Gluttonous and meditative in the morning; beginning to swell with a growing sense of importance about midday; amorous, obtrusive, and consequential later; hilarious after dinner; quarrelsome before tea; and down in the ditch before dawn. This was Burrill's notion of enjoying life in leisurely, gentlemanly fashion. And this was his daily routine, with variations to suit the occasion.

But sober or drunk, morning, noon, or night, he never ceased to remind the Lamottes that he was one of them, their equal; never forgot his purpose, or allowed them to forget it, or him. He was their old man of the sea, their blight, their curse, and, they could never hope to shake him off.



CHAPTER XVI.

IN OPEN MUTINY.

Sybil sat alone in her boudoir. It was yet early in the evening, but, feeling little inclined to remain in the society of her family, who assembled, with all due formality, in the drawing room on "at home" evenings, and most of their evenings were spent at home now, she had withdrawn, pleading fatigue after their drive.

The night outside was balmy enough, but Sybil had ordered a light fire in the grate, and she sat before it with all the rays from a fully illuminated chandelier falling directly over her.

She still wore the rich dress she had put on for her drive; and excitement, exercise, something, had lent an unusual glow to her cheeks, and caused her dusky eyes to shine clear and steady, almost too clear, too steadfast, was their gaze as it was fixed upon the glowing coals; she had not looked so thoughtful, so self forgetful, yet self absorbed, since she came back to Mapleton, John Burrill's wife.

Sitting thus, she heard a shambling step in the hall, and the heavy voice of her husband, trolling out a snatch of song, caught up most likely in some bar-room.

He was approaching her door, and quick as thought, she sprang from her chair, and noiselessly examined the fastenings, to assure herself against him. Then, while her hand still rested on the door, his hand struck a huge blow upon the outside, and he called out gruffly:

"Sybil."

No answer; she dared not move, lest the rustle of her silks should betray her. "S-Sybil, I say, lemme in." Still no reply, and John Burrill shook the door violently, and ground out an oath.

Just then came the sound of another door further up the hall, her mother's door. It opened easily, and closed softly, and then quick, cat-like steps approached, and the voice of Jasper Lamotte, low and serene as usual, arrested the noise of the baffled applicant for admittance.

"Less noise, Burrill." Sybil had not heard her father address him in that tone of familiar command. "Sybil's not there."

"Jes zif I didn't know better."

"Nonsense, man; your wife is below with her mother at this moment. Now stop that fuss, and shake yourself out. I've some private words for your ear."

"Oh;" the man's voice dropped a tone lower; "quite a time since we've 'ad many private words. 'Bout Sybil?"

"No, sir." The tone was lower than before, and so stern that it caused the listener to start. "It's about your business and mine."

"Oh! maybe you want to settle up and discharge me. Maybe you don't need me any more."

"Curse you for a fool! You know your own value too well. Bully as you please, where the rest are concerned, but drop your airs with me. Settle with Sybil later, if you must; I want you now."

Could it be Jasper Lamotte that uttered these words; rather, hissed them? Sybil almost betrayed herself in her surprise; but the gasp that she could not quite stifle, was drowned by the voice of Burrill, saying:

"All right. I'll settle with Sybil later."

And then she heard them enter her mother's room, and close the door softly.

For a full moment, Sybil Burrill stood transfixed; then the silken folds that she had instinctively gathered about her at the first, slowly slipped from her hand; gradually the color that had fled from her cheeks came back, and burned brighter than before. She seemed to control herself by a strong effort, and stood thinking—thinking.

Only for a few moments; then she lifted her head with a gesture of defiance. Swiftly and noiselessly she moved under the chandelier, drew it down, and extinguished every light. Then softly, cautiously, she opened her door and looked out, listened thus a moment, and then stepped boldly out, and, gliding to the head of the stairs, leaned down and listened.

From the drawing room there came to her ear the sound of the piano, lightly touched, and Frank's tenor humming over the bars of a Neapolitan boat song.

Then she understood her father's mistake. Some unwonted impulse had caused her mother to seat herself at the piano, and accompany Frank, who did not reckon piano playing among his accomplishments; and the thing was so unusual, that Sybil was not surprised at her parent's mistake.

Evan being absent, Jasper Lamotte naturally supposed that floor deserted, and therefore had not observed too much caution.

Only a moment did Sybil listen, and then, gathering up the silken train, and crushing it into a soft mass under her hand, she crept noiselessly as a cat to the door of her mother's room, bent down her head and listened there.



Five minutes, ten, and still they talked, and still Sybil stood, moveless and intent. Then, drawing back suddenly, she ran hurriedly down the hall, and had gained the foot of the stairs before the sound of the opening door admonished her that she had escaped none too soon.

In a moment she had entered the drawing room, and, with more of her olden gayety than they had seen in her manner for many long days, approached the loiterers at the piano.

"Mother! mother! your hand is out of time!" and, in a moment, she had drawn her astonished mother from the stool, and seated herself in the vacant place.

"Sing, Frank," she commanded, striking the keys with a crash that died away in discord. "We have been dull too long."

When Jasper Lamotte and his model son-in-law entered the drawing room, they found Frank singing, Sybil accompanying him with dextrous fingers, and Mrs. Lamotte half resting near them, with veiled eyes, and her serenest cast of countenance.

Casting one keen glance toward Burrill, which, being interpreted, meant, "I told you so, you fool," Mr. Lamotte seated himself beside his wife.

John Burrill, during his interview with his father-in-law, had become a shade more reasonable, and less inclined to think that, in order to vindicate his wounded sensibilities, he must "have it out with Sybil." But his face still wore a surly look, and Frank, who was not over delicate in such matters, looked askance at him, and then whispered to Sybil, under cover of a softly played interlude that he "scented battle afar off."

Sybil's only answer was a low, meaning laugh, and when he had finished his song, she played on and on and on. Sonata, bravura, fantasia, rondo; a crash and whirl—rapid, swift, sweet, brilliant, cold; no feeling, no pathos. A fanciful person might have traced something of exultation and defiance, in those dashing, rippling waves of music.

Presently she stopped and turned to Frank.

"What shall you do in the morning?" she asked, abruptly.

Frank ran his fingers through his hair, after a fashion he much affected, and replied, slowly:

"Well, really! Nothing important. Going to ride to the office—meaning Heath's office, not the mills. Can I do anything for you, sis?"

"I was thinking," began Sybil, as unconcernedly as if she did not know that she was about to astonish, more than she had already done, every one of her listeners, "that it would be a fine morning for a canter; that is, if to-morrow should be a counterpart of to-day; and I am hungry to be in the saddle."

Frank roused himself from his lazy position, and looked interested. He took a secret delight in annoying Burrill, when he could do it without too much openness or display of malice prepense; and here was one of his opportunities.

"Well, Sybil, you shan't be hungering in vain," he replied, gallantly. "Name your hour, and your steed, and I will even sacrifice my last best morning nap, if need be."

Sybil laughed lightly.

"We will have a moderately seasonable breakfast, Frank, not to make your sacrifice too great; and I will ride Gretchen. Poor thing! she will have almost forgotten me now."

"Then that is settled," replied Frank, tranquilly, and glancing furtively toward Burrill, who was beginning to wriggle uneasily in his chair. "Do you want to go anywhere in particular, sis?"

"No, unless you leave me for awhile at Wardour Place; I want to see some of Con.'s new dresses. You can ride into town and call for me later."

"Ah! very nice arrangement; then I can't call with you?"

"Decidedly not, sir. Who wants a man always about? They are conveniences, not blessings."

"Oh, well, I'm extinguished. I promise to vanish from your gaze as soon as you are within the gates of the Princess of Wardour, and now I think, after so much vocal effort, and so much self-humiliation, I will go and smoke. Adieu, sister mine; adieu mamma. Will you smoke, Burrill?"

"No, sir, thank you;" replied Burrill, with brief courtesy, and Frank, who knew beforehand what his answer would be, went toward his own room, smiling contentedly.

"I wonder what's up with Sybil?" he said to himself. "She has waked up decidedly; but she has let herself in for a rumpus with Burrill."

When he had gone Sybil arose, and seating herself near her mother, said:

"Mamma, you were saying something about going to the city yesterday; have you decided about it?"

Mrs. Lamotte, who had had no thought of going to the city, and who was fully conscious that she had made no remarks on the subject, looked up without a ruffle upon her placid countenance and replied, like a wise and good mother.

"No, my child, I have not decided."

"Then, when you decide to go, inform me beforehand, mamma. I think I should like to accompany you and do some shopping for myself."

Here Burrill showed such marked symptoms of outbreak that Mr. Lamotte who, throughout the hour they had passed in the drawing room, had been a quiet but close observer, thought it wise to interpose, and artfully attempted to avert the impending storm by saying:

"Now that sounds natural. I'm glad that you feel like shopping, Sybil, and like getting out more. Very glad, aren't you, Burrill?"

But Mr. Burrill had no notion of being thus appeased; instead of spiking a gun Jasper Lamotte had opened a battery.

"I'm delighted to hear that Mrs. Burrill has stopped moping," he said gruffly; "but I'll be hanged if I'm glad to hear myself left out of all the programmes, and I'll be cussed if I'm going to put up with it, either," and Mr. Burrill, being full in more senses than one, arose and paced the room with more fierceness than regularity.

Mr. Lamotte forgot himself so far as to utter an angry imprecation between his shut teeth, and to wrinkle his forehead into a dark frown. Mrs. Lamotte allowed a shade of contempt to creep about her lips as she turned her eyes upon her daughter, but Sybil looked not one whit disconcerted.

"I've got something to say about my wife," went on Mr. Burrill, "and I'm blessed if I don't say it."

What had come over Sybil? Heretofore she would in any way, in every way, have avoided an encounter with him; she would have quitted the field or have remained deaf as a post; but now, "Say it, then, Mr. Burrill, say it, by all means, here and now," she retorted in the coolest voice imaginable.

And Mr. Burrill did say it.

"I've had enough of being made a fool of, Mrs. Sybil Burrill; I've had enough of being a carpet under your feet, and nothing better. I'm your equal, and anybody's equal, that's what I am, and I'm going to have my rights. It's very well for you to announce that you're going here and going there, Mrs. Burrill; but let me tell you that you go nowhere except John Burrill goes with you, that's settled."

Sybil laughed scornfully.

"Not quite so fast, Mr. Burrill, just stand still one moment, if you can stand still, which I doubt. You say you will accompany me wherever I go; I say you may accompany me wherever people will tolerate you, nowhere else. You are not the man to force into a gentleman's parlor; you would disgrace his kitchen, his stable. The streets are free to all, you can accompany me in my drives; the churches are open to the vilest, you can go with me there; but into the houses of my friends you shall not go; I will not so abuse friendship. You have counted upon me to gain you entree to Wardour and to a dozen houses, the thresholds of which you will never cross. If you are not satisfied with this, then you must be suited with less. I will not be seen with you at all."

Again Jasper Lamotte, vexed and alarmed for the denouement, interposed; knowing she was striking at Burrill's chief weakness:

"But Sybil, Miss Wardour, here in her meetings with Burrill, tacitly recognized his right to call."

She turned upon him swiftly.

"You know why she did it, sir; it is useless to discuss the question. You may calm Mr. Burrill in any way you please, or can. You know the terms on which he became my husband. He will continue my husband on my own terms. He shall not cross the threshold of Wardour, protected by my presence, and without it the door would close in his face. If Mr. Burrill does not like my terms, let him say so. It is not in his power or yours to alter my decision." And Sybil once more gathered together her silken skirts, lest in passing they should brush the now collapsed Mr. Burrill, and swept from the room.



Mr. Lamotte turned to his wife.

"You must talk with that girl," he said, savagely, "what the devil ails you all?"

Mrs. Lamotte arose and faced him.

"I should be wasting my breath," she replied, looking him straight in the eye. "You have tried that girl a little too far, Mr. Lamotte," and she followed after her daughter.

A roar, not unlike the bellow of a bull, recalled Mr. Lamotte to the business of the moment. John Burrill, having recovered from his momentary stupor of astonishment, was dancing an improvised, and unsteady can can, among the chairs and tables, beating the air with his huge fists, and howling with rage.

Seeing this, Mr. Lamotte did first, a very natural thing; he uttered a string of oaths, "not loud, but deep," and next, a very sensible thing; he rang for brandy and hot water.

And now the battle is in Mr. Lamotte's hands, why need we linger. Brandy hot will always conquer a John Burrill.



CHAPTER XVII.

THE PLAY GOES ON.

When Sybil Burrill, after uttering her defiance in the face of father and husband, had swept from the room, closely followed by her mother, another form moved away from the immediate vicinity of the most accessible drawing-room window,—the form of Evan Lamotte. Crouching, creeping, shivering, cursing, he made his way to the spot where he had left Frank's horse, and led it toward the stables.

Anything but sober when he commenced his vigil underneath the drawing-room windows, he had been shocked into sobriety by his sister's violence, and his own rage against her tormentors. Growing more and more sober, and more and more sullen, he stabled the ill-used thoroughbred with his own hands, and then, avoiding alike both servants and family, he crept into the house, and up to his own room.

In the morning he awoke betimes, and arose promptly; he had come to know the habits of his father and John Burrill, and he had good reason for knowing them, having of late made their movements his study.

Burrill would sleep until nine o'clock; he always did after a debauch, and he, Evan, had recently formed a habit of appearing late at breakfast also. From his room he kept up a surveillance over all the household after a method invented by himself.

He knew when his stately mother swept down to the breakfast room, followed soon after by his father.

The family all aimed to breakfast before the obnoxious Burrill had come to his waking time, and so were rid of him for one meal, all but Evan. He and his brother-in-law breakfasted together later, and in the most amiable manner. After a time he heard Frank go down, and the ring of his heels assured Evan that he was equipped for the saddle.

A little later, and, from his post at his front window, screened by the flowing curtains, Evan saw the horses led around, saw Sybil come down the steps in her trailing, dark cloth habit, saw her spring lightly to the saddle, and heard a mocking laugh ring out, in response to some sally from Frank, as they cantered away.



"Act one in the insurrection," said Evan, as he turned away from the window. "Now let me prepare for action." His preparations were few and simple; he removed his boots and coat, and crept out, and softly along the hall until he reached Burrill's door. Here he paused, to assure himself that he was not observed, and then softly tried the door; as he had expected, it opened without resistance, for Burrill had been escorted to bed, by his faithful father-in-law, in a state of mellowness, that precluded all thought for the night, or the dangers it might bring forth. Evan entered, cautiously closing the door as he had found it, and approached the bed. Its occupant was sleeping heavily, and breathing melodiously. Satisfied on this point, Evan opened a commodious wardrobe near the bed, threw down some clothing, spread it out smoothly, and then stepping within, he drew the doors together, fastening them by a hook of his own contrivance, on the inside; for Evan had made this wardrobe do service before. Then he laid himself down as comfortably as possible, and applied his eye to some small holes punctured in the dark wood, and quite invisible to casual outside observation.

He had began to grow restless in his hiding-place, and fiercely disgusted with the sleeper's monotonously musical whistle, when his waiting was rewarded. The door once again opened cautiously, and this time, Jasper Lamotte entered. He looked carefully about him, then closing and locking the door, he approached the sleeper.

"I knew it," thought Evan; "the fox will catch the wolf napping, and nail him before he can fortify himself with a morning dram."

It took some time to arouse the sleeper, but Jasper Lamotte was equal to the occasion; this not being his first morning interview with his son-in-law; and, after a little, John Burrill was sufficiently awake to scramble through with a hasty toilet, talking as he dressed.

"Business is getting urgent," he grumbled, thrusting a huge foot into a gorgeously decorated slipper. "I'd rather talk after breakfast."

"Pshaw, you are always drunk enough to be unreasonable before noon. Turn some cold water upon your head and be ready to attend to what I have to say."

What he had to say took a long time in the telling, for it was a long, long hour before the conference broke up, and the two men left the room together.

Then the doors of the wardrobe opened slowly, and a pale, pinched face looked forth; following the face came the body of Evan Lamotte, shaken as if with an ague. Mechanically he closed the wardrobe, and staggered rather than walked from the room. Once more within his own room he locked the door with an unsteady hand, and then threw himself headlong upon the bed, uttering groan after groan, as if in pain.

After a time he arose from the bed, still looking as if he had seen a ghost, and, going to a desk, opened it, and took therefrom a capacious drinking flask; raising it to his lips he drained half its contents, and the stimulant acting upon overstrained nerves, seemed to restore rather than to intoxicate.

"At last," he muttered to himself, "I am at the bottom of the mystery, and—I am powerless." Then, like his sister on the previous day, he muttered, "There is but one way—only one—and it must be done!" Then throwing himself once more upon the bed, he moaned:

"Oh, that I, the accursed of the family, heretofore, should live to be—but pshaw! it is for Sybil I care. But—for to-day let them all keep out of my sight—I could not see them and hold my peace."

He pocketed the half empty flask, and made his way from the house to be seen by none at Mapleton for the next twenty-four hours.

After that morning interview with his father-in-law, John Burrill blusters less for a few days, and makes himself less disagreeable to the ladies. He accepts the situation, or seems to; he rides out on one or two sunny afternoons with Mrs. Lamotte and Sybil, and on one of these occasions they meet Constance Wardour, driving with her aunt. The heiress of Wardour smiles gayly and kisses the tips of her fingers to the ladies, but there is no chance for him—he might be the footman for all Constance seems to see or know to the contrary. This happens in a thoroughfare where they are more than likely to have been observed, and John Burrill chafes inwardly, and begins to ponder how he can, in the face of all the Lamottes, gain a recognition from Constance Wardour. In his sober moments this becomes a haunting thought; in his tipsy ones it grows to be a mania.

One day, during this lull in the family siege, Sybil and her mother visit the city, doing a mountain of shopping, and returning the next day. Sybil keeps on as she began, on the night when she listened to her father and husband, while they held council in her mother's room. She is full of energy and nervous excitement always, and the old stupor of dullness, and apathetic killing of time, never once returns. But Mrs. Lamotte likes this last state not much better than the first; neither does Constance; but they say nothing, for the reason that it would be useless, as they know too well. Sybil goes out oftener, sits with the family more, and seems like one waiting anxiously for a long expected event.

John Burrill is a little disturbed at Sybil's visit to the city. He knows that she will go and come as she pleases there, unquestioned, and, if she choose, unattended by her mother. And, without knowing why, he feels inclined to rebel; but he is still under the spell of that morning interview, and so holds his peace.

Evan, too, under the same uncanny spell, goes about more morose than usual, more silent than usual, more sarcastic than usual. More and more, too, he attaches himself to John Burrill; they drink together in the dining room, and then repair together to "Old Forty Rods," or some other favorite haunt. Together they seek for pleasure in the haunts of the vilest, Evan continually playing upon the vanity and credulity in Burrill's nature, to push him forward as the leader in all their debauches, the master spirit, the bon vivant, par excellence.

And Burrill goes on and on, down and down. He begins to confide all his maudlin woes to Evan, and that young man is ever ready with sympathy and advice that is not calculated to make Jasper Lamotte's position, as bear trainer, a sinecure.

But Evan contrives to leave Sybil tolerably free from this nuisance for a time; but only for a time. John Burrill has other advisers, other exhorters, other spurs that urge him on to his own downfall.

Burrill begins to throw himself in the way of Constance Wardour; to meet her carriage here and there; to stand near by as she goes and comes on her shopping excursions; to drive past Wardour Place alone and often.

At first, this only amuses Miss Wardour; then it annoys her; then, when she finds her walks in the grounds so often overlooked by the slowly passing Burrill, she begins to mark his maneuvers with a growing vexation.

But Burrill perseveres, and the more nearly he approaches the fourth stage of his intoxication, the more open becomes his stare, the more patent his growing admiration.



CHAPTER XVIII.

JOHN BURRILL, PLEBEIAN.

It is night, late and lowering; especially gloomy in that quarter of W—— where loom the great ugly rows of tenements that are inhabited by the factory toilers; for the gloom and smoke of the great engines brood over the roofs night and day, and the dust and cinders could only be made noticeable by their absence.

In a small cottage, at the end of a row of larger houses, a woman is busy clearing away the fragments of a none too bountiful supper. A small woman, with a sour visage, and not one ounce of flesh on her person, that is not absolutely needed to screen from mortal gaze a bone. A woman with a long, sharp nose, two bright, ferret-like brown eyes, and a rasping voice, that seems to have worn itself thin asking hard questions of Providence, from sunrise till dark.

The table has been spread for two, but the second party at the banquet, a gamin son aged seven, has swallowed his own and all he could get of his mother's share, and betakened himself to the streets, night though it be.

The woman moves about, now and then muttering to herself as she works. The room is shabbily furnished, and not over neat, for its mistress spends her days in the great mill hard by, and housekeeping has become a secondary matter. Only the needs of life find their demands honored in this part of W——. Too often needs get choked and die of the smoke and the cinders.

It is late, for the woman has been doing extra work; it is stormy, too, blustering and spattering rain. Yet she pauses occasionally and listens to a passing footfall, as though she expected a visitor.

At last, when the final touch has made the room as tidy as it ever is, or as she thinks it need be, there comes a shuffling of feet outside, and a tremendous thump on the rickety door. After which, as if he was sufficiently heralded, in comes a man, a big man, muffled to the eyes in a huge coat, which he slowly draws down and draws off, disclosing to the half curious, half contemptuous gaze of the woman the auburn locks and highly tinted countenance of Mr. John Burrill.

"So," she says, in her shrillest voice, "It's you, is it? It seems one is never to be rid of you at any price."

"Yes, it's me—all of me," the man replies, as if confirming a doubtful statement. "Why, now; you act as if you didn't expect me."

"And no more I did," says the woman sullenly and most untruthfully. "It's a wonder to me that you can't stay away from here, after all that's come and gone."

"Well, I can't," he retorts, amiably rubbing his hands together. "Anyhow, I won't, which means about the same thing. Where's the little duffer?"

"He's where you were at his age, I expect," she replies grimly.

"Well, and if he only keeps on as I have, until he gets up to my present age, he won't be in a bad boat, eh, Mrs. Burrill the first."

"He's got too much of his mother's grit to be where you are, John Burrill, livin' a lackey among people that despise you because you have got a hand on 'em somewhere. I want to know if you don't think they will choke you off some day when they are done using you?"

John Burrill seated himself astride a low wooden chair, and propelling it and himself forward by a movement of the feet and a "hitch" of the shoulders, he leaned across the chair back in his most facetious manner, and addressed her with severe eloquence.

"Look here, Mrs. Burrill number one, don't you take advantage of your position, and ride the high horse too free. It's something to 'ave been Mrs. J. Burrill once, I'll admit; but don't let it elevate you too much. You ain't quite so handsome as the present Mrs. Burrill, neither are you so young, consequently you don't show off so well in a tantrum. Now the present Mrs. Burrill—"

"Oh, then she does have tantrums, the present Mrs. Burrill," sneered the woman, fairly quivering with suppressed rage. "One would think she would be so proud of you that she could excuse all your little faults. Brooks says that they all talk French up there, so that you can't wring into their confabs, John."

"Does he?" remarked Burrill, quietly, but with an ominous gleam in his ugly eyes. "Brooks must be careful of that tongue of his. You may reckon that they all stop their French when I begin to talk. Now, don't be disagreeable, Nance; it ain't every man that can take a rise in the world like me, and I don't put on airs, and hold myself above my old friends. Do you think that every man could step into such a family as I belong to, Mrs. Burrill? No one can say that John Burrill's a common fellow after that feat."

"No, but a great many can say that John Burrill's a mean fellow, too mean to walk over. Do you think the men as you worked along side of, and drank and supped with, don't know what you are, John Burrill! Do you think that they don't all know that your outrageous vanity has made a fool of you? Chance threw into your hands a secret of the Lamottes; you need not stare, we ain't fools down here at the factories. Maybe I know what that secret is, and maybe I don't. It's no matter. I know more of your doings than you give me credit for, John Burrill. Now, what must you do? Blackmail would have satisfied a sensible man; but straightway you are seized with the idea that you were born to be a gentleman. You! Then you form your plan; and you force, by means of the power in your hands, that beautiful young lady to marry you."

"Seems to me," interrupts the man who has been listening quite contentedly, "that you are getting along too fast with your story."

"Yes, I am too fast. When you first hatched out this plan, you came to me and put a pistol to my head, and swore that if I didn't apply for a divorce from you at once, you would blow my brains out. I had swore more than once to have a divorce; and Lord knows I had cause enough; what, with the drunkenness and the beatings, and the idleness, and the night prowlin', and all the rest; but I never expected that."

The woman paused for a moment, and then resumed her tirade of mixed eloquence and bad grammar.

"I didn't expect to be drove into the divorce court at the point of a pistol, but that's how it ended, and you was free to torment Miss Lamotte, poor young thing! Don't you let yourself think that I envied her! Lord knows I had had enough of you, and your meanness, but I pitied her; and if I had knocked out your brains, as I've been tempted to do a dozen times, when you have rolled in here blind drunk, I'd have done her a good turn, and myself too. The time was when Nance Fergus was your equal, and more too; but you left England with the notion that here you would be the equal of anybody, and you've never got clear of the idea. I've tried to make you understand that there's a coarse breed of folks, same's there is of dogs, and that you are of a mighty coarse breed. I've lived out with gentle folks over the water, and they were none of your sort. But, go on John Burrill, the low women you are so fond of, and the girls at the factory, have called you good lookin', until your head is turned with vanity. You have got yourself in among the upper class, no matter how, and I suppose you expect your good looks to do the rest for you. I mind once when I was at service in Herefordshire, the Squire had a fine young beast in his cattle yard, black an' sleek, an' handsome to look at, and the young ladies came down from the big house and looked at it through the fence, and called it a 'beautiful creature,' but all the same they led it away to the slaughter house with a ring in its nose, and the young ladies dined off it with a relish."

John Burrill stroked his nasal organ fondly, as if discerning some connection between that protuberance and the aforementioned ring; but he made no attempt to interrupt her.

"You was bad enough in England, John Burrill; what with your poaching and your other misdeeds, and sorry was the day when I left a good place to come away from the country with you, because it was gettin' too hot for you to stay there. You couldn't get along without me then; and you can't get along now it seems, for all your fine feathers, without you come here sometimes to brag of your exploits, and pretend you are lookin' after the boy."

"Nance," said Burrill, "you're a fine old bird! 'Ow I'd like to set you at my old father-in-law, blarst him, when he rides it too rough sometimes, and, what a sociable little discourse you could lay down for the ladies too, Nance; but, are you about done? You've been clean over the old ground, seems to me, tho' I may have dozed a little here and there. Have you been over the old business, and brought me over the water, by the nape of the neck; because, if you haven't—no, I see you have not, so here's to you, Nance, spin on;" and he took from his pocket a black bottle, and drank a mighty draught therefrom.

"No, I'm not done," screamed the woman. "You've come here to-night, as you have before, for a purpose; one would think that such a fine gentleman could find better society, but it seems you can't. You never come here for nothing; you never come for any good; you want something? What is it?"

He laughed a low, hard laugh.

"Yes," he said, taking another pull at the black bottle; "I want something."

"Umph! I thought so."

"I want to tell you," here he arose, and dropping his careless manner, laid a threatening hand upon her arm. "I want to tell you, Nance Burrill, that you have got to bridle that tongue of yours; d'ye understand?"

She shook off his hand, and retired a few paces eyeing him closely as she said:

"Oh! I thought so. Something has scared ye already."

"No, I'm not scared; that thing can't be done by you, Nance; but you have been blowing too much among the factory people, and I won't have it."

"Won't have what?"

"Won't have any more of this talk about going to my wife with stories about me."

"Who said I threatened?"

"No matter, you don't do much that I don't hear of, so mind your eye, Nance. As for the women at the bend, you let them alone, and keep your tongue between your teeth."

"Oh! I will; one can't blame you for seeking the society of your equals, after the snubbing you must get from your betters up there. But that don't satisfy you; you must drag that poor fellow, Evan Lamotte, into their den; as if he were not wild enough, before you came where you could reach him."

John Burrill took another pull at the black bottle.

"Evan's a good fellow," he said somewhat thickly. "He knows enough to appreciate a man like me, and we both have larks, now let me tell you."

"Well, have your larks; but don't sit and drink yourself blind before my very eyes. Why don't you go?"

"Cause I don't want'er—," growing more and more mellow, as the liquor went fuming to his head, already pretty heavily loaded with brandy and wine. "Where's the little rooster, I tell yer."

"In the streets, and he's too much like his father to ever come home, 'till he's gone after, and dragged in."

"Well, go and drag him in then, I'm goin' ter see 'im."

"I won't!" shrieked the woman, now fairly beside herself with rage; "go home to your lady wife, and take her my compliments; tell her that I turned you out."

John Burrill staggered to his feet, uttering a brutal oath.

"You'll turn me out, will you? You say won't to me; you are forgetting my training, Mrs. Nance; I'll teach you that John Burrill's yer master yet; go for the boy."

But the woman did not stir.

"You won't, eh!" clutching her fiercely, and shaking her violently, "now will you?"

"No, you brute."

"Then, take that, and that, and that!"



A rain of swift blows; a shriek ringing out on the stillness of the night; then a swift step, the door dashed in, and John Burrill is measuring his length upon the bare floor.

The woman reels, as the clutch of the miscreant loosens from her arm, but recovers herself and turns a bruised face toward the timely intruder. It is Clifford Heath.

"Are you badly hurt?" he asks, anxiously.

She lifts a hand to her poor bruised face, and aching head, and then sinking into a chair says, wearily:

"It's nothing—for me. Look out, sir!"

This last was an exclamation of warning, John Burrill had staggered to his feet, and was aiming an unsteady blow at the averted head of Doctor Heath.

The latter turned swiftly, comprehending the situation at a glance, and once more felled the brute to the floor.

By this time others had appeared upon the scene,—neighbors, roused by the cry of the woman.

Doctor Heath bent again to examine her face. He had scarcely observed the features of the man he had just knocked down; and he now asked:

"Is—this man you husband, madam?"

The woman reddened under her bruises.

"He was my husband," she said, bitterly. "He is—John Burrill."

Clifford Heath started back, thinking, first of all, of Sybil, and realizing that there must be no scandal, that could be avoided, for her sake. He had never seen Burrill, save at a distance, but had heard, as had every one in W——, of his divorced wife.

Turning to one of the neighbors, he said: "I was passing on my way home from Mrs. Brown's, when I heard this alarm. I think, good people, that we had better let this fellow go away quietly, and attend to this woman. Her face will be badly swollen by and by." Then he turned once more toward Burrill.

Once more the miscreant was struggling to his feet, and at a command from Doctor Heath, he hastened his efforts. Hitherto, he had had only a vision of a pair of flashing dark eyes, and an arm that shot out swiftly, and straight home.

Now, however, as he gained an erect posture, and turned a threatening look upon his assailant, the onlookers, who all knew him, and all hated and feared him, saw a sudden and surprising transformation. The red all died out of his face, the eyes seemed starting from their sockets, the lower jaw dropped abjectly and suddenly, and, with a yell of terror, John Burrill lowered his head and dashed from the house, as if pursued by a legion of spectres.



CHAPTER XIX.

NANCE BURRILL'S WARNING.

The sudden and surprising exit of Burrill caused, for a moment, a stay of proceedings, and left the group, so rapidly gathered in Nance Burrill's kitchen, standing en tableaux, for a full minute.

Dr. Heath was the first to recover from his surprise, and as he took in the absurdity of the scene, he uttered a low laugh, and turned once more toward the woman, Nance, who seemed to have lost herself in a prolonged stare.

"Your persecutor does not like my looks, apparently," he said, at the same time taking from his pocket a small medicine case. "Or was it some of these good friends that put him to flight?" And he glanced at the group gathered near the door.

A woman with a child in her arms, and her husband with two more in charge, at her heels; a family group to the rescue; two or three old women, of course; and a man with a slouching gait, a shock of unruly red hair, and a face very much freckled across the cheek bones, and very red about the nose; the eyes, too, had an uncanny squint, as if nature had given up her task too soon and left him to survey the world through the narrow slits. This man had always an air of being profoundly interested in the smallest affairs of life, perhaps because the slits through which he gazed magnified the objects gazed upon, and he peered about him now with profoundest solicitude. This was Watt Brooks, a mechanic, and hanger-on about the mills, where he did an occasional bit of odd work, and employed the balance of his time in gossiping among the women, or lounging at the drinking saloons, talking a great deal about the wrongs of the working classes, and winning to himself some friends from a certain turbulent class who listened admiringly to his loud, communistic oratory.

Brooks had not been long in W——, but he had made rapid headway among that class who, having little or nothing to love or to fear, are not slow to relieve the monotony of very bare existence by appropriating to themselves the friendship of every hail fellow whom chance throws in their way.

Accordingly Brooks had become a sort of oracle among the dwellers in "Mill avenue," as the street was facetiously called, and he was ready for any dish of gossip, not infrequently making himself conspicuous as a teller of news; he was faithful in gathering up and retailing small items among such ladies of the "avenue" as, being exempted from mill work because of family cares, had time and inclination, and this latter was seldom lacking, to chatter with him about the latest mishap, or the one that was bound to occur soon.

Prominent among the gossips of Mill avenue was that much abused matron Mrs. John Burrill number one, and she had not been slow to discover the advantages of possessing such an acquaintance as Mr. Brooks; accordingly they gravitated toward each other by mutual attraction, and it was quite a common thing for Brooks to drop in and pass an evening hour in the society of Mrs. Burrill, sometimes even taking a cup of tea at the table of the lone woman on a Sunday afternoon.

As Doctor Heath laid his case upon the small pine table, and prepared to deal out a soothing lotion for the bruised Mrs. Burrill, Brooks advanced courageously, supported on either hand by an anxious old lady, and the chorus commenced.

"It warn't us as scared him out, sir," said Brooks, positively. "He's seen all o' us, first and last. Maybe as he's had cause for remembering you, sir?" and Brooks peered anxiously at the doctor, as if hoping for a prompt confirmation of this shrewd guess.

"Sure, an' it was a guilty conscience, if ever I seen one, as made the brute beast run like that, from the sight of the doctor," chimed in first old lady, who quarreled with her "old man" on principle, and seldom came out second best. "Faith, an' the murtherin' wretch has half killed ye, Burrill, dear."

"I was that scart with the screamin'," said the mother of three, "that I nearly let the baby fall a-runnin' here."

And then they all gathered around Mrs. Burrill, and talked vigorously, and all together, while Brooks, hovering near the doctor, pursued his investigation.

"A bad lot, that Burrill, sir. I've seen him, frequent; and so he's had occasion to know you, sir?"

"No, my good fellow; I never had the honor of meeting Mr. John Burrill before," replied Doctor Heath, smiling at the man's pertinacity.

"Now, I want to know," exclaimed Brooks, in accents of real distress, "then what could have set him off like that?"

"I suppose we were getting too many for him," replied the doctor, easily.

"Not a bit of it, sir. Burrill ain't no coward, especially when he's in liquor; and he and me's on good enough terms, too; though, of course," said Brooks, recollecting himself, and glancing anxiously at the reclining figure of the injured one, "of course, I would never stand by and see a lady struck down, sir."

"Manifestly not," replied the doctor, drily. "Then, as he would not fear you, and could not fear me, he must have been in the first stages of 'snake seeing.'"

"It's my opinion, he took you for somebody else, as he has reasons to be afraid of," said one of the women, with an emphatic nod.

But here the voice of the heroine of the occasion rose high above the rest.

"John Burrill wasn't so drunk as to run away from a man he never saw, or to see crooked," she said, fiercely. "I saw the look on his face, blinded tho' I was, and he's afraid of you, Doctor Heath. I don't know why. There's some secrets in John Burrill's life that I don't know, and there's more that I wish I didn't know; but here, or somewhere else, he has known you, sir. Perhaps only by sight; but he's afraid of you, that's certain."

There was no reply from Doctor Heath; he was busy over his medicine case. He prepared a lotion, to be applied to the bruises, and a sedative, to be applied to the nerves of the patient, who was beginning to recover herself in a measure, and launched out into a torrent of invective against the author of her trouble; after which she rushed into a wild recital of her wrongs, beginning at the time when she left a good place in England, to follow the fortunes of John Burrill, and running with glib tongue over the entire gamut of her trials since. And all of this, although it was far from new to the dwellers of Mill Avenue, was listened to, by them, with absorbed interest, and the proper accompaniment of ejaculations, at the proper places. During this discourse, to which Brooks listened with evidences of liveliest interest, Doctor Heath remained seemingly inattentive, waiting for a lull in the storm; when it came at last, he ascertained as briefly as possible, who among the women would remain, and pass the night with Mrs. Burrill; gave her direction, as to the use she was to make of the medicines he had prepared, and buttoned his coat about him, preparatory to departure.

As his hand was upon the latch, the voice of his patient arrested him.

"Doctor," she said, earnestly. "It wouldn't be gratitude in me to let you go away without a word of warning. I don't want to pry into your affairs, but let me tell you this: You are not done with John Burrill; you took him by surprise to-night; but, I'll wager he is over his scare by now, and he is plotting how he can get another sight at you, unbeknown to yourself; and, if he has reason to be afraid of you, then look out for him; you have reasons for being afraid too."

Doctor Heath hesitated a moment, and a shade of annoyance crossed his face, then he said in his usual careless tone:

"Give yourself no uneasiness about this matter, madam; I never saw the scoundrel before, and he was simply afraid of my fist. However, if he ever should cross my path, be assured I shall know how to dispose of him;" and Clifford Heath bowed and went out into the night, little recking that he had left his life in the hands of five old women.

In a short time, Brooks arose and shuffled out, and then the tongues were once more loosened, the husband attendant had been ordered home with his two charges, and the chief subject of their converse was Doctor Heath, and the strange influence he had exerted upon John Burrill; and a fruitful theme they found it.

Meantime, John Burrill, who had fled straight on down the gloomy length of Mill avenue, found himself, and his senses, together, close under the shadow of one of the huge factories, and at the river's very edge.

Here, breathless and bespattered, he sat down upon a flat stone to recover himself, and review the situation.

"Curse the man," he muttered. "I would not have made such a fool of myself for a gold mine; but I couldn't have helped it for two," he added, after a moment's reflection, "if it's the man I supposed it to be! But it can't be! It is not."

He was by this time, comparatively sober, and he arose to his feet, finally, feeling his courage returning, but still deep in thought.

"Hang the luck," he muttered, kicking viciously at a loose stone. "If that's the man I fear, then Jasper Lamotte would be glad to know him. Why!" starting suddenly erect, "I can find out, and I will. I must, for my own safety," and John Burrill faced about and retraced his steps.

Cautiously this time, he went over the ground, heeding where he set his foot, lest some misstep should betray his presence in Mill avenue still; more and more cautiously as he neared the house from which he had so lately fled.

Closer and closer he crept, until at last he was under the window of the kitchen, and here he crouched, listening. He heard the mingled confusion of voices, then the firm tones of Clifford Heath, clear above the rest. Hearing this, he moved quickly away, for he was in instant danger of detection, should the door open suddenly, as it might at any moment.

He crossed the street and standing under the shadow of a small tenement, waited.

It was not long before the door opened, and the light from within showed him the tall form of Clifford Heath, clearly outlined against the darkness.

Out strode Heath, walking so rapidly, that the not yet quite sober, John Burrill, found himself compelled to exercise care, and expend some breath, in keeping him within sight.

On and on, went the pursued and the pursuer, and presently, out of the darkness, came a third form, gliding shadow-like; as if every step of the way were too familiar to render caution necessary; this third form, drew nearer and nearer to Burrill, who, all unconscious of its proximity, labored on after Doctor Heath.

Straight to his own cottage went the doubly shadowed young physician; he opened the door with a latch key, and the followers lost him in the darkness of the unlighted vestibule. Presently, however, a light was seen to glimmer through the partially closed blinds, and then John Burrill crept cautiously nearer, and feeling his way carefully, lest some obstacle at his feet should cause him to stumble; he gained the window, pressed his face close to the shutters and peered through.

Clifford Heath was pacing up and down his cosy sitting room, seemingly lost in perplexed thought, and, as again and again his face was turned to the light, the watcher studied it closely; finally he seemed satisfied with his scrutiny, for he turned away and groped back to the street once more.

"It's the other one," he muttered, drawing a long breath of relief. "I might have known it from the first; so he is the young Doctor they tell of! Well, it's a rum game that brings him here, and it's certain he don't want to be known. He can't know me, and—Jove, I'd like to pay him for the hits he gave me," and he fell to pondering as he turned his steps, not the way he had come, nor yet toward Mapleton, but in the direction of "Old Forty Rods." But long before he reached his destination, the creeping, stealthy shadow, had ceased to follow, and had vanished down a side street.



A few lights were glimmering, here and there, as he turned down the, not very elegant, street on which was located the haven of "Forty Rods," and when he was within a block of the place, a man, coming suddenly around the corner, ran square against him.

Burrill uttered an oath, as he with difficulty regained his balance, but the new-comer called out in a voice, a little unsteady from some cause:

"Helloa! B—Burrill, that yer, ole feller? Didn't mean ter knock against yer, give-ye my word I didn'. Give us a tiss, ole man, an' come-long to Forty's!"

"Brooks," said Burrill, taking him sociably by the arm, and facing toward the saloon in question. "Brooks, you're drunk; you're beastly drunk; drunk as a sailor by all that's sober." And together they entered "Old Forty Rods."



CHAPTER XX.

CONSTANCE AT BAY.

"It is impossible, sir! utterly impossible! and, pardon me for saying it, most absurd! This matter has been dragged on too long already. And on such evidence I utterly refuse to follow up the case. You have done well, undoubtedly, but it was only at the urgent request of Mr. Lamotte that I have allowed it to continue, and now I wash my hands of the whole affair."

It is Constance Wardour who speaks, standing very straight and with head very firmly poised, and wearing upon her face what Mrs. Aliston would have called her "obstinate look." Her words were addressed to a well dressed, gentlemanly looking personage, who is neither young nor yet middle aged, and who might pass for a solicitor with a good run of clients, or a bank cashier out on special business. He is looking somewhat disconcerted just now, but recovers his composure almost as she ceases speaking.

"But, madam," he expostulates mildly, "this is unheard of, really. You employ me upon a case which, just now, has reached a crisis, and when success seems almost certain you tell me to drop the case. I never like to drag forward my own personality, Miss Wardour, but really this is a blow aimed directly at my professional honor."

There is an ominous flash in the eye of the heiress, but her voice is smooth and tranquil, as she replies:

"I am sorry if this should injure you, Mr. Belknap, but, pardon me, I scarcely see how it can; you, as I understand, are a 'private detective,' answerable to no one save yourself and the one employing you. I, as that one, pronounce myself satisfied to drop the case. I decline to use the circumstantial evidence you have brought against a man who is above suspicion, in my mind, at least. Let the Wardour diamonds rest in oblivion. Mr. Belknap, I am ready to honor your draft for any sum that you may deem sufficient to compensate you for the trouble you have taken, as well as for the hurt done your professional pride."

Private Detective Belknap stood for a moment, pondering, then he lifted his head and said, with an air of injured virtue beautiful to contemplate:

"Miss Wardour, of course there is no appeal from your decision. In my profession it often happens that we are compelled to unmask fraud and deceit in high places, and to wound the feelings of some we profoundly respect. While in your employ, I was bound to work for your interest; I owed a duty to you. Being dismissed from your service, I owe a duty still to society. As an officer of the law, it becomes my duty, being no longer under your commands, to make known to the proper authorities the facts in my possession. I do not know this Doctor Heath, consequently can have no object in hunting him down; but, believing him guilty, and holding the proof that I do, I must make known the truth, otherwise I should be compromising myself, and compounding a felony." Here Mr. Belknap took up his hat. "I will send in my statement of expenses, etc., to-morrow, Miss Wardour. This withdrawal of the case has been so sudden, so unexpected, that I am not prepared for a settlement of accounts." And Mr. Belknap turned slowly toward the door.

But the heiress stopped him by a gesture.

"Stay a moment, sir," she said, and the ominous gleam was intensified into a look of absolute hatred, for an instant. "I hope I do not quite understand your meaning. Did you intend to tell me that if I dismiss you from my service, you will still continue the search for my diamonds?"



"No, madam: I will simply place the facts I have gathered before the town authorities, and leave them to use the knowledge as they see fit. I then withdraw from the field, unless called upon as a witness, when, of course, I must do my duty."

Miss Wardour stood for some moments in silent thought, one small foot tapping nervously the while, a sure sign of irritation with her. At last she said, slowly, and with an undertone of sarcasm, that she made a futile effort to conceal:

"I think I comprehend you Mr. Belknap, and I withdraw my dismissal. You are still retained on the Wardour robbery case; I suppose, therefore, you are subject to my orders."

Mr. Belknap laid down his hat, and returned to his former position. Without a trace of triumph or satisfaction in his face or manner, he said:

"I am subject to your commands, certainly, Miss Wardour; but I beg that you will not misapprehend me."

"Be easy on that point," interrupted Miss Wardour, somewhat impatiently. "Now then, Mr. Belknap, I want a little time to consider this matter, and to consult with my aunt; also to see Mr. Lamotte. During this time I desire you to remain passive, to make no move in the matter; above all, to mention your suspicions to no one. You can, of course, keep as close a watch as you may please over Doctor Heath, but it must be done quietly, do you comprehend? You are to say nothing of this matter not even to Mr. Lamotte."

Once more the detective took up his hat.

"I comprehend," he said, gravely; "you shall be obeyed to the letter, Miss Wardour; for three days, then, my task will be an easy one. On Friday morning I will call on you again."

"That is what I wish," she said; "I will have further instructions for you then."

With the bow of a courtier, the private detective withdrew from her presence, and for a moment the heiress stood as he had left her, gazing at the door through which he had disappeared, as if she were seeking to transfix an enemy with the angry fire of her eyes. Then she struck her hands together fiercely, and began a rapid march to and fro across the room.

"Ah!" she ejaculated; "the sleek, smooth, oily-tongued wretch! To dare to come here and make terms with me; to fairly compel me to keep him in my service! and to bring such a charge against him. If he had an enemy, I should call it a wretched plot. But I'll not be outwitted by you, Mr. Belknap; I have three day's grace."

She continued to pace the room with much energy for a few moments, and then seating herself at a writing table, rapidly wrote as follows:

NEIL BATHURST, ESQ, No.—— B—— street. N. Y.

Dear Sir:—If in your power, be in W—— in two days, without fail. Danger menaces your friend, Dr. H——, and I only hold detective B—— in my service to bridle his tongue. I fear a plot, and can only stay proceedings against the innocent, by proclaiming the truth concerning my diamonds; acting under your advice, I will withhold my statement until you arrive.

Hastily, etc., CONSTANCE WARDOUR.

There was yet an hour before the departure of the eastern mail, and Constance sealed her letter, and dispatched it by a faithful messenger; this done, she pondered again.

The private detective had waited upon her that morning with a strange statement. For weeks he had been working out this strange case, guided by the fact that the chloroform administered to Constance was scientifically meted out. He had commenced a system of shadowing the various medical men in W——, without regard to their present or previous standing. Nothing could be found in the past or present of any to cause them to fall under suspicion, until he came to investigate Doctor Heath. Here what did he find? First, that his antecedents could be traced back only so far as his stay in W—— had extended. Nothing could be found to prove that his career had been above reproach, previous to his sojourn here; hence, according to the reasoning of Mr. Belknap, it was fair to suppose that it had not been. "For," argued the astute private detective, "where there is secresy, there is also room for suspicion." And Constance felt a momentary sinking of the heart, when she recalled the words she had overheard, as they fell from the lips of Clifford Heath: "Here, I am Clifford Heath, from nowhere." Starting with a suspicion, the private detective had made rapid headway. He had ascertained beyond a doubt that Doctor Heath's expenses, taken all in all, were in excess of his professional income. He might have a private income, true; but this was not proven, and then there was a mystery that the accused had tried in vain to hide from the eyes of the hunters. There was a correspondence that was carried on with the utmost caution, letters received that had thrown him quite off his guard, and that were destroyed as soon as read. Finally and lastly, there was the bottle broken into fragments and thrown to the dust heap; but, without doubt, the counterpart of the one found at Miss Wardour's bedside on the morning of the robbery; while, among some cast-off garments, had been found the half of a handkerchief, that matched precisely the one found over the face of the heiress. All these facts Mr. Belknap had laid before her with elaborate explanations, and "notes by the way," but instead of drawing from her the expected indignant demand for the instant arrest of the accused one, Miss Wardour had listened coldly, and with marked impatience, and had finally declared her decision not to move in the affair, nor to allow any one to act in her behalf.

As Constance reviewed the arguments of the detective, a new thought came to her. Doctor Heath, all unconscious of the danger menacing him, might in some way, do himself an injury, and add to the chain of circumstantial evidence that was lengthening for his overthrow. He must be warned.

This was a delicate task, and she hesitated a little over the manner of accomplishing it.

Finally, she seated herself once more at her desk and wrote another letter, or rather a note.

It contained only a few lines, and was addressed to, "Mr. Raymond Vandyck."

Meanwhile, private detective Belknap was driving slowly in the light buggy, that had brought him to Wardour Place, toward the residence of Jasper Lamotte. His features wore a look of complacent self-satisfaction, and he hummed softly to himself, as he drove easily over the red and brown leaves that were beginning to flutter downward and carpet the highway.

Arriving at Mapleton; he drove leisurely up the avenue, and lifting his eyes toward the stately edifice crowning the hill, he saw, standing on the broad piazza, and gazing directly toward him, a beautiful woman, clad in trailing silk, and wearing a shawl of richest crimson cashmere, draped about her head and shoulders; as he drew nearer, he was startled at the strange mingling of pallor and flame in her face; the temples were like blue veined ivory, and the slender hands, clasping the folds of crimson, seemed scarcely strong enough to retain their hold; but the lips and cheeks were a glowing crimson, and the eyes burned and glowed with a steady intense light.

"So," thought private detective Belknap, "I have not left all the beauty behind me, it seems. I suppose this is the daughter of mine host."

And so thinking, he reined in his horse upon the graveled drive and, lifting up his hat, with elaborate courtesy, said:

"I believe this is Mapleton."

The lovely brunette allowed the crimson shawl to drop from about her head as she came slowly down the steps, never once removing her dark searching eyes from his face.

"This is Mapleton, sir. May I ask if this is Mr. Belknap?"

Somewhat surprised, he answered in the affirmative.

"Mr. Belknap, the detective," she persisted, and then seeing that he hesitated over his answer, she added, "I am Jasper Lamotte's daughter, and know that he expects you."

"I am the man Mr. Lamotte expects," he said, throwing down the reins and springing from the buggy. "Is Mr. Lamotte at home?"

"My father is in the library," she replied, coming still nearer him, "follow me, Mr. Belknap, I will send a servant to take your horse."

He followed her up the steps, and across the broad piazza; as they passed under the shadow of the arched doorway, she paused, looked about her, and then, drawing close to the detective and laying one hand lightly on his arm, she whispered:

"Mr. Belknap, I have a word for your ear alone. Can you meet me to-night where we shall be secure from intrusion?"

Her burning eyes searched his face, and accustomed as he was to strange situations, Mr. Belknap was startled for a moment out of his self-possession.

"I have need of your professional services," she hurried on, "and they must be rendered very secretly. Will you hear what I have to say?"

The beautiful face was full of wild eagerness, and Mr. Belknap was not insensible to the piquancy of the situation.

"I am yours to command, madam. Name the place and hour," he replied gallantly.

"Then meet me at the boat house, you can see it from here, to-night at nine. Be sure you are not followed, and—above all, do not mention to my father, or any one, this meeting of ours. You will be punctual?"

"As the hour itself."

"Thanks. Come in now, sir; I will send a servant to announce your arrival."

She threw open the door of the drawing room, motioned him to enter, inclined her head in a graceful adieu, and swept down the hall.

Two minutes later he stood in the library bowing before Jasper Lamotte and his son Frank.

"Ah, it's you, Belknap," said the elder Lamotte. "And what news?"

"Very little, sir."

"But," interrupted Frank, "surely you have fired your train?"

"Yes, and I have run against the worst impediment that ever comes in a detective's way."

"And what is that?"

"A woman."



CHAPTER XXI.

APPOINTING A WATCH DOG.

Doctor Heath stood at his office window looking out upon the street, and whistling softly. Below and directly under his gaze, stood a fine bay horse, harnessed to a new light road wagon; and horse and owner were somewhat impatiently waiting the arrival of Ray Vandyck, who was under engagement to drive with Doctor Heath, and pass his opinion on the "points" of the handsome bay, a recent purchase of the doctor's, who was a lover of a good horse and a fine dog, and was never without one or more specimens of each.

A quick step behind him caused him to bring his tune to an abrupt close, and he turned to see Ray, who had entered hurriedly, leaving the door ajar, and was busy breaking the seal of a small cream tinted envelope.

Clifford Heath favored him with a quizzical glance, and came away from the window.

"That's a dangerous looking document, Ray," laughed the doctor, throwing himself down in his own favorite chair with the air of a man resigned to any thing.

"I've a shuddering horror of any thing so small and delicately tinted. But read it, my boy; it's your fate to be persecuted, you are so amiable."

Ray lost no time in opening and scanning the dainty note, and he now turned a perplexed face toward his friend.

"I'll be hanged if I can understand it," he said, filiping the note between his thumb and fingers.



"Of course you can't, 'it' having emanated from the brain of a woman. I only hope your inability to comprehend the incomprehensible is the worst feature in the case."

"But it isn't," protested Ray. "I must renounce my drive, and your charming society."

"Really! is she so imperative, and are you so much her bond slave?"

Ray laughed. "Imperative," he cried. "You need not have asked, had you known the name affixed to this missive, and you would obey it with as much alacrity as I shall. Listen, Heath: I can trust you with a secret, if this be one." And, unfolding the note, he read:

RAYMOND VANDYCK, ETC.

My Friend: By coming to me, at once, on receipt of this note, you will do me a great favor, and perhaps do one who is your friend, an essential service. Come at once, to

Yours in waiting, CONSTANCE WARDOUR.

"There," said Ray, refolding the note; "now what say you?"

"That Miss Wardour's commands are to be obeyed; and—as your horse is stabled, and mine is at the door, you had best take mine and lose no time. Perhaps you may be dismissed as speedily as you are summoned, and we may take our drive after all. Go, go, my son;" and he waved his hand theatrically.

"Thank you, Heath. You are a generous fellow; but don't look for your red roan steed until you see it back. I shall place that and myself at Miss Wardour's disposal. She shall find that she has summoned no laggard knight."

"Who talks of playing the knight to Miss Constance Wardour's 'fair ladye?' Let him have a care!" cried a gay voice from the doorway. And turning their eyes thither, they saw the dark, handsome face of Frank Lamotte.

A shade of annoyance crossed the face of young Vandyck, but he retorted in the same strain:

"I am that happy man. Stand aside, sir. I go to cast myself and all my fortune at her feet." Then, turning a wicked look back at his friend in the big chair, he cried, "Heath, adieu! look your last on the red roan steed. I may be going 'O'er the hills and far away,'—who knows?"

"You may be gone—"

"Deep into the dying day."

"That's the thought that distresses me," retorted the doctor. "But go, go, egotist!"

With a laugh, and another backward meaning glance at the doctor, young Vandyck pocketed his note, took up his hat, and murmuring a mocking adieu in the ear of young Lamotte, ran lightly down the steps, and, a moment later, the swift fall of hoofs told them he was off.

"What the deuce ails the fellow?" said Lamotte, sourly, tossing his hat and himself down upon the office divan. "Prating like a school-boy about a summons from Miss Wardour."

"He means to get to Wardour Place without loss of time, if one may judge from the manner of his going. You know," smiling behind his hand, "Ray is a prime favorite at Wardour."

"I did not know it," returned Lamotte, sulkily. "Vandyck don't seem to realize that I have a prior claim, and that his twaddle, therefore, only serves to render him ridiculous."

Clifford Heath dropped his hand from before his face, and turned two stern, searching eyes upon the young man.

"Have you a prior claim?" he asked, slowly.

For a second the eyes of Frank Lamotte were hidden by their long lashes; then they were turned full upon the face of his interlocutor, as their owner replied firmly:

"I have."

* * * * *

Raymond Vandyck lost no time on his drive to Wardour Place; and before he could frame any sort of reasonable guess as to the possible meaning of Constance's note, he found himself in her very presence.

"Ah, Ray!" she exclaimed, extending a welcome hand, "you are promptness itself. I hardly dared hope to see you so soon."

"I met your messenger on the road, as I was riding in to keep an appointment with Heath," exclaimed Ray, "but as I was in company with Bradley, our new neighbor, you know, I did not open the note until I got to Heath's office. Then, as your note was urgent, and Heath's horse at the door, I took it, and here I am, very much at your service, Conny."

"And I don't know of another who could be of service to me just now, Ray," she said, seriously; "neither do I know just how to make use of you. Ray," suddenly, "are you burdened with a large amount of curiosity?"

"About the average amount, I think."

"Well! I am about to give that curiosity a severe test."

"Seriously, Conny, unless your secret concerns some one especially dear to me, I can survive being kept in the dark."

"And being made to work in the dark?"

"Yes, that too, under your orders, for I know I should risk nothing in obeying them."

"I should set you no dangerous or dishonorable task, of course, Ray."

"I am sure of that, Conny; command me; don't hesitate."

But she did hesitate, not knowing just how to tell him that she was Doctor Heath's friend, in spite of appearances, without telling, or revealing otherwise too much. How could she set the matter before him, as she wished him to see it?

Seeing her hesitate, Ray unwittingly came to the rescue, and Constance seized upon the idea he gave her, with hasty eagerness, little thinking of the results that were to follow her implied deceit.

"I can't feel too grateful for your confidence at any price," he said, laughingly; "when I think how Lamotte glowered at me when he saw me coming here. But, then, if rumor speaks the truth, he has a right to be jealous, eh, Constance?"

Here was a way out of her dilemma; let Ray imagine her engaged to Frank Lamotte, and he would not misconstrue her interest in Doctor Heath; as for Frank, he had been a suitor, and a most troublesome one, for so long, that she thought nothing of appropriating him to herself, as a matter of convenience, and only for the moment, and she never thought at all of the injury she might do herself by this deception.

"Oh, yes!" she replied; "I have given Frank the right to be as jealous as he pleases." And the hot blood flamed into her cheek, as she saw how readily he had taken her words as she had meant them to be understood.

"Lamotte's a lucky fellow," said Ray, "although I know a better man I would like to see in his shoes. But we won't quarrel over Frank. Is it him that I am to serve?"

"No," she replied, coloring again. And once more he misapplied her confusion.

Constance was silent and thoughtful for a few moments, and then she came directly to the point.

"Some strange things have come to my knowledge concerning Doctor Heath, Ray. They have come in such a manner that I would be in a measure violating the confidence of another were I to make a statement in full, and yet—in some way Doctor Heath must know that danger menaces him."

"Ah!" uttered Ray Vandyck, and Constance, lifting her eyes to his face, caught there a fleeting look that caused her to ask suddenly:

"Ray, have you heard anything about Doctor Heath? anything strange, I mean, or unexpected?"

"Why," replied Ray, slowly. "I have nothing very strange to relate, but—Heath's encounter with Burrill a short time since has made some talk."

"I don't understand you."

"Then is it not about this affair that you have sent for me?"

"Ray, explain yourself. What of this 'affair,' as you call it?"

"Why, you see," began Ray, plunging into his recital after a fashion peculiar to himself, "about a week ago, yes, it was quite a week ago, on that stormy blustering Monday night, when sensible people staid in doors, Heath, after the manner of doctors, was straggling about that lovely precinct known as Mill avenue, trying to find the shortest way out after paying a visit to some sick child, or woman, I won't swear which; as I was saying, he was on his way out of that blessed avenue, when he heard screams coming from the cottage he was passing. It was the voice of a woman, and Heath made for the house, and rushed in just in time to see that latest addition to society, Mr. John Burrill, in a state of partial intoxication, raining blows about the head and shoulders of the woman who was once his wife. Heath rained one blow upon him and he went down under it. Then he got up, not quite satisfied and thirsting for more fight, and Heath felled him once more.

"It seems that the thing had been done so rapidly, that Burrill had not had time to get a fair look at the face of his assailant; but the second time he scrambled to his feet, Heath stood facing him full, braced and ready, when, behold, Burrill, after one look, turns as pale as a spectre, utters a yell of fear, and dashes out of the house like a madman. By this time, several people had come in, and the thing puzzled them not a little. Heath asserted that he had never, to his knowledge, seen Burrill before; and yet there stood the fact of Burrill's fright at sight of him. Some believed it a case of mistaken identity; others, that Heath was trying to mislead them, and that he did know Burrill. The affair became noised about as such things will be, and some were curious to see another meeting between Heath and Burrill. And here comes the queer part of the business. In his sober moments, Burrill avoids Heath, and can not be brought to mention his name. But when he gets a little too much on board—beg pardon, Conny—I mean, somewhat intoxicated, he becomes very loquacious; then he throws out strange hints, and gives mysterious winks; states that he could tell a tale about Heath that would open everybody's eyes. He talks of 'borrowed plumage,' and insinuates that Heath would like to buy him off. He says that he took to his heels because he knew that Heath did not mean fair play, etc. Finally, two or three evenings ago, when Burrill was remarkably tipsy, and therefore, unusually ripe for a combat with any one, Heath and I, crossing the street opposite Spring's Bank, encountered him coming toward us, surrounded by a party of roughs. As we approached them, Burrill making some uncouth gestures, came forward, in advance of the rest, and as he came opposite Heath, leaned toward him, and whispered a few words in his ear. I don't know what he said, but the effect on Heath was magical. For a moment, he seemed staggered, as if by a blow, and then he took the fellow by the throat, and shook him until his teeth rattled; then loosed his hold, so suddenly, that his man dropped to the ground. Heath by this time was a little cooler; he stooped over the prostrate man, took him by the collar, and fairly lifted him to his feet, then he said:

"'Understand this, fellow, I allow no man to interfere with my business. This is only a sample of what will happen to you if you ever try this dodge again; keep my name off your tongue in public, and private, if you want whole bones in your body;' then he marched past the whole astonished crowd, minding them no more than if they were gnats. I followed, of course, and said as I came up with Heath:

"'Quite an adventure, upon my word; you seem to possess a strange attraction for Burrill?'

"'Burrill,' he exclaimed; 'who the mischief is the fellow, Ray?'

"'He is Mr. Lamotte's son-in-law,' I answered.

"'Ah,' he mused; 'so Jasper Lamotte has married his daughter to a blackmailer;' and after that, he said never a word more on the subject. I had it in my mind to tell him of the hints and insinuations, Burrill, in his unguarded moments, was putting into circulation, but his reticence closed my lips."

He paused, and looked to his auditor for some comment, but she sat with her eyes fixed upon the carpet, and a troubled look on her face.

"Don't think, Conny, that I am one of those who construe this against Heath," said the loyal fellow. "He is the best fellow in the world. The whole thing, for me, lies in a nutshell. Heath is not a man to disturb himself about his neighbor's concerns, and he don't expect his neighbors to interest themselves in his. This Burrill has picked up, somehow, a little information; something concerning Heath, or his past life, that is not known to W——, and he is trying to make capital of it. The secret in itself may be a mere nothing, but Heath is the first man to resent impertinences, and the last man to make explanations. And he's right, too, especially under the present circumstances. I like him all the better for his pluck, and his reticence; let him keep his secrets, so long as he gives me his friendship, I am quite content."

Constance felt a thrill of satisfaction, and a return of courage, as she listened. Here was a friend, loyal, enthusiastic, not to be alienated by slander or suspicion. She had known Ray from his childhood, and they had always been the best of friends, but she had never admired and honored him, never valued his friendship so much, as she did at this moment.

His enthusiasm was contagious; she forgot all her fears, of a personal nature, and became in an instant the true woman and unselfish friend.

"Ah, Ray," she exclaimed, lifting two admiring gray eyes to meet his, "you are a friend indeed! a friend to be proud of; but tell me, did you hear nothing more of Burrill after that second encounter?"

"He made some pretty loud threats," replied Ray, "and a fellow named Brooks, a sort of crony of Burrill's, took it upon himself to call upon Heath the next day, and advise him to keep a pretty close lookout for Burrill, as he was quite likely, in one of his drunken rages, to make an assault upon him. Heath thanked the fellow, and assured him that he was quite capable of taking care of himself, and Burrill, too, if need be; and Brooks backed out, declaring that he 'meant no 'arm by intrudin'.'"

"Ray," said Constance, earnestly, "John Burrill is not the only man Doctor Heath has to fear. I may have acted hastily in sending for you, but I was so troubled by certain facts that have just come to my knowledge, that I could not rest without doing something. It's almost an abuse of confidence to ask so much of you and tell you so little, but in a few days I hope to be mistress of my own tongue, and then you shall have all the particulars. For the present, Ray, promise to follow my instructions blindly."

"I have promised that, Conny."

"And, Ray, you will keep this all a secret; you will do your part without hinting to Doctor Heath your true motive, unless circumstances compel an explanation?"

"I promise that, too."

"When I sent for you, it was to ask you to warn Doctor Heath, in the most delicate way you could devise, that he was menaced by an enemy, and under hourly surveillance; but, since you have told me of this, Burrill, it occurs to me that in some way he may be mixed up in this matter, and—I have thought of a better plan."

Ray nodded, and looked full of interest.

"Your description of his manner of receiving Burrill's interference, and of his reticence throughout, makes me feel that it might be only precipitating a catastrophe if we warned him, and so, Ray, I want you, for three days, to be his constant shadow. Devise some excuse for remaining in town; thrust yourself upon his hospitality; observe any strangers who may approach him. If possible, do not let him get out of your sight, even for a short time; in three days you shall be relieved."

"By whom?"

She lifted her hand, warningly. "No questions, Ray. Can you manage all this?"

He pondered a while, then said: "I think I can; I am a pretty good actor, Conny. What do you say to my feigning illness?"

"He would find you out."

"Not if I did it well, perhaps. I think I could manage for a few days."

"It won't do, Ray. He would send you to bed and walk away and leave you."

Ray groaned.

"Tell him your room is undergoing repairs, and throw yourself on his mercy; then feign low spirits, and make him think it is his duty to entertain and cheer you up."

"Capital, Conny! we can make that work I know; your wit is worth more than my wisdom. For three days then, I am your watch dog."

"And your friend's guardian."

"Precisely. I begin to swell with importance. But seriously, Conny, let me have your confidence at the earliest moment. For, whoever does battle with Heath, will find me arrayed against him, and—it's difficult fighting in the dark."

"You shall know all, as soon as possible, Ray, and now—"

"And now," repeated he, rising with alacrity. "Heath's horse stands outside, and Heath himself waits my return; so, lest he should grow impatient, and go where mischief awaits him, I will go now and begin my task."

"Thank you, Ray, I know I can depend upon you. All this seems like a scene out of a melodrama, but it's wretchedly real for all that. Ray, I am just waking up to a knowledge of how much plotting and wickedness there is in this world; even in our little world of W——."

"We all wake to that knowledge," he said, a spasm of pain crossing his face. "You know how the lesson came to me, Conny."

"Yes, poor Ray! and I know that another suffers, even more than you, because of it."

"And the cause of it all is another mystery. But no more of this; unless something noteworthy occurs, you will not see me again for three days."

She gave him her hand, and a look of gratitude, and trust; and, in a few moments more, the red roan steed was speeding back townward.

Francis Lamotte had found the doctor dull company; and, as he scarcely ever remained in the office to read now-a-days, he had taken himself and his dissatisfaction elsewhere, long before Ray returned to the office ready to begin his new role.

He found the doctor sitting in a despondent attitude, almost where he had left him, holding in his hand a crumpled letter.

Without appearing to notice his abstraction, Ray came at once to the point at issue.

"Heath," he said, "your red roan is returned to you, and the loan of him encourages me to ask another favor."

"Well!" said the doctor, without looking up or changing his attitude.

"The fact is," said Ray, with splendid ingenuousness, "I am a sort of outcast. My quarters are undergoing that misery they call 'repairs,' and—the truth is, Heath, I want you to tender me your hospitality, for, say two or three days. I can't go to a public place; I don't feel like facing the music, for I am a little sore yet, and I find that I am still an object for commiseration, and I do get low spirited in spite of myself. It's cheeky, my asking it, I know, and you'll find my constant society a terrible bore; but my heart is set on quartering with you, so don't say no, Heath."

Clifford Heath threw off his listlessness and looked up with his usual cheery smile.

"Why, Ray, you young dog," he cried, "you beseech me like a veritable tramp, just as if you were not as welcome as the sunshine; come along, you shall share my bed, and board, and—I'll be hanged if you shan't share the daily dose of abuse I have to take from my old housekeeper. I'll make a special arrangement to that effect."

"Thanks, Heath," replied Ray, and then he turned to the window to hide the fire that burned in his cheeks, because of the deceit he was practicing upon this open-hearted friend. "But it's all for his benefit," he thought; "at least I hope so."

"Well!" said the doctor, moving uneasily in his chair; "I hope your mission prospered."

"Oh, yes," carelessly.

"You—found Miss Wardour well, I hope?"

"Quite well; only wanting my valuable assistance in a little scheme she has on foot, a sort of benefit affair." And Ray congratulated himself on the adaptability of his answer.

"Is it too late to drive, Heath?"

But the doctor made no answer to this question, nor did he seem to hear it. Rising, he walked to the window, looked down thoughtfully into the street for a moment, then, without turning, he said:

"Rumor says, that Miss Wardour will marry Lamotte."

"Yes."

"Lamotte just now made the same statement."

"Ah!" contemptuously, "it's like him to boast; but I'm afraid he tells the truth; Constance admitted as much to me to-day."

A long time Clifford Heath stood motionless and silent at the window; then turning as if spurred by some sudden thought, he threw the crumpled note, which all the time had been clasped in his hand, upon the table between them, saying:

"Here's a mystery, sir; read that and pass your opinion on it; as you are to become my guest, you should know what society you will find yourself in."

Ray eyed the letter with his head on one side.

"What is it?" he asked in a stage whisper.

"A note, a billet doux, a solemn warning; came under the door a little while ago, while I was off in a reverie; came by a spirit hand, maybe, for I never heard a sound, but there lay the letter waiting to be observed and perused." And the doctor laughed contemptuously, and turned away to prepare for his drive. But Ray's face lengthened perceptibly, and he took up the note with sudden eagerness, and read:

DOCTOR HEATH:—Take the advice of a friend and leave W—— for a time; a plot is ripening against you, and your only safety lies in your absence, for your enemies are powerful and have woven a chain about you that will render you helpless, perhaps ruin you utterly. TRUTH.

Lose no time, for the blow will soon fall.

The note was written in a cramped, reversed hand, and, after a hasty perusal, Ray bent his head and scanned the pen strokes closely, then he looked up with all the color gone from his face, and a strange gleam in his eyes.

"How—how do you say this came, Heath?"

"I didn't say, for I don't know, my lad. It made its first appearance lying just there," and the doctor pointed with his wisp broom, which he had been vigorously applying to a brown overcoat, at the spot just inside the door where he had first perceived the letter, and then resumed his occupation without observing the trouble in Ray's face. "Sensational, isn't it? but I can't think of quitting W—— just as it begins to grow interesting."

"Then you take no stock in this warning?"

"Bah! why should I?"

"But if you should have secret foes?"

"Let them come on," quoted the doctor, theatrically; "bring along that precious document, Ray, and come along yourself."

Ray Vandyck, still looking troubled and anxious, arose, and, with lagging steps, followed his friend; as he noted with a new curiosity the tall, lithe, well knit figure striding on before him, the handsome, haughtily poised head, and the careless indifference of mien, he asked himself:

"What can it be, this mystery and danger that surrounds him, that has caused Constance Wardour to take such unprecedented measures to insure his safety, and has wrung from Sybil Lamotte this strangely worded, oddly and ineffectually disguised warning," for Ray, seeing not as the world sees, but with the eyes of love, had recognized in the strange scrawl the hand of the woman he had loved and lost.

"Heath is in some peril," thought he, and then, with a rueful sigh, "Oh! I would risk dangers too to be watched over by two such women."



CHAPTER XXII.

THE WATCH DOG DISCHARGED.

The three days that followed were days of unrest to Constance Wardour. The intangible, yet distinctly realized trouble, and fear, and dread, were new experiences in her bright life.

The mystery round about her, her inability to cope with the unknown, the inaction, the waiting, was almost more than she could calmly endure; and all this distress of mind and unrest of body was for others. Personally, she had nothing to fear, nothing to annoy her; but the warm-hearted heiress made a friend's cause her own. From the first she had grieved over the sad fate of Sybil Lamotte; not lightly, not as society sorrows over the fall of its some proteges; but deeply, from her heart of hearts. And now there was added to this, her concern for Clifford Heath, and the danger that menaced him tormented her.

If her own honor were threatened she could not have been more troubled and full of fear; for in rebellion, in self-contempt, in a fierce burst of rage against the heart she could not control, Constance Wardour, heiress and queen absolute, was forced to confess to that heart that Clifford Heath's happiness was her happiness too.

Having been forced to recognize this fact, against her wish and will, Constance came to a better understanding with herself, and she confessed to herself, with cheeks aflame at the recollection, that her petulant outbreak, and shameful accusation against Doctor Heath, was but the mutinous struggle of the head against the heart's acknowledged master. Too late came this self confession. Sybil Lamotte's letter had never been found; the mystery surrounding its disappearance, remained a mystery; and, how could she recall her accusation, while the circumstances under which it was made remained unchanged? Realizing that she owed him reparation, she was yet powerless to make it.

"It would be equivalent to a confession, that I could not be happy without his friendship," she said, hotly. "And he would not accept an apology while his innocence remained unproven. Let me suffer the consequences of my own folly; I deserve it; but," setting her white teeth resolutely, "no harm shall come to him that I can avert; and, I am not the weakest of women."

Oh, the perversity of women. Who can comprehend it? Who analyze the mysterious creatures?

When there was against Clifford Heath only a breath of suspicion, a few whispered words from his own lips, that might mean nothing of importance, when calmly reconsidered; a missing letter, with the contents of which he was familiar, and which, therefore, could be of little value to him, and it was enough. He stood before her accused, and went out from her presence wronged, insulted, splendid as King Arthur in his helpless indignation.

Now the detective's strong chain of evidence, John Burrill's strange insinuations, and still stranger conduct, his words when he spoke, his reticence when he kept silence, all were arrayed against him, with telling effect, and in spite of them all, Constance Wardour angrily assured herself, and fully believed, that Clifford Heath was a wronged, and innocent man. She did not reason herself into this belief; and it was absurd, of course. She arrived at her conclusions, as all loving women do, through her feelings, and her instinct. A woman seldom reasons, but in many cases her ready intuition is worth more than all man's wisdom. Her delicate instinct strikes directly at the truth, when man's reason gropes in darkness.

Constance went out very little during these troubled days, and for this there were several reasons. John Burrill's obtrusiveness was at its height, and he fairly haunted the vicinity of Wardour; and since the advent of Mr. Belknap, Constance had an uneasy feeling that she was in some way, under surveillance. Nelly, who was argus-eyed, and always in armor on behalf of her mistress, had, on one or two occasions, spied a lurker about the premises; and Constance was resolved to give Mr. Belknap as little trouble, on her account, as possible. She had not visited Sybil for some days, for, although she had informed the detective that she desired to consult Mr. Lamotte, she had no such intentions; and, since the day when she had promised Mr. Lamotte to retain the detective for another week, she had avoided meeting him, and being forced to resume the conversation.

To know herself under the watchful eye of one detective, while anxiously expecting the advent of another, and to be aware that the presence of the one must not be made known to the other, afforded her a new and strange sensation; not altogether an unpleasant one either, for Constance was no coward, and had a decided taste for adventure.

She realized, too, the absurdity of being thus shadowed in her own house, by her own hired agent.

"I should go down to posterity as the first woman who ever hired a spy to watch herself," she mused with a little laugh. "I begin to think that I am an absurd creature, throughout."

Two days passed, and Constance endured them, although the hours crept slowly. On the third, her anxiety was almost beyond control.

If Bathurst should fail her! If her letter had not found him! If he were absent from the city! Oh, what a chance was here for disaster. Mr. Belknap would soon be in the field, and Ray's time had almost expired.

"Oh," she said, anxiously, "if he disappoints me, what shall I do. I must trust Ray, and will he be strong enough to battle with this danger?"

While she mused thus, growing wild with anxiety, a half grown boy, bearing on his head a small tray of delicate ivory carvings, was applying for admittance at the servants' entrance. He was shabbily dressed, but possessed a fine, intelligent face, and bore himself with cool confidence.

"I have brought the carving for Miss Wardour," he said, briskly. "Can I see her, please?"

Nelly hesitated.

"She expects me," said the boy, quickly; "and, as I am a little late, I would like to show her the wares and be off, for I've more to sell in the village. Just tell her it's the chap she's looking for."

Constance stared in surprise when Nelly delivered this message.

"The chap I am looking for," she repeated slowly; then, with a sudden brightening of her whole face, she added: "Oh, to be sure? I had almost forgotten. Send him here, at once, Nelly."

"I hope you will excuse me," began the boy, apologetically; then, as Nelly closed the door, he dropped his voice, and said, "I come from Mr. Bathurst;" and, taking off his cap, he produced from thence a letter, which he put in her hand.



"I'm to wait for the answer," he said, and took up his position beside his wares.

Constance opened the letter, with a hand trembling with eagerness. It ran:

MISS WARDOUR:—By all means keep the secret of the diamonds, and trust all to me. I think it best not to come to you, as Belknap keeps a constant watch upon your movements; dismiss him as soon as you like. Have no fears regarding Heath, I have his enemies well roped; be assured that I shall be on hand when needed, and when you see me expect to have the question of the diamond mystery forever set at rest. If you have anything to say, send verbal instructions by boy; he is to be trusted.

Yours sincerely, NEIL J. BATHURST.

Constance heaved a sigh of relief, as she finished the perusal of this note, and after a moment's reflection, she said:

"Tell Mr. Bathurst that I will obey his instructions, and that Mr. Belknap will be dismissed from my service to-day."

"Yes, madam. Now if you will please to select some of these things for the sake of appearance."

"Of course. You are very thoughtful. Are you a young detective too?"

The boy looked up with a gleam of pride in his eyes.

"I have been in Mr. Bathurst's service two years, madam."

"Oh, then I have no fears as to your discretion; so I will ask you a question, knowing that you are wise enough to refuse me an answer if I am asking too much."

The boy smiled, and stood attentive.

"May I ask if Mr. Bathurst is really now in W——, and when he arrived?"

The boy laughed an odd laugh, and full of mischief.

"Mr. Bathurst is here," he said. "I can't tell just when he did arrive."

"Then you did not come together?"

"We! Oh, no, indeed!" laughing again. "Mr. Bathurst is too smart for that."

Constance smiled with a returning feeling of ease and restfulness.

"Ah, I see I can trust Mr. Bathurst—and you, and lest I ask the wrong question if I continue, I will not ask another one; tell Mr. Bathurst I rely on him to straighten all the tangles; and that I like his messenger almost as much as his message."