imperfectly executed; but its solemnity and importance had grown upon her with every moment since she had entered Mrs. Griswold's house, and she was now strongly actuated by a nervous desire to get out of it as soon as possible. She looked at her watch and started up in a hurry.

'I must be going, Bess,' she said; 'I had no notion it was so late. I am overdue at rehearsal, and here I have stayed talking about other people, and not said anything of all I wanted to say to you. Come along down-stairs with me.'

'You will come again, Clara?' said Mrs. Jenkins. 'Nobody will ever suspect you in that gown and with that great shawl--it spoils your figure, dear, but never mind.'

'I will try,' said Miss Montressor, 'I will see about it; if not, you can come to me. Good-bye now.'

Mrs. Jenkins had come to the door with her; the hall was empty as the sisters spoke their last few words there. Mrs. Jenkins's hand was upon the lock of the street door when the bell was rung. She mechanically drew back the lock, and a gentleman presented himself. He was a young man, tall, slight, and upright, with bright black eyes and dark complexion, fine curly black hair, and a dark moustache.

'Is Mrs. Griswold at home?' he said.

'She is at home, sir,' said Mrs. Jenkins, 'but she is very tired and not very well, and she is lying down.'

'O, then,' said the stranger, passing into the hall, 'I will content myself with a visit to your quarters, Mrs. Jenkins, and a look at the baby.' He had lifted his hat to Miss Montressor, who by this time was on the outside of the door. 'And,' he now added, 'I will just write a line in the waiting-room before you take me up-stairs, Mrs. Jenkins, and ask you to give it to Mrs. Griswold when she awakes.' The sisters parted with a wave of the hand, and Mrs. Jenkins shut the door.

Miss Montressor walked slowly and thoughtfully down the street. She felt sure that the gentleman whom she had just seen, and who spoke so familiarly to her sister, must be at least an intimate acquaintance of Mrs. Griswold's--the early hour of his visit, his familiar manner, the fact that he was going to be taken up to see the child, the very tone of her sister's voice as she answered his question, all indicated that he was no stranger. Bess had said Mrs. Griswold had no intimate friends. Perhaps she had forgotten this one, or the intimacy might be between him and Mr. Griswold. From that, may be, Miss Montressor felt instinctively that here was a resource--an instrument put into her hands. There could be no risk in the using of it.

By the time she had arrived at this conclusion she was well out of sight from the windows of Mrs. Griswold's house; but no one could leave that house and turn to either side without her perceiving the fact. She crossed the street and waited on the opposite side. She was quite alone, as it happened, throughout its long length, and might pass slowly back and forward a few steps in each direction without attracting attention.

The minutes during which she was thus engaged seemed very long to Miss Montressor. Would Bryan Duval approve of what she was going to do? It might be a great blunder; it might be the best thing under the circumstances. She was forced to use her discretion in the matter; there seemed the one way in which she could fulfil the promise with which she had left Duval. After an interval of at least a quarter of an hour the door of Mrs. Griswold's house opened, and the young man for whom Miss Montressor was watching appeared on the threshold, attended by the coloured servant, to whom he was speaking pleasantly, and who was receiving a communication with the most expressive grin. In another moment he came down the steps, and advanced briskly in the same direction which she had taken. She stood perfectly still until he was nearly opposite to her. Then she crossed the street rapidly, went up to him, and, without giving herself a moment to consider, said:

'You are a friend of Mrs. Griswold's? In her interest may I speak with you?'