CHAPTER XXXVIII.

BELKNAP OUTWITTED.

"If you please, Mr. Lamotte," said that gentleman's coachman, appearing before his master, less than an hour before the time appointed for the moving of the funeral cortege, and looking much confused. "If you please, sir, I've had a misfortune with my hand, sir; at least, my wrist; it's sort of sprained, and I most fear I can't handle the reins proper, for the horses is mighty full of life, bein' so little used of late."

"Well, well," broke in Mr. Lamotte. "I suppose you can get a man to fill your place?"

The man's countenance brightened at once.

"Oh, yes, sir; I've the very man right on hand. A friend of mine, and a master one with horses."

"Let him take your place then, and see that every thing is in proper order."

"It's all right," said the coachman, returning to the stables, and addressing a man who leaned against the loose box, where two blooded carriage horses were undergoing the currying process. "It's all right; you can drive the horses."

"Cap'n you're a good fellow," said the man, enthusiastically, "and here's your ten dollars. It's a favor I'll never forget, mind, for many's the day I've driven the beauties, before Squire McInnis went up, and we all had to go."



"That was a big failure," replied the coachman, knowingly. "You just see that the horses are done off all right, won't you? I must look after the carriage."

"It was lucky for me that I happened to know the history of these horses," mused Jerry Belknap, for he it was who leaned confidingly over to stroke the sleek sides of one of the splendid bays, and who had bribed Mr. Lamotte's coachman with a ten dollar bill. "If I drive the Lamottes, I'm sure of a hearing, and no audience; at the worst if they should take in a third party, but they won't, I can find a way to make myself and my wants known." And he sauntered across to the carriage house and critically inspected the splendid landau that was being rolled out upon the gravel.

He had returned to W—— on foot, from a near railway station, reaching the town within five hours from the time he left it.

During this time, however, his personal appearance had undergone a marked change. He was rubicund, and more youthful of countenance; shabbily smart in dress; excessively "horsey," and somewhat loud in manner.

During his intercourse with the Lamottes he had learned, from Frank, that their blooded bays had once been the property of a wealthy and prominent citizen of New York, who having failed, after the modern fashion, had given Jasper Lamotte the first bid for the valuable span. Given thus much, the rest was easy. Representing himself as a former coachman of this bankrupt New Yorker, he had told his little story. He was looking about him for a place in which to open a "small, but neat" livery stable, had wandered into W—— that morning, and having considerable cash about him, all his savings in fact, he had not cared to tempt robbers, by appearing too "high toned."

Of course he had heard at once of the murder, and then remembered that Lamotte was the name of the gentleman who had bought his favorite horses from his former master.

"I never pulled reins over a span equal to 'em," he said, with much pathos. "I never had the same liking for any other pair of critters; they was the apple of my eye, and I'd give just ten dollars to draw reins over 'em once more—even to a funeral."

His little ruse was successful; the bait was instantly swallowed, and Jerry Belknap glanced maliciously up at the closely curtained chamber windows, and muttered, as he began to saunter slowly up and down before the stable door:

"Miss Wardour, you won't find it so easy to outwit an old detective, even with the odds in your favor."

Just as the horses were being led out from the stable, a quiet-looking young man, with a somewhat rustic air, came into the yard, and approached the group near the carriage house.

"Who comes here?" asked the disguised Belknap, in a low tone, addressing the coachman.

"More than I know," replied that functionary. Then laying down a halter, just removed from the head of one of the pawing, restless horses, he turned toward the new comer, saying, patronizingly:

"Well, my man, can we do anything for you?"

The stranger appeared somewhat abashed.

"I hope I ain't in the way, gentlemen," he said, respectfully; "I came from Wardour with a message for Miss Constance. It's from the old lady, and as I see the carriages are coming and the hearse, I just thought I'd wait till the funeral was gone before I intruded."

"Oh!" said the coachman, more graciously. "Well, you won't have long to wait, then; the time's about up, and Mr. Lamotte is never behind time." Then he turned to Mr. Belknap.

"You must keep a close eye over the off one," he said; "he's full of Cain; and I say, what a lucky thing it is that your clothes are dark, and that Mrs. Lamotte won't let us wear full liveries."

"Why, yes, it's very lucky, that's so; just throw over those reins, will you. Don't be uneasy in your mind about that horse; I'll drive 'em safe enough; just you tell me when to start."

Ten minutes later, all that remained of John Burrill was borne out in its costly casket and placed in the splendid hearse at the door.

Just as he was about to cross his own threshold, Jasper Lamotte was confronted by a young man who pressed into his hand a slip of paper, and whispered in his ear:

"Read it at once, sir; it's of vital importance to you."

Stifling an exclamation, Jasper Lamotte unfolded and glanced at the slip of paper. It contained these words:

The man who will drive your carriage is a cursed New York detective, who has bribed your coachman.

Don't give him the opportunity he hopes to gain for watching and listening to yourself and son.

The bearer of this can be trusted. BELKNAP.

By the time he had mastered the meaning of the note, the hearse had moved forward and the pall-bearers were taking their places.

Then the Lamotte carriage came into view. Mr. Lamotte placed the note in the hand of his son, who stood close beside him, and descended the steps, a stern look on his face.

"My friend, come down off that box," he said to the self-satisfied substitute procured him by his coachman.



The man on the box stared down at him in amazement.

"But, sir," he began.

"I want no words from you, sir; you can't drive my horses. Come down instantly."

The discomfited Belknap writhed in his seat, and looked about him helplessly.

Before were the pall-bearers, looking back from their open vehicle, and noting the scene; on the steps, and within easy hearing distance, were gathered the small knot of gentlemen, who, for courtesy's sake, or for policy's sake, had gathered to do honor to Mr. Lamotte, rather than to the poor rosewood shrouded thing that had never a mourner.

He could not explain; he could not make himself known.

"I will have you thrown off that box, sir; if you hesitate ten seconds longer," exclaimed Mr. Lamotte, impatiently, at the same time moving away and beckoning to the driver of the next carriage.

Fate was against him, and muttering curses, "not loud but deep," Jerry Belknap began to clamber reluctantly down.

Seeing this, Mr. Lamotte turned toward the bearer of the mischievous note, who had withdrawn a few paces from the group near the carriage, and beckoned him to approach.

He came forward promptly.

"Can you drive, my man?"

"Yes, sir," respectfully.

"Then do me the favor to mount that box and drive my horses this afternoon."

"And you, sir," turning to poor Belknap, "get off my premises and keep off."

And so it came about that Jerry Belknap, private detective, found himself once more outwitted, and "Mr. Smith, the book-peddler," drove the carriage containing John Burrill's chief mourners.

"Pardon this little scene, gentlemen," said Mr. Lamotte, turning to his friends, "but I happen to know that the man I dismissed is drunk."

Half an hour later a servant tapped softly at the door where Constance kept watch, and said:

"There's a boy below, Miss Wardour, who says he has an important message for you, and must deliver it in person."

Constance went immediately down to find our old friend George, the image boy, in the hall below.

She smiled at sight of him, hoping to obtain some news of Bathurst. But he only bowed, as if to a queen, placed in her hand a small, sealed envelope; and before she could utter a word, she was standing alone in the crape-hung hall, while the boy's steps could be heard ringing on the stones outside.

Standing there, Constance hastily opened the envelope. It contained a letter and a scrap of paper. Glancing first at the scrap, she read these words:

MISS WARDOUR—

Enclosed find a letter, which, for reasons which I shall explain later, I pilfered from you on the night of our first meeting. It has accomplished the purpose for which I took it, and I hasten to restore it.

BATHURST.

Constance turned her eye once more upon the paper in her hand, looked closer and exclaimed: "It is; it is Sybil's lost letter!"



CHAPTER XXXIX.

"WILL LOVE OUTWEIGH HONOR?"

"Dr. Heath, here is another visitor."

Clifford Heath turned slowly away from the small iron-barred window; he looked a trifle disturbed by this announcement, for he had just been interviewed by Mr. O'Meara, who for the first time had presented Mr. Wedron, and the two had left him much to think about.

The look of annoyance left his face, however, and a stare of surprise took its place, when, following upon the footsteps of the janitor, came Constance Wardour, not closely veiled and drooping, after the manner of prison-visiting females in orthodox novels, but with her fair face unconcealed, and her graceful figure at its proudest poise.

The haughtiness all departed from face and bearing, however, when the door closed behind her and she found herself alone with the man she had falsely accused.

Misfortune had not humbled Clifford Heath. When the first momentary look of surprise had left his face, he stood before her as proudly erect, as icily courteous, as if he were receiving her in his own parlor.

"Doctor Heath," began Constance, in low, contrite tones, "some months ago I brought a wrongful accusation against you. I wronged you deeply; let me do myself the justice to say that almost immediately I was convinced of the injustice I had done you, of the utter insanity of my own behavior, but—" blushing rosily, "I never found the letter, and how could I come to you and say, I have changed my mind, without a reason. Less than an hour ago, this note was put into my hands, and with it that unfortunate lost letter. This enables me to say,—Doctor Heath, I deeply regret the insult I offered you, and I ask you to be magnanimous, and to pardon me."

She put the note in his hand, and he read it, without uttering a word; stood silent for a moment, as if to collect his thoughts, and then said:

"Miss Wardour, I am glad that this affair has been cleared up; when a man has so many dark shadows hanging over him, he is thankful for the smallest glimpse of sunlight. It is like your generosity to come in person."

"But you have not said that you forgive me, Doctor Heath; fully and freely, remember."

"Fully and freely I forgive you, then, Miss Wardour," smilingly, he replied. "After all, the mistake was a natural one. Since I have been an inmate of this cell, I have learned to see myself as others see me. Why should I not come under suspicion, especially after hearing my words to Bathurst? By the by, this note from Bathurst, you tell me that you received it to-day?"

"To-day; since noon."

"And it is dated to-day; then," looking at her questioningly, "Bathurst must be in town."

"Yes," dropping her eyes, confusedly. "That is, I think so;" and scarcely heeding her own movements, she seated herself in the doctor's chair, and, leaning one arm against the table, looked up into his face, saying with a spice of her old manner, so familiar to him in the past:

"Having forgiven me so generously, Doctor Heath, don't you think it would be quite proper to shake hands?"

He looked down upon her, a strange light leaping into his eyes. But he did not approach. He lifted a large, shapely hand, and surveyed it sorrowfully.

"It looks as clean as any hand, Miss Wardour, but there is a stain upon it."

"A stain! No, sir. Do you think that I believe in your guilt?"

Again the quick light flamed in his eyes, and now he came a step nearer.

"Do you believe in my innocence?"

"Beyond a doubt."

"When I said 'there is a stain upon my hand,' I did not mean the stain of guilt, but of suspicion, of accusation."

"There is no stain upon your hand! Doctor Heath. What is this I hear about you? They tell me you will make no defense."

He smiled down at her.

"I could make but one defense, and that—"

"And that?"

"And that, Miss Wardour, I would not make."

"Why?"

She was straining every nerve to preserve her composure; words came from her lips like frozen heartbeats.

"Because—Miss Wardour, do not ask me why."

"I do ask; I persist. Why? Why? Why?"

"Because—I see you are as imperious as ever—because I can only save myself by giving the real murderer up to justice."

She was on her feet in an instant, all her enforced calmness gone, unutterable misery in her face and voice.

"You know!" she cried. "You! Oh! my God, what shall I do!"

"Have no fear, Miss Wardour; have I not said I will keep my own counsel?"

"But, you! You! Oh, there is no reason why you should not speak; you are not bound! You are not—oh, what am I saying!" She sank back into her seat, panting and wild-eyed.

"Miss Wardour, calm yourself," he said, gently. "I am bound. It is my pleasure to keep this secret. Listen. A short time ago I received a visit from my lawyers. They told me—among other things, they thought it best that I should know—that you knew who did the deed, and that you would have us both saved, innocent and guilty alike. Before that, I had determined to keep silence; now I am doubly resolved. For your sake, I will not accuse Frank Lamotte."

"Frank—you will not accuse Frank Lamotte? And for my sake!" she almost shrieked. "For God's sake, explain. What is Frank Lamotte to me? Of what can you accuse him?"

It was Clifford Heath's turn to lose his composure. How could he interpret her words? Was she trying to deceive him?

"Miss Wardour," he said, almost sternly, "do you wish me to understand that Francis Lamotte is nothing to you?"

"Nothing to me! the vilest, the basest, the most treacherous, the most abject of all human creatures, that is what Frank Lamotte is to me!"

Uncontrollable scorn rang in her voice; rising anger, too. How dared he couple her name with that of Frank Lamotte?

From the chaos of meanings and mysteries revolving through his mind, Clifford Heath seized upon and clung to one idea, held it in silence for a moment, then let it burst forth in words.

"Then—then you are not Frank Lamotte's promised wife?"

"I! great heavens! no."

"And never have been?"

"And never have been."

Clifford Heath drew a long, deep breath. For a moment a look of gladness beamed in his eye, then it died out suddenly, as he said, almost gloomily:

"And yet, you have said that he must be saved at all hazards. Knowing his guilt, I still am here in his place."

"In his place, oh," she came toward him with a swift, eager movement, "I begin to see! Doctor Heath, you think Frank Lamotte the guilty one?"

"I know it," grimly.

A look of relief came over her face. She breathed freely.

"You believe this," she said at last, "and yet you are here. If you have evidence against Frank Lamotte, why do you occupy a felon's cell? Why not put him in your place?"

"I have told you why. It was for your sake."

She lowered her eyes and drew back a little, but he followed her, and, standing before her, looked down into her face with a persistent, searching gaze. "You must understand me now," he said firmly, "when I believed that you loved Frank Lamotte, I said 'Then I will not stand forth and accuse the man she loves, for—I love her, and she must not be unhappy.'"

A great sob rose in her throat. A wave of crimson swept over her brow. She stood before him with clasped hands and drooping head.

"But for that meddlesome slip of paper," he went on, "I should not have been driven from the field, and this treachery of Lamotte's could never have been practiced upon me. Do you remember a certain day when you sent for Ray Vandyck, and he came to you from my office? Well, on that day Francis Lamotte told me that you were his promised wife, and when Ray came back, he verified the statement, having received the information from your lips. Once I hoped to come to you and say, after lifting for your eyes the veil of mystery, which I have allowed to envelope my past: 'Constance Wardour, I love you; I want you for my very own, my wife!' Now, mountains have arisen between us; I can not offer you a hand with the shadow of a stain upon it; nor a name that is tarnished by doubt and suspicion. However this affair may end for me, that hope is ended now."



It had come; the decisive moment.

She could go away now with sealed lips, and it would end indeed. She could turn away from him, leaving happiness behind her; taking with her his happiness, too; or, she could speak, and then—

She looked about her; and the bare walls and grated windows gave her strength to dare much. Had they stood together out under the broad bright sunlight; he as free as herself, she could have turned away mutely, and let her life go on as it would.

Now—now his present was overshadowed; his future difficult to read.

"Is it ended?" she said, softly. Then, looking up with sudden, charming imperiousness. "You end things very selfishly, very coolly, Doctor Heath. I do not choose to have it ended."

"Miss Wardour!—Constance!"

"Wait; you say that your lawyers told of my visit to them, and that I would not have the guilty punished. What more did they tell you—about my doings?"

"Very little; I could hardly understand why they told thus much."

"Did they tell you that I learned, through a scheming rascal in the guise of a detective, that a plot was growing against you; that I sent for Ray Vandyck, and set him over you as a temporary guardian? And that I sent next for Detective Bathurst, warning him that you were surrounded by enemies. Did they tell you that, when I learned of your arrest, I left my place by Sybil Lamotte, who is delirious and yet clings to me constantly, and came to them, offering them all my fortune if they would only save me you?"

"Did you do this—Constance?"

"I have done this. Have I not earned the right, openly, before all the world, to be your champion, your truest friend, your—"

"My queen! my darling! my very own!"

All his calm is gone, all his haughtiness of bearing; with one swift movement he snatches her to his heart, and she rests in his embrace, shocked at her own boldness, and unspeakably happy.

Who dare intrude upon a lover's interview? Who dares to snatch the first coy love words from a maiden's lips, and give them to a world grown old in love making, and appraising each tender word by its own calloused old heart?

For the time all is forgotten, save one fact, they love each other well.

By and by, other thoughts come, forcing their way like unwelcome guests.

* * * * *

"Constance," he says, after a long interval, "you have made me anything but indifferent to my fate. Now I shall begin to struggle for my freedom; but—do you realize what a network of false testimony they have woven about me?"

"Do I realize it?" she cried. "Yes, far more than you do, or can, and—you said something about Frank Lamotte. Has he sought to injure you?"

"Constance, I thought you knew," turning upon her a look of surprise. "I thought you knew his guilt. Who, but Frank Lamotte, could gain access to my office, to purloin my handkerchief and my knife? He had a duplicate key, and—I found that key in the old cellar beside the body of John Burrill."

The look of perplexity on her face deepens into one of actual distress.

Could it be, that after all, Frank had forestalled that other one?

Back upon her memory came his words, "I can save him if I will." Where there is room for doubt there is room for hope. What if another hand had anticipated that of the paid assassin? She resolved to cling to this hope with desperation.

If there was evidence so strong against Frank Lamotte, let him take her lover's place. Why not? She began to see many things in a new light; she peered forward, catching a view of the partial truth, "as in a glass, darkly." One thing was clear, however, they must act at once! No time must be lost!

She sat before him thinking thus, yet seemingly powerless to act or speak!

"Constance. Has the possibility of Frank Lamotte's guilt, overwhelmed you?"

"The possibility!" she exclaimed, starting up suddenly. "No. I know him capable of baser things than murder."

"Of baser things! My darling, what do you mean?"

"Don't ask me now; there is no time to waste in talking of him; I am going straight to your lawyers this moment; I am going to send them to you, and you shall tell them every thing."

"Despot!" His eyes devouring her.

"Of course! I am always that. They will say it is time some one took you in charge. Are you going to be dumb any more?"

"Never! My lips are unsealed from this hour; since you have dared to claim and take a share in my fate, and since I have not the courage to put so much happiness from me."

"Supposing it in your power?"

"Oh, I know better than to cope with you," smiling upon her fondly. "But my honor must be vindicated for your gracious sake, and—I must cease to be," with a sidelong glance, "'Doctor Heath, from nowhere.' Sit down, darling; our janitor is an accommodating fellow; he will not interrupt, nor shorten your stay, I am sure. I want to tell you my story. It is yours, together with all my other secrets."

She put up her hand, quickly.

"Not now," she said. "Not for a long time. I prefer you as I have known you; for me, you shall still be 'Doctor Heath, from nowhere.' Don't remonstrate; I will have it so; I will send Mr. O'Meara to you, and that odd Mr. Wedron; you shall tell them all about yourself."

"You will go to them? Constance, no; for your own sake, let us keep our love a secret for a time; until this is ended, somehow. Think, my proud darling, how much it would spare you."

She turned toward him, her mouth settling into very firm lines, a resolute look in her eyes.

"Would it spare you anything?" she asked, quietly.

"I? Oh, no. It is sacrifice for me; but, I wish to have it so. You must not visit me here. You must not let gossip say she has thrown herself away on an adventurer."

"I won't," she replied, sententiously; "I'd like to hear of anybody saying that! I'd excommunicate them, I'm going to close the mouths of gossips, by setting my seal of proprietorship upon you. I'm coming here every day; but, after this, I'll bring Aunt Honor, or Mrs. O'Meara with me. I'm going to say to every soul who names you to me: 'Doctor Heath is my affianced husband, defame him if you dare.' And I'm going straight to tell Mr. O'Meara that he must take your testimony against Frank Lamotte."

Constance kept her word. Before many days, the town rang with the news that Constance Wardour, in the face of the accusation against him, had announced her engagement to Doctor Clifford Heath.

Then a hush fell upon the aristocratic gossipers of W——, and mischievous tongues were severely bridled. It was not wise to censure too freely a man whom the heiress of Wardour had marked with her favor.

The lawyers found their client in a mood much more to their liking, and O'Meara scribbled down in his little book long sentences caught from the lips of Clifford Heath, who was now a strong helper, and apt in suggestions for the defense.

He opened for them the sealed up pages of his past life.

He told them in detail, all that he had briefly stated to Constance, concerning Frank Lamotte, and more.

Every day now they were in close consultation, and every day the Wardour carriage drove at a stated hour, first to Mapleton, where it took up Constance, and then to the prison, where, accompanied by her aunt, or her guardian's wife, the heiress passed a half hour in the cell of her lover.

She still clung to the hope that the accumulating evidence against Frank Lamotte might break the chain that bound him, and open his prison doors; but, one day, a week after her first visit to the prison, Mr. O'Meara dashed this hope to atoms.

"We can bring no criminal accusation against Lamotte," he said. "The examination proved that John Burrill was killed as early as eleven o'clock that night, and investigation has proven that Lamotte remained at home all that evening, and was heard moving about in his room until after midnight. I'm terribly sorry, Constance, but the case stands just about as it did at first, and the odds are still against Heath. He will have to stand his trial."

The girl's heart sank like lead, and as days passed on and no new developments could be evolved from a case which began to assume a most gloomy aspect, her position in the Lamotte household became unbearable.

Sybil had changed a very little, but for the better. Her fits of raving were less frequent, and almost always to be anticipated. So, worn in body and tortured in mind, Constance went back to Wardour, and, save for her daily visits to the prison, was invisible to all her friends.

And she did not suffer alone. Knowing her love for Clifford Heath and the terrible secret she carried in her bosom, Mrs. Lamotte lived in an anguish of suspense. Would love outweigh honor? If the worst should come, could she trust Constance Wardour? Could she trust herself?

In those tortured hours, the same prayer went up from the heart of both mother and friend—that Sybil Lamotte would die!

While these things were making the world a weariness to Constance, Jerry Belknap, in his character of prospecting horse jockey, took up his quarters in a third rate hotel near the river, and remained very quiet in fancied security, until he became suddenly enlightened as to the cause of his ill success, as follows:

Lounging near the hotel one day, he was accosted by a stranger, who tapped him familiarly on the shoulder, saying:

"My friend, I've got a word to say to you. Will you just step into the nearest saloon with me. We will talk over a glass of something."

Wondering idly at his coolness, Belknap followed the stranger, and they entered "Old Forty Rods," that being the nearest saloon.

Once seated face to face at a table, the stranger threw a letter across to Belknap, saying carelessly:

"Read that, if you please."

Opening the letter, these lines stared Belknap in the face:

You have broken your pledge, Jerry Belknap. I have had you under my eye constantly. Fortunately for yourself, I can make use of you. Follow the instructions of the bearer of this to the letter now and until further notice, if you hope for any mercy from

BATHURST.

He stared at the open letter as if it possessed the eyes of a basilisk.

Instantly he recognized the power behind the scenes, and was no longer surprised at his failures. And he turned upon his companion a look of sullen submission.

"I know better than to kick against Bathurst," he said doggedly. "What does he want me to do?"

"That's just what we are going to talk about," said the stranger, coolly. "Draw your chair up closer, Jerry."



CHAPTER XL.

"TOO YOUNG TO DIE."

Over days, filled with weary waiting and marked by few incidents and no discoveries, we pass with one glance.

Clifford Heath's trial follows close upon his indictment. A month rolls away, and with the first days of winter comes the assembling of judge and jury, and his case is the first one called.

During the weeks that have intervened between his arrest and this day of his trial, Constance has been his bravest champion and truest friend; she has stimulated him to hope, and incited him to courage, with loving, cheerful words, while clinging desperately to a last remnant of her own sinking hope.

Day by day, during all this time, the ancient gig driven by Doctor Benoit, deposited that gentleman before the doors of Mapleton. Sybil's delirium had ended in a slow, wearisome fever, which left her, as the first frosts of winter touched the land, a white, emaciated shadow of her former self, her reason restored, but her memory sadly deficient.

She had forgotten that dark phase of her life in which John Burrill had played so sinister a part, and fancied herself back in the old days when her heart was light and her life unfettered. She had dropped a year out of that life, but memory would come back with strength, the doctor said; and Mrs. Lamotte dreaded the days when that memory should bring to her daughter's brow, a shadow never to be lifted; into her life a ghost never to be laid.

Evan, too, had narrowly escaped death at the hands of his rum demons; after four weeks filled with all the horrors attendant upon the drunkard's delirium, he came to his senses, hollow-cheeked, sunken eyed, emaciated, with his breath coming in quick, short gasps, and the days of his life numbered.

Brandy had devoured his vitals; late hours and protracted orgies had sapped his strength; constant exposure in all weather and at all hours had done its work upon his lungs.

"If he outlasts the Winter, he will die in the Spring." This was the doctor's ultimatum.

News from the outside world was strictly shut out from those sick ones. The name of John Burrill never was breathed in their presence, and both were ignorant of the fact that Clifford Heath, an old time favorite with each, was on trial for his life.

The morning that saw Clifford Heath quit his cell to take his place in the felon's dock and answer to the charge of murder, saw Sybil Lamotte lying upon a soft divan, before a merry Winter fire. It was the first time since her illness that she had quitted her bed. And Evan, too, for the first time in many weeks, came with feeble, halting steps to his sister's room, and sitting near her, scanned her wasted features with wistful intentness.

"Poor sis!" he murmured, stroking her hand softly. "We've had a pretty hard pull, you and I, but we're coming out famously." And then he added to himself, "More's the pity, so far as I am concerned."

"What made you ill, Evan?" she whispered feebly. "Was it worrying about me?"

A bright flush leaped to his cheeks and burned there hotly.

"Yes, it was about you, sis. But you will soon be as well and happy as ever, won't you?" anxiously.

"To be sure, Evan; we will both get well very fast. We have got so much to live for, and we are too young to die."



CHAPTER XLI.

SIR CLIFFORD HEATHERCLIFFE.

It is the opening hour of Clifford Heath's trial.

The court room is crowded to its utmost capacity; never has there occurred a trial there so intensely interesting to all W——.

The prisoner is a little paler, a little graver than his ordinary self. But is his ordinary self in every other respect; as proud of bearing, as self-possessed, as handsome, and distingue as ever.

Beside him sits Mr. O'Meara, alone. Mr. Wedron, after all his labor, and his seeming interest, is unaccountably absent; unaccountably, at least, so far as the opposition, the prisoner, the judge, jury, and all the spectators are concerned. Mr. O'Meara seems not at all disturbed by his absence, and evidently understands all about it.

Near the prisoner sits a man who causes a buzz of inquiry to run through the entire audience.

He is tall, fair haired, handsome; the carriage of his head, the haughtiness of his bearing, reminds more than one present of Clifford Heath, as they first knew him. He is a stranger to all W——, and "Who is he? Who is he?" runs from lip to lip.

The stranger is seemingly oblivious of the attention lavished upon him; he bends forward at times, and whispers a word to the prisoner, or his counsel, and he turns occasionally to murmur something in the ear of Constance Wardour, who sits beside him, grave, stately, calm.

She is accompanied by Mrs. Aliston and Mrs. O'Meara, and Ray Vandyck sits beside the latter lady, and completes the party.

Mr. Lamotte is there, subdued, yet affable, and Frank, too, who is paler than usual, but quite self-possessed.

Near the party above mentioned, may be seen the two city physicians, but, and here is another cause for wonderment, Doctor Benoit is not present; and, who ever knew the good doctor to miss an occasion like this?

"Business must be urgent, when it keeps Benoit away from such a trial," whispers one gossip to another, and the second endorses the opinion of the first.

Sitting there, scanning that audience with a seemingly careless glance, Constance feels her heart sink like lead in her bosom.

She feels, she knows, that already in the minds of most, her lover is a condemned man. She knows that the weight of evidence will be against him. They have a defense, it is true, but nothing will overthrow the fact that John Burrill went straight to the house of the prisoner, and was found dead hard by.

All along she has hoped, she knew not what, from Bathurst. But since he returned Sybil's note in so strange and abrupt a manner, she has had no word or sign from him, and now she doubts him, she distrusts everything.

But, little by little, day by day, she has been schooling her heart to face one last desperate alternative. Her lover shall be saved! Let the trial go on. Let the worst come. Let the fatal verdict be pronounced, if it must; after that, perish the Wardour honor. What if she must trample the heart out of a mother's breast? What if she must fling into the breach the life of a blighted, wronged, helpless, perhaps dying sister woman?

Hardening her heart, crushing down her pride, she muttered desperately on this last day of doubt and suspense.

"Let them all go. Let the verdict be what it may, Clifford Heath shall not suffer a felon's doom!"

Then she had nerved herself to calmness and gone to face the inevitable.

"Prisoner at the bar, are you guilty or not guilty?"



The reading of the indictment has turned all eyes upon the prisoner's face.

He stands erect, his head haughtily poised, his clear dark eyes fixed fully upon the judge.

"I am not guilty, your honor."

A murmur runs through the court room. The stranger bends to whisper to Constance. The trial proceeds.

Once again all the evidence brought forward at the inquest is repeated—sworn to—dilated upon. Once again it presses the scales down, down, down, and the chances for the prisoner hang light in the balance.

One thing puzzles the prosecuting attorney, and troubles the mind of Jasper Lamotte.

O'Meara, the shrewd, the fox like—O'Meara, who never lets pass a flaw or a loophole for criticism; who never loses a chance to pick and torture and puzzle a witness, is strangely indifferent.

One by one the witnesses for the prosecution pass before him; little by little they build a mountain of evidence against his client. He declines to examine them. He listens to their testimony with the air of a bored play-goer at a very poor farce.

After the testimony of the two masons, comes that of the party who last saw John Burrill in life. They testify as they did at the inquest—neither more, nor less.

Then come the dwellers in Mill avenue. They are all there but Brooks and Nance Burrill.

"Your honor," says the prosecuting attorney, "two of our witnesses—two very important ones—are absent. Why they are absent, we do not know. Where they may be found, is a profound mystery.

"One of these witnesses, a man called Brooks, we believe to have been especially intimate with the murdered man. We think that he could have revealed the secret which the prisoner took such deadly measures to cover up. This man can not be found. He disappeared shortly after the murder.

"Our other witness vanished almost simultaneously. This other was the divorced wife of the murdered Burrill. She, too, knew too much. Now I do not insinuate—I do not cast any stones, but there are some, not far distant, who could explain these two mysterious disappearances, 'an they would.'"

"An they will!" pops in the hitherto mute O'Meara. "They'll make several knotty points clear to your understanding, honorable sir."

A retort rises to his opponent's lips, and a wordy war seems imminent, but the crier commands "Order in the Court," and the two antagonists glare at each other mutely, while the trial moves on.

Frank Lamotte comes upon the witness stand. As before, he tells nothing new.

He was aware that his brother-in-law possessed some secret of Doctor Heath's. Did not know the nature of it, but inferred from words Burrill had let drop, that it was of a damaging character.

Upon being questioned as to his acquaintance with the prisoner, and what he knew of his disposition and temper, he replies that he has known the prisoner since he first came to W——; liked him very much; never had any personal misunderstanding, although of late the prisoner had chosen to treat him with marked coldness.

As to his temper—well, he must admit that it was very fiery, very quickly roused, very difficult of control, he believed. Prisoner was by nature intolerant to a fault. He had shown this disposition in presence of witness on many occasions.

Being shown the knife found in the cellar, he examines it carefully, and pronounces it to be the one he has often seen in Doctor Heath's instrument case, or its precise counterpart.

This ends his testimony. O'Meara has no questions to ask, and Jasper Lamotte takes his son's place. He is the last witness for the prosecution.

He has less to say than any of the others.

He had heard of his son-in-law's encounter with Doctor Heath, of course; knew that a feud existed between them, could not so much as guess at the nature of it. The prosecuting attorney is about to dismiss him sans ceremonie, when Mr. O'Meara, springs into sudden activity and announces his desire to examine the witness.

His opponent stares astonished, a murmur runs through the room; the Court bids him proceed.

"Mr. Lamotte," begins O'Meara, rising to his feet with provoking slowness, and then propounding his questions with a rapidity which leaves the witness no time for thought. "Mr. Lamotte, what can you tell us of this missing witness, Brooks?"

Mr. Lamotte stares in mute astonishment, then instinctively scenting danger ahead, he makes an effort to rally his forces that have been scattered by the lawyer's unexpected bomb.

"What do I know of the man Brooks?" he repeats slowly. "I don't comprehend you, sir."

"I asked a plain question," retorts the lawyer, crisply.

"I believe the man has been in my employ," ventures the witness, as if making an effort to recall some very insignificant personage.

"When?"

"That I do not remember, sir."

"Ah! Perhaps you have forgotten when last you saw this fellow, Brooks?"

"I think I saw him, for the last time, two days before my son-in-law was killed. I was at the depot, starting for the city. I think Brooks left town on the same train."

"And you have not seen him since?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"Make an effort to think, sir. Brooks has been seen in W—— since. It is known that he has visited Mapleton. Try to recall that visit."

Mr. Lamotte ponders and falls into the trap.

"A man came to Mapleton on the day of Mr. Burrill's funeral," he says, slowly. "I believe, upon reflection, that it was Brooks; he wished to see the body."

"Did you see this man on that occasion?"

"I did; for a moment only; he came to me with his request."

"You are sure this man was Brooks?"

"Not beyond a doubt. I was troubled, and busy. It was one of my factory hands; I think it was the man Brooks."

"Mr. Clerk," says O'Meara, turning suddenly to that functionary, "please take down Mr. Lamotte's statements. He is not sure that it was the man Brooks."

Mr. Lamotte looks disconcerted for a moment.

But O'Meara goes vigorously on, leaving him no time to collect his thoughts.

"Now, Mr. Lamotte, what do you know of this woman who calls herself Nance Burrill?"

"Nothing," with a glance of offended dignity.

"Nothing! I am told that she has worked in your mills."

"It is possible; I am not my own overseer, however, and do not know all my people."

"Have you ever heard that this woman could tell things that would not reflect credit upon your dead son-in-law?"

"No, sir," haughtily.

"Were you aware that this woman is not to be found, before learning the same in court?"

"No, sir! I consider your questions irrelevant."

"Possibly," retorts O'Meara, drily. "I have no more to ask, sir." Then turning toward the jury, he says, rapidly:

"May it please your honor and the gentlemen of the jury, just here I have a word to say:

"You have heard the evidence against my client; you have heard the life and honor of a high-minded gentleman, against whom there was never before a breath of scandal or blame, sworn away by a handful of saloon loafers, and a pack of ignorant old women.

"I mean no disrespect to the loafers or the old women in question. I suppose if the good Lord had not intended them for what they are, he would have made them otherwise—and then there would have been no evidence against my client. I name them what they are, because, when this honorable jury weighs the evidence, I want them to weigh the witnesses as well."

"The gentleman wished to say one word," sneers the prosecution. "Has he said it, or is this the beginning of his plea?"

"It would be better for your case if it were the beginning of my plea," cuts in O'Meara; "my witnesses will be less to the gentleman's liking than are my words.

"Your honor, first then, the gentleman for the prosecution, in making his preliminary remarks, has dwelt at length upon the fact that my client is comparatively a stranger to W——; a stranger with a mystery. Now, then, I wish to show that it is possible for a stranger to W—— to be an honorable man, with an unblemished past; and that it is equally possible for a dweller in this classic and hitherto unpolluted town, to be a liar and to perjure himself most foully.

"Let the Honorable George Heathercliffe take the stand.

"And mark you, this gentleman is the Honorable George Heathercliffe, of Cliffe Towers, Hampshire, England, member of parliament, and honored of the Queen. His passports have been examined by our honorable judge, thereby saving the necessity for too much unpolished Yankee criticism."

"It has failed to save us a dose of Irish pig-headedness, however," interpolates the opposing barrister.

During the burst of smothered laughter that follows, the stately fair-haired stranger quits his place beside Constance, and takes the stand.

He is duly sworn, and then Mr. O'Meara begins, with much impressiveness:

"Mr. Heathercliffe, turn your eyes upon the prisoner, my client. Have you ever seen him before entering this court room?"

The Honorable George Heathercliffe turns toward the prisoner, and a smile deepens the blue of his eyes, and intensifies the kindly expression of his handsome mouth.

"I have seen the prisoner before," he replies, still smiling.

"Have you known him previous to his advent in W——?"

"I have."

"For long?"

"For many years."

"My honorable opponent has hinted that there is a mystery hanging about this man. He even hazards a guess that his name may not be Clifford Heath. Do you know aught of this mystery?"

"I do."

"Does the prisoner bear a name not his own?"

"He does not bear his own name entire."

"Mr. Heathercliffe, who is this man who calls himself Doctor Clifford Heath?"

"He is Sir Clifford Heathercliffe, and my elder brother."



CHAPTER XLII.

A TORTURED WITNESS.

There is a profound sensation in the court room.

Constance Wardour catches her breath, and bends forward to look at her lover, the color coming and going hotly in her cheeks. She had chosen to hear nothing of his past, and so Mr. O'Meara has introduced the Honorable George Heathercliffe, that morning, saying only: "A most important witness, Constance; a strong witness."

"He is Sir Clifford Heathercliffe, and my elder brother."

Mr. Rand, the prosecuting attorney, moves uneasily in his seat, and begins to wonder what small shot O'Meara holds back of this big shell.

Without seeming to notice the sensation created by his self-possessed witness, O'Meara goes on rapidly.

"How long has your brother, Sir Clifford Heathercliffe, been in America?"

"For more than three years."

"Until you received the telegram calling you to his aid, did you know where to find your brother?"

"I did not."

"Mr. Heathercliffe, have you that telegram in your possession?"

"I have."

"Will you permit his honor, the judge, to see that telegram?"

"Assuredly." He draws forth a morocco letter case, and taking therefrom a slip of paper hands it to O'Meara. That astute gentleman passes it carelessly on to the clerk, saying: "Read it please."

Rising to receive the paper, the clerk reads:

Honorable George Heathercliffe, Cliffe Towers, etc., etc.,

Come at once to W——, R—— County.—— Sir Clifford is in deep trouble.

BATHURST.

"Bathurst!" the name falls involuntarily from the lips of Mr. Rand; he knows the expert by reputation, and this is the first intimation he has received, that so shrewd a man is at work in the interest of Clifford Heath.

"Is this the only message you received?"

"No, later in the day this came."

He produced and passed over a second dispatch, which is read like the first.

Honorable George Heathercliffe, etc.

Before starting find out everything you can concerning one John, or Jonathan Burrill, once in the employ of your father.

BATHURST.

The two Lamottes glance uneasily at each other. Whither is this examination tending?

"Did you follow the instructions in this last telegram?" asks O'Meara.

"I did."

A bland smile widens the mouth of the little Irish lawyer. He waves his hand magisterially.

"That is all, for the present, Mr. Heathercliffe," he says, suavely, and amazement sits on every countenance.

And now Mr. Rand bends forward and flings himself into the arena, while O'Meara leans back in his chair, his eyes twinkling maliciously.

"Mr. Heathercliffe," begins the cross-examiner, "Your two dispatches are signed 'Bathurst.' Who is this Bathurst?"

"Mr. Bathurst, sir, is a very able detective."

"Ah! He is known to you, I presume?"

"He is," bowing gravely.

"Now, Mr. Heathercliffe, it strikes me as singular that an English gentleman should be on such familiar terms with a Yankee detective; and still more strange that an English nobleman should be masquerading in America, as a country physician. I should like an explanation of these things."

"My brother came to America on account of family troubles, sir. Is it necessary that I make a fuller statement?"

He asks this hesitatingly, and Mr. Rand fancies that he sees a point to be gained. He does not see that O'Meara is struggling to conceal the smile of satisfaction that will creep into his face.

"I consider it necessary, sir. It is high time that we knew why we have been honored by this incognito—nobleman."

The witness turns an unruffled countenance towards the judge.

"If the Court will permit me to tell my brother's story in my own way, (it will take some time,) I shall be glad to enlighten this legal gentleman."

The Court gives its gracious permission; Attorney Rand resumes his seat; O'Meara fairly grins his delight; Constance leans forward, breathlessly; the prisoner casts one look about him, and then rests his head upon his hand; there is breathless silence in the court, as the Honorable George Heathercliffe begins:

"I have said that the prisoner at the Bar, is my elder brother; three years ago he was not Sir Clifford Heathercliffe, not my eldest brother.

"The name of Sir Herbert Heathercliffe is, no doubt, unknown to all here present—except Mr. Bathurst, if that gentleman is here—but England has rung with that name, and the Heathercliffe pride has been lowered to the dust, because of it.

"Sir Herbert was the pet and favorite of our father, and possessed over him a strong magnetic influence. He was less than two years older than Clifford, and the two closely resembled each other.

"From their academic days, Herbert was an idler, a spendthrift, a squire of dames, par excellence. Clifford was devoted to study, and not enamored of society.

"It is not my purpose to follow step by step the downward career of my brother Herbert, only such of his misdeeds as affected Clifford need be brought forward here.

"I have said that Herbert was a spendthrift. He was perpetually borrowing of Clifford, and always in debt.

"When Clifford, who had a monomania for the medical profession, announced his intention to go to Germany and pursue his studies there, the first trouble came.

"Herbert, who for his own selfish ends, wished to keep Clifford and his purse nearer Cliffe Towers, incited my father to oppose the scheme. This was easy. Lord Heathercliffe did not believe in the dignity of labor, and the two voted this new departure a family disgrace. They said so much, and in such offensive language, that Clifford, in open defiance of his father's commands, turned his back upon us all, and went to Heidelberg.

"But, Herbert's career had only began. In a little while, it was discovered that our father's name had been forged for a large amount, and suspicion pointed to my brother Clifford. He came in hot haste on receipt of a telegram, and he did not come alone. He brought with him, Detective Bathurst, whom he was so fortunate as to find at Scotland Yards.

"I need not dwell on what followed; Bathurst is a keen detective; he vindicated my brother, Clifford, and placed the guilt where it belonged. It was Herbert who had forged my father's name.

"There was a terrible scene at the Towers. Herbert swore eternal enmity toward Clifford, and Clifford predicted then and there the downfall of all our pride, through Herbert's follies. I remember his words distinctly:

"'Let me tell you how this will end, Lord Heathercliffe,' he said; 'I have not grown up beside Herbert, not to know him. Our name has heretofore been stainless; we shall keep it so no longer; it will be dragged in the mud, smirched, hissed, disgraced utterly. But I will never permit myself to go down with the fall of the Heathercliffes; I renounce all claims upon you; I renounce my succession; I renounce a name already contaminated; the world is my heritage; I shall leave England; I shall leave Europe; I will make me a new name, and build my own fortune. When Herbert has broken your heart, and ruined your fortunes, as he surely will, and when his debaucheries have brought him to an early grave, as they must, then let the title fall to George; he is younger; he can not feel this shame so keenly; as for me, I will never wear the title; I will never be pointed out as the peer whose elder brother was a rake, a seducer, a forger, and Herbert is all these.'

"Clifford went back to Heidelberg; Herbert remained at the Towers, whining, pleading, shamefully fawning upon a doting and half imbecile old man.

"He feigned illness; he feigned penitence, and finally he held my father more than ever his adoring slave.

"I can not prolong this recital. It is needless. Herbert ran his race of infamy. My father died broken hearted. Clifford searched all England to bring Herbert, then a fugitive, to his father's death bed; but the officers of justice were before him. They ran him down in an obscure provincial village, and, to escape the consequences of his misdeeds, Herbert Heathercliffe crowned his life of mad folly by dying a suicide's death.

"And now I must turn a page in my own personal history:

"Prior to my father's death, I had formed an attachment for the only daughter of a proud and wealthy country gentleman, our neighbor. But I was a younger son, and by my father's will, made upon his death-bed, Clifford was his heir. Herbert had squandered half our father's fortune, but a handsome sum still remained.

"Realizing the hopelessness of my suit, I was preparing to quit England, taking with me my mother's legacy, which would amply suffice for a bachelor's wants, but was too meager a sum to lay at the feet of a beauty and an heiress. To make my departure more bitter, I had learned that the woman of my choice returned my affections.

"Then Sir Clifford swooped down upon me. Before I could guess his intent, he had sought and gained the consent of my wife's father; had transferred to me all his fortune, reserving only his mother's legacy, which was the same as mine. He forced me to accept by the strength of his splendid will. He installed me as master of Cliffe Towers. He hastened the marriage preparations. He remained long enough to dance at our wedding, and then he left us—proud as a king, independent as a gypsy, blameless, fearless, high-souled.

"He came to America, and never permitted us to know his whereabouts. At regular intervals, we received his letters—many whimsical descriptions of his new life and new pursuits, but we always addressed him in New York, and our letters, bearing the English seal, came to him under an American disguise. We did not so much as know the name he had assumed.

"This, gentlemen, is the true reason why Sir Clifford Heathercliffe, the truest, the noblest of English gentlemen, came among you as one of yourselves.

"I have one more word to say. Sir Clifford never saw the man, John Burrill; but our brother Herbert knew him well. Burrill was his tool and accomplice in many shameful escapades. They came to grief together; quarreled fearfully, and, when Herbert fled for his life, Burrill with his wife made his escape to America. All that I have said concerning this Burrill will be verified by Detective Bathurst."

Then turning toward Mr. Rand: "Is my explanation sufficient, sir?"

The lawyer only bows his head, and the handsome Englishman takes his seat while the house rings with applause. Evidently his tersely told story of brotherly sacrifice has touched the "humanness" of that strangely-mixed audience.

During the moment of clamor and confusion, Doctor Benoit enters the court room, and almost unobserved seats himself beside the New York medical experts.

A smile of gratification comes to O'Meara's face at sight of this late arrival, and when the court is restored to quiet, he says:

"Let Doctor Benoit be sworn."

The doctor testifies as follows:

Being called to examine the wounds upon the person of John Burrill, he found that they could not have been made with the knife found with the body. The identical knife being put into his hands, he explains how a cut made by such a keen, heavy weapon, must appear, and describes the knife that must have been used upon the body.

"It was a smaller weapon," he says, "thinner bladed and much lighter. It must have been shorter by two or three inches."

Then he adds that the surgeon's knife has never been used upon a body; the blood has been smeared on by an inartistic hand.

"It would be impossible," he says, "to withdraw this knife from a bleeding wound with no other blood marks than those it bears."

Doctor Gaylor and Professor Harrington corroborate his every statement, and when their testimony is done there is another sensation in the court room.

As Doctor Benoit passes by O'Meara, in returning from the witness stand, he tosses over a piece of paper, which the lawyer seizes, scans eagerly, and stows carefully away.

He consults some papers for a moment, and then says:

"I wish to recall Francis Lamotte."

Frank comes again upon the stand; his eyes seem fixed on vacancy; his face is white and rigid; his answers come in a dry monotone.

"Mr. Lamotte," begins O'Meara, briskly. "It is understood that you have been a student in Doctor Heath's office."

"That is true."

"During the time you studied there, had you free access to the office at all hours?"

"I had."

"I judge, then, that you must have possessed a pass key?"

"I did."

"Is that key still in your possession?"

"No."

"How did you dispose of that key?"

"I think it was lost; it has been out of my possession for some time."

"Where did you lose this key?"

"I do not remember; possibly at home, possibly at the office. It has been out of my possession for some time."

"Since losing your key, how did you gain access to the office in the doctor's absence?"

"I have visited the office very seldom of late, and not once since losing the key, in the absence of Doctor Heath."

"Mr. Lamotte, was there any way to distinguish your lost key from that used by my client?"

"Yes; my key was newer than his, and brighter."

"It was my client's custom to keep an extra suit of clothes in his office closet, was it not?"

"Yes."

"And it would be very natural that, in exchanging one garment for another, a glove or handkerchief should be sometimes left in the discarded garment?"

"Quite natural."

"Now let us suppose that, on the night of the murder, my client, returning from a visit to Mapleton, where he was called to attend upon the wife of the murdered man, halted at his office, hung up his outer coat, and sat for a little time, writing or reading, or perhaps meditating.

"Let us suppose that on preparing to face the wind, that was rising rapidly, and blowing chill, he substituted a heavy overcoat for the one he had worn earlier in the evening; and that he discovered, when half way home, that he had left his much needed handkerchief with his discarded coat.

"Would it not be quite an easy matter for some one who had obtained possession of your key, and was sufficiently familiar with the bearings of the office to move about in the dark, or by the dim fire-light, to enter that office, remove the surgeon's knife from its case, pilfer a handkerchief from the coat pocket, and escape unseen?"

"It would—I should think."

"If this person having the key, the knife, and the handkerchief, all in his possession, should go and fling them all into the old cellar on the Burns' place, you would call that singular?"

"Yes," from lips white and parched.

O'Meara turns suddenly and takes something from the table.

"Mr. Lamotte, take this key, examine it well. Does it at all resemble the one you—lost?"

Frank takes the key, mechanically, turns it about with nerveless fingers, scarcely glances at it.

"I think—it is—the same," he mutters, hoarsely.

"You think it is your lost key. Mr. Lamotte, do you know where this key was found?"

"No," stolidly.

"I will tell you. It was found in the old cellar, embedded in the mud, close beside the dead body of John Burrill."



Frank Lamotte's hands go up to his head, his pale face becomes livid, his eyes seem starting from their sockets; he gasps, staggers, falls heavily in a dead faint.



CHAPTER XLIII.

JUSTICE, SACRIFICE, DEATH.

And there is confusion in the court room.

Mr. Rand bounds angrily to his feet, then reseats himself suddenly, and without opening his lips.

As they bear Frank Lamotte from the room, O'Meara's voice rises and rings clear above the buzz and bustle:

"That witness must not be permitted to leave the court."

Then he stands gazing about him like a small, rampant lion; his eyes flashing, his nostrils quivering, his whole manner betokening that he is warming to his work.

Presently the room is quiet again, and O'Meara addresses the court:

"Your honor, and gentlemen; I have been successful beyond my expectations. You see what a guilty conscience can do. I wished to convince this court that my client has enemies in W——; powerful, unsuspected, enemies. I wished also to demonstrate to Mr. Rand, how easy it is to obtain circumstantial evidence. The witness may recover at his leisure. I have nothing more to say to him."

While he is speaking, Mr. Lamotte and Doctor Benoit, who had hastened out to attend upon Frank, re-enter, and resume their places, the former looking harassed and uneasy, the latter, bland as ever, and nodding an assurance that the patient is recovering safely.

"My next witness," says O'Meara, "is private detective Jerry Belknap; but, before this gentleman is sworn, I desire the clerk to read aloud, very loud, the testimony lately given by Mr. Jasper Lamotte. I want Mr. Lamotte's testimony to be fresh in the minds of the jury when they listen to Mr. Belknap."

Strive as he will, Jasper Lamotte can not wear a look of entire unconcern, although his self-control is marvellous.

What does Jerry Belknap know concerning this case? Why is he here as a witness? Mr. Lamotte is speedily enlightened.

While the clerk reads his recent testimony, Jerry Belknap takes his place upon the stand. Not the Belknap Jasper Lamotte has known; not the Belknap of Constance Wardour's recollection; but Jerry Belknap, in propria persona, shorn of all disguise.

He is a man well up in his thirties, medium in height, slender in person, with a dark, smooth shaven face, keen, restless eyes, black, closely cropped hair.

The clerk having finished the reading, Mr. O'Meara addresses the witness with marked courtesy.

"Mr. Belknap, you have heard the reading of Mr. Lamotte's testimony. You have heard Mr. Rand say that two important witnesses are absent, namely, a certain Brooks, and Mrs. Nance Burrill. You have heard Mr. Lamotte say that he knows nothing of the whereabouts of Nance Burrill, that he knows nothing of Brooks.

"Now, as Mr. Lamotte can not enlighten us, and as the attorney for the prosecution is very anxious about these two witnesses, will you just tell the court what you know of Mr. Brooks, and Nance Burrill, as connected with this case?"

Jerry Belknap bows to O'Meara, bows to the Court, wipes his mouth with a white silk handkerchief, and begins:

"I came to W—— on professional business, and, having obtained permission, through Mr. O'Meara, I may state here what that business was.

"I came on behalf of Miss Wardour, to investigate the noted diamond robbery. I have been in and about W—— for some time, but always in disguise, this being the first time my real face has been visible.

"Not long ago a stranger accosted me and put into my hands a letter. The letter bade me follow the instructions of the bearer of the same without fear, or question. Now Mr. Bathurst commands me at all times, and like a good soldier I obeyed my superior officer. I placed myself under the orders of Mr. Bathurst's deputy, who is himself a clever detective, and this is what he told me:

"Mr. Bathurst had been operating in W—— for weeks, under my very nose, and, although I knew him, and am called a tolerable detective, I never found him out. He knew me, however, from the first, knew me all along, although I, several times, changed my disguise. His disguise was too perfect, and he is too good an actor, ever to betray himself.

"That disguise having served his purpose, and having been thrown aside for good, I can safely comply with Mr. O'Meara's request and oblige the gentleman for the prosecution.

"The missing witness known as Brooks, the red-headed drunken mechanic, was officer Bathurst and none other."

Again there is a buzz in the court room.

The prisoner turns upon his counsel a look of profound wonder.

Constance clasps her hands delightedly and begins to brighten with hope.

Jasper Lamotte wears a look of consternation.

"Mr. Bathurst's instructions were brief," resumes Mr. Belknap after a moment's pause. "I was to present myself to Mr. Lamotte under some pretext of business. I am slightly known to Mr. Lamotte through my connection with the Wardour case and could approach him without creating suspicion. I was to accept any commissions he might wish me to execute.

"I presented myself to Jasper Lamotte; he had a piece of work for me. He told me that he had good reasons for wishing the woman Nance Burrill out of the town; he wished her no harm, but she was in his way. If I would get her away, on some pretext, he would pay me well. Acting under instructions, I approached the woman, making her acquaintance easily through her little boy. She is very ignorant and very foolish. I displayed a little money, offered her a profitable situation in New York, paid her a month's wages in advance and took her and her child to the city, where I hired a small furnished cottage, and installed her as housekeeper. Not being informed that her evidence was wanted on this occasion she is there still."

When Jerry Belknap began his story, Jasper Lamotte had drawn nearer to the prosecuting attorney, and, before the story was done, a slip of paper had made its way into the hands of the latter gentleman, bearing these words:

"For God's sake don't cross-examine that witness."

Consequently, in response to O'Meara's unnecessarily polite query, "Will the attorney for the prosecution be pleased to cross-examine this witness?"—Mr. Rand only scowled over at his antagonist, and shook his head savagely.

"This, I trust," begins O'Meara, before the last witness is fairly seated, "sufficiently explains the absence of these two important witnesses. It would seem that the absence of one at least was more important than her presence. Mr. Lamotte, at least, should be grateful. He desired Nance Burrill's absence; she is not here; and as no summons was issued for this woman—either by the prosecution or defense, no one can accuse me of hampering the progress of the law, and of this honorable court."

Mr. Rand bounds up, fire in his eye.

"It may not be rulable nor dignified," he begins hotly, "but I demand a moment's hearing. This whole trial has been irregular, from first to last.

"The gentleman brings forward an honorable witness from over the water; a witness who brings out the accused in a new character; covers him with a blaze of glory; this is very good, and very theatrical. Let us grant that the accused is Sir Clifford Heathercliffe. Does that alter the fact that John Burrill went straight to his door, straight to the door of his sworn enemy, and was never again seen alive. He seeks to implicate Frank Lamotte, and to impeach the integrity of Jasper Lamotte, an honorable gentleman, against whom there was never yet a breath of suspicion. It will not alter the facts in the case. Clifford Heath's enemy was found dead close by Clifford Heath's door! He has blackened the character of the dead; he has struck hard at the honorable living. He has flooded the court with the testimony of mysterious strangers; he has suppressed known witnesses; he has worked his will with us. But he has not disproved one item of evidence; he has not changed one fact or phase of the case. Let us grant all he has proven, what have we left? The unalterable facts, that the prisoner has repeatedly threatened his victim; that the murdered man set out to visit the prisoner, at night, through the darkness, and was found early the following morning, before the body could be removed to a safer hiding place, his face covered by the prisoner's own linen; his gaping wounds giving evidence of a practiced hand; the prisoner's knife buried with him; the key of the prisoner's office or house lying beside the shallow grave. Facts tell, gentlemen; these are facts."

These words rush from his lips torrent like.

He has turned to face the jury and so does not see that O'Meara has lounged back to his seat, with an air of perfect unconcern, and that he is actually signaling the judge not to stay this whirlwind; a proceeding which so astounds that official, that for full five minutes the tide of speech flows on, lava like.

On the audience, it has a startling effect. He is speaking the truth. He is reiterating facts, and facts are sure of instant recognition by our Yankee countrymen.

A thrill runs through the assembly; there comes one of those sudden revulsions of feeling, common to scenes like this. Sir Clifford Heathercliffe disappears from before their dazzled vision; what they see, in the light of stern facts, is Clifford Heath, the murderer.

"These are facts," reiterates Mr. Rand, excitedly. "Who has seen this wonderful Bathurst, with his bundle of testimony? Who knows the man? Why is he not here in court? Where is he?"

"Here!"

Clear and full the voice rings over the room, transfixing for one moment the entire court; then the gavel descends; order is commanded with double unction, because of the recent lapse. Mr. O'Meara is on his feet; Mr. Rand's impromptu speech is at an end.

"More theatricals," snarls Mr. Rand, flinging himself violently down into his seat.

But no one heeds him; all eyes are fixed upon the new comers.

Near the door of the court room they stand grouped close together.

Mr. Wedron, dignified and placid as usual.

Mrs. Lamotte, with head proudly poised, and eyes that seem wells of pent-up anguish.

Evan Lamotte, looking like a lost and almost disembodied spirit.

Frank Lamotte, who during the time Mr. Belknap has occupied in giving his testimony, has quietly re-entered the room, seeming to have recovered, and looking almost composed, looks with the rest, and is once more, for a moment, startled out of all semblance of calmness; he starts up from his seat, then sinks back weakly, a desperate hunted look in his eyes, his hands clenched and working nervously.

They came slowly forward—Evan Lamotte, supported on either side by his mother and the soi-disant Mr. Wedron, of the New York Bar.



They pass so close that the lady's trailing silks brush against the feet of Jasper Lamotte, but she never vouchsafes a glance to husband or son, and Evan's eyes are set straight before him, fixed on vacancy—unseeing orbs of fire, set in a spectral face.

Presently, they are seated near the group gathered about the prisoner, and then Mr. Wedron confers with Mr. O'Meara.

As they talk, the little lawyer's face becomes grave, even to sadness, and when he rises to address the Court, his tone is subdued, his manner that of one performing a painful task.

"May it please the Court," he says, slowly, "the witnesses for whom I waited have come. As one of them is just recovering from a serious illness, Mr. Bathurst has thought it best that a reliable physician should certify to his perfect ability to testify at this time. Let Doctor Benoit be sworn."

It is done, and in the same grave and subdued manner Doctor Benoit bears witness, as follows:

"I have been in attendance at Mapleton for some weeks past. Evan Lamotte has been one of my patients. He has been very ill, and delirious almost constantly. It is less than a week since he entirely recovered his reasoning faculties. To-day, at the request of Mr. Wedron, I subjected him to various tests, and I freely pronounce him perfectly sane—as sane as any here in this court room. If any one is inclined to question my statement, I shall desire Professor Harrington and Doctor Gaylor to examine the witness."

There is profound silence for a moment, then O'Meara says, quietly:

"Will Detective Bathurst take the stand?"

The gentleman who has become known to many in W—— as Mr. Wedron, of the New York Bar, left his place near Evan Lamotte, and came quietly forward. Having been duly sworn, Mr. O'Meara said:

"Mr. Bathurst, you have been connected with this case from the first. Tell us what you have discovered, in your own way."

The detective bowed, took off a pair of gold-rimmed eye-glasses, and turned upon the court a pair of bright, piercing, handsome, dark blue eyes, that proved themselves capable of numberless expressions.

"My name is Neil J. Bathurst," he began, "and I am a detective. I came to W—— for the first time early in the summer—in June, I believe. I came on professional business. To my surprise, and quite by accident, I found Sir Clifford Heathercliffe here in the character of Doctor Heath. My business in W—— was in no way connected with Sir Clifford, but before I left the town, which was on the third day after my arrival, I became aware that he had an enemy here. I left W—— to return in a short time, and I figured among the factory people as Brooks, the drunken mechanic. Mr. Lamotte employed me twice and twice discharged me because of my intemperance. I became quite intimate and friendly with John Burrill, and succeeded in gaining his confidence. I was also on good terms with Nance Burrill, John Burrill's divorced wife, and I learned a good many things from her.

"Early in the autumn it came to my knowledge that Sir Clifford's enemies had begun to move, that a plan was on foot against him. About this time I discovered that several people needed looking after, and I sent for a boy shadower. He came, and did his work well. He is not here, because his testimony is not needed.

"You will understand that I had now more than one operation on my hands. I was still engaged upon the case which first brought me to W——, and I was intent upon frustrating the designs of Sir Clifford's enemies. He, Sir Clifford, was not aware of my presence in W——, and he was likewise ignorant of the plot against him.

"Early in November, I found it expedient to appear in W—— in a new character. Brooks had done his work. Accordingly, I, as Brooks, set out for the city one morning, leaving my shadower in charge of the field. Jasper Lamotte went to the city by the same train, and, singular coincidence, he came back on the train which brought me. I returned, as Mr. Wedron, an attorney, and I brought with me an assistant (for the plot was thickening fast), who assumed the character of a book peddler. I was absent only two days, but, during that time, the entire drama had undergone a transformation.

"Before I had been half an hour in W——, I had received the report of my shadower; it was startling. John Burrill had been murdered. Here was a disappointment. I had fully intended that Burrill should do some honest work in the State penitentiary, and was almost prepared to make some arrests. I attended the inquest, and was again discomfited. The enemies of Sir Clifford had abandoned their first infamous scheme for his ruin, and had succeeded in fastening this miserable crime upon him. Standing there in the presence of all the actors in the tragedy, and listening to the witnesses before the coroner, I decided what course to pursue. I would make my other operations a secondary affair, and devote myself to the task of finding John Burrill's murderer. I presented myself to Mr. O'Meara, and made known my identity; we decided to act together, and at once set to work.

"I knew that Francis Lamotte was Sir Clifford's secret enemy, and, naturally, I began to study him, and to watch him. You have heard his testimony to-day, and you know how easy it would have been for him, first to follow and to kill John Burrill, and next to cast suspicion upon an innocent man. I could prefer a charge against him, and bring some circumstantial evidence to back it; but this would not vindicate Sir Clifford, and would complicate affairs very much. What I wanted, was proof positive, absolute. So I waited, and studied the case. Of one thing I was assured; Francis Lamotte, whether guilty or innocent, knew more of that murder than he chose to tell.

"One day, while in conversation with Miss Wardour, I chanced to mention the name of Evan Lamotte, adding something not complimentary to that young gentleman. Miss Wardour took fire at once. She assured me that Evan Lamotte was not what people sought to make him; that in spite of his weaknesses, he had many noble and lovable qualities. She told me how he came to her when the first shock of his sister's flight was upon him; she described, vividly, his passion, his sorrow, his love for his sister. He spoke of her as the only being on earth whom he truly loved, the only one who had been unvaryingly kind to him. He cursed the destroyers of his sister's happiness, and implored Miss Wardour not to abandon that unfortunate sister. He said that he believed she would return, and he implored her to visit his parents, and intercede in behalf of the fugitive.

"Miss Wardour gave him the required promise, and then said that if the real reason for this strange elopement must remain a secret, she wished they could hit upon some explanation that would spare the fugitive as much as possible, and satisfy the gossips. Instantly he sprang up, declaring that he would furnish a reason, a reason that no one would question, and that would spare his sister.

"A few days later, the story was flying about W——, that to save her brother Evan from the consequences of some evil deed, Sybil Lamotte had sacrificed herself.

"When Miss Wardour heard of this, she knew that Evan Lamotte had allowed himself to be defamed for his sister's sake. She knew that the true reasons for her friend's mesalliance was hidden safely beneath a brother's sacrifice.

"Miss Wardour told me this, and much more, in praise of Evan Lamotte; and here, for his sake, let me say, that in studying John Burrill and Francis Lamotte, I had discovered that Sybil Lamotte had been made to believe, that the honor and safety of her father and elder brother, depended upon her sacrifice, when the truth is, that she was sold. Simply sold—for their convenience, and their gain.

"You have looked upon Jasper Lamotte as an honorable citizen. On the day of John Burrill's funeral, I resumed my old disguise, that of Brooks, and went to Mapleton; I told Mr. Lamotte that I had come as a friend of his, and of Burrill's, to warn him, that if Nance Burrill was allowed to remain in W——, she would be brought forward at this trial, and give damaging evidence against his dead son-in-law.

"I remained in the library with him some fifteen minutes. My errand was a trap, and he fell into it. What followed, Mr. Belknap has already told. In the presence of this court, Jasper Lamotte has perjured himself. Let the officers of the law keep this fact in mind.

"Now, to return to my witness. When I heard Miss Wardour's glowing vindication of Evan Lamotte, I said to myself, 'Here is the right person. Evan Lamotte is the one who can clear up this mystery.' It was clear as day to my eyes.

"It was necessary that I should see him, but I very soon learned that he was lying at his home dangerously ill, and quite out of his senses. There was nothing to do but to wait. I made the acquaintance of Doctor Benoit, and from him I obtained daily news of his patient.

"At the eleventh hour, when I had begun to despair of his recovery, the doctor reported the patient restored to his senses. I then told him, Doctor Benoit, that the very moment Evan Lamotte was able to listen, and to talk rationally, I must see him. That the case was one of life and death.

"This day, at the very hour when the trial was called, I set out for Mapleton; I saw Evan Lamotte; I told him that Clifford Heath was on trial for the murder of John Burrill; and that the chances were against him.

"It is not necessary to repeat all that passed between us, the result is, that Evan Lamotte comes into this court of his own free will and accord, and it is his desire that he be allowed to tell his own story.

"He comes here freely, willingly, asking nothing, hoping nothing, and when this audience has heard his testimony, they will join me in pronouncing him the noblest Lamotte of them all."

There is a look so weird, so unearthly, in the eyes of Evan Lamotte, as he comes forward and turns his face slowly upon the audience, so that all can see its ghastly contrast with those burning orbs, that a startled hush falls upon them all, a funereal silence pervades the room.

They seem to note for the first time, what a solemn thing is the oath, which Evan takes with voice, hollow and weak, but calm and fall of decision.

His breath comes in short gasps, his sentences are broken, the fatigue caused by his effort to speak is evident. But he goes on to the end, and this is what he says:

"When I learned that my sister's life had been ruined, I was a madman; I did not know for a time why she had thus thrown herself away, but I determined that I would know, and I set myself to spy upon my own family.

"If the detective had not told you this truth I should withhold it now, for we all have a sufficient burden of shame upon us.

"I watched and I listened and I learned why Sybil had been sacrificed.

"At first I thought I would openly assault Burrill, would compel him to resist and would make his life as uncomfortable as possible; I was a madman.

"Constance Wardour told me it was not the way to help Sybil; that such a course would only cause her added sorrow. When I grew calmer I saw that Conny was right. I promised her to do nothing that would add to my poor sister's unhappiness.

"By and by they came home, and I saw the misery in my sister's face; day by day it deepened, her eyes growing hollow and wild, and full of unutterable horror and fear, her face growing paler and thinner, and sadder, her hands so weak and tremulous, all appealed to me, all maddened me afresh. I resolved that in some way I would free her. But how?

"Day after day I brooded upon it. Burrill became more bestial, more besotted, more contemptible, every day. My sister's strength was almost gone, her reason was tottering.

"I began to cultivate Burrill. I flattered him; I caroused with him. I had sunk so low myself that he could feel at ease with me. But drunk or sober I never once forgot a resolve I had taken. Matters were going from bad to worse. It must be Sybil's life or his. I resolved that it should not be my sister who was sacrificed.

"When I found that no more time could be wasted, I laid my plans. I feigned illness and kept my room for several days.

"Burrill came daily to see me. I told him that I had some rare new fun in my head, and we planned that I should feign to be worse than usual. Burrill knew that our people had made efforts to stop our nocturnal expeditions, and he agreed with me that the thing should be kept secret. On that last night he left the house early, saying that he would spend a couple of hours at 'Old Forty's,' and then meet me at a place appointed.

"At nine o'clock I stole out, and no one at Mapleton discovered my absence. I did not intend that they should. I waited at the place appointed for our meeting until I grew impatient. The time came for him to appear; he did not come. I knew where I should find him, and set out for 'Forty Rods.' I was determined to let that night end Sybil's troubles.

"Half way between the saloon and Doctor Heath's I saw him. He passed close to me, as I came up from Mill avenue, and reeled across the road. He was not going toward our rendezvous, but away from it.

"I followed stealthily. I did not make my nearness known. I think he was too drunk to know where he was going or where to stop. He reeled past Doctor Heath's house, and was nearly opposite the gate of the empty lot before he discovered that he had gone too far.

"He turned, and while he leaned against the fence and seemed to ponder, I crept upon him, knife in hand; I struck him, once, again, a third time. He uttered one groan loud enough to have been heard some distance away, and then fell heavily. I had struck home. When I was sure that he was dead—I seemed to know just how to act—I ran to the gate of the Burns' lot and opened it wide. The body was twice my weight but I dragged it inside before my strength gave out.

"Then, for a while, I seemed panic stricken. What should I do with that body? By and by, I thought of a way to get help. I waited until midnight, then I made my way to Mapleton, all blood stained, and carrying the knife with me. Unseen I entered and gained Frank's room. He was up and pacing the floor; I told him to follow me. He saw my blood-stained hands and garments; I opened my coat and displayed the knife, and he obeyed me. I told him what I had done, and that he must help me conceal the body. For a moment he seemed stunned, and then he assisted me with surprising readiness; he planned everything; in fact, took the lead from that moment. I thought he was working to save his brother. The detective has told me the truth, and abjured me to tell all I know.

"Frank left me at the foot of the stairs leading to Heath's office. When he came down he seemed much excited, and hurried on very fast. We scooped out a grave in the cellar, as best we could in the dark, Frank working actively. He told me to take my knife and throw it into the old well—if you look you will find it there. While I was doing it, he must have put the other knife in the grave. When I came back he had covered the face with something white. I did not think about it at the time; now I know that it was Doctor Heath's handkerchief.

"Doctor Heath is an innocent man. I killed John Burrill; I am here to accept the consequences. I did the deed to save my sister. I do not regret it."

Then, turning toward the place where Frank Lamotte sits, cowering and panic stricken, he stretches out one spectral hand and says:

"Frank! Frank Lamotte, do the only thing left you to do; stand up and say that I have spoken the truth. Let us end this at once, Frank!"

Like one roused from some strange stupor, Frank staggers to his feet.

"It is all true!" he gasps. "Evan has told nothing but the truth." Then he falls back in his seat more dead than alive.

To describe the triumph of O'Meara; the mingled pity and gladness that fills the heart of Constance; the rejoicings of Clifford Heath's friends, one and all; the misery and the shame that overwhelmed the Lamottes, would be useless.

The excitement of the audience, judge and jury, can be imagined better than described.

The tragic farce is at an end. The case is given to the jury. Without quitting their places, they return their verdict. Clifford Heath is not guilty; is honorably acquitted.

Exhausted by his recent effort, Evan Lamotte is carried from the court room, closely attended by his mother; is carried to the cell where lately Clifford Heath has dwelt a prisoner, while the latter is escorted in triumph, to O'Meara's, by all his rejoicing friends.

As the procession of conquerors moves away from the entrance, an officer approaches Jasper Lamotte.

"Mr. Lamotte, I am very sorry, sir, but you must consider yourself my prisoner."

Jasper Lamotte bows coldly, and signals the man that he will follow him.

The officer turns to Frank, but before he can open his lips, the miserable young man steps back, makes one quick movement; there is a flash, a loud report, and Frank Lamotte falls forward, to be caught in the arms of a by-stander.



They lay him gently down, and Jasper Lamotte bids them send for a physician; there must be one very near.

But Frank beckons his father to come close, and when the others have drawn back, this is what the father hears, from the son's lips:

"There is another—pistol in—my pocket—I meant it for Evan,—you—had better—use it."

Horrible words from the lips of a dying son. They are his last. Before Doctor Benoit can turn back and reach his side, Frank Lamotte has finished his career of folly, and sin, and shame, dying as he had lived, selfishly, like a coward.



CHAPTER XLIV.

A SPARTAN MOTHER.

"I never before in all my career, brought to justice a criminal whom I both pitied unreservedly, and justified fully. Viewing all things from his standpoint, Evan Lamotte is less a murderer than a martyr."

It is the day after the trial with so strange an ending. They are seated in O'Meara's library; Constance, Mrs. Aliston, Mrs. O'Meara, Sir Clifford, his brother, the Honorable George Heathercliffe, Ray Vandyck, O'Meara, and Mr. Bathurst. Mr. Bathurst, who now appears what he is; a handsome gentleman, about thirty years of age, clever, vivacious, eminently agreeable. Mr. Wedron, like Brooks, has served out his day, and been set aside.

They have assembled at the detective's request, and while fully expecting a revelation of some sort, they look a serene, and not an apprehensive party.

"Poor Evan," sighs Constance; "I pity him most sincerely; I shall go and see him."

"We will go and see him," corrects Sir Clifford, and she smiles, and does not dispute the correction.

"Before I begin my other story," says the detective, "I may as well tell you of my visit yesterday, and how my news was received.

"From the moment when I heard Miss Wardour's description of Evan Lamotte, I knew he was our man. But I was determined to have no more mistakes. So I kept my opinion to myself. You can imagine how anxiously I hung upon the words of Doctor Benoit, knowing that upon this boy's chances for life hung Sir Clifford's life, liberty, and honor.

"When I saw that poor, pale, wreck of humanity, my heart almost failed me. How could I drag his secret from him? But no time was to be lost, and, as best I could, I told him everything. First, that his sister believed herself the guilty one; guilty, at least, in that she had instigated the deed, and next, that Sir Clifford was now the victim of this crime. His mind at once seemed to grasp the issue. He had listened to me intently, breathlessly almost; he now lifted himself suddenly from the bed, and said quickly:

"'Why, then, it seems I have not saved Sybil yet. Call my mother! let me see her alone.'

"I obeyed him without a question; they were alone together for a long half hour, then Mrs. Lamotte came to me with the same look upon her face that you saw in court.

"'Evan tells me that you know everything,' she said, her voice trembling in spite of herself. 'He tells me that you are a detective. Then you know that I have one son of whom I may be proud. Evan Lamotte has saved his sister's honor. Saved it doubly. My weak, my ill-used Evan, has proven the only man a man's pride, who bears the name of Lamotte, because he could not see his sister and his mother contaminated by the presence of the monster his father and brother had been so base as to force upon us; he has taken justice into his own hands. He has freed his sister; he has saved her from crime, and now he stands ready to put himself in the place of a wronged and innocent man. I shall go with him into court; I shall not leave him again.'

"She broke off with a dry sob and turned away to prepare for the drive.

"How I pitied that proud woman. How tender she was of her lost boy, and how he clung to her.

"Mr. O'Meara," turning suddenly toward the lawyer, "we must get that poor fellow out of that cell. Doctor Benoit says that he can live but a short time at best. He must not die there, and justice can not deal with a dying man."

"I think it can be managed," replied the lawyer. "All W—— will favor the scheme. Not a man or woman will raise their voice against that dying boy. He will have plenty of friends now."

"He shall find them strong friends, too," exclaimed Constance. "Mrs. O'Meara, we will stir up the whole town."

"Then you'll get your way," put in Bathurst. "And now. Miss Wardour, are you ready to hear the end of the mystery surrounding the Wardour robbery, and the Wardour diamonds?"

All eyes were turned at once upon the speaker.

"Because I have asked you all to meet me here to-day that I might tell it," he went on. "It will contain much that is new to you all, and it will interest you all. I know Miss Wardour will wish you all to hear the end of her diamond case, and the fate of her robbers."

"Of course! You are perfectly right, Mr. Bathurst," said Constance. "Doctor Heath cuts more of a figure than he knows in this business, and Ray has staid out in the cold long enough. Go on, Mr. Bathurst, expose me in all my iniquity. But have you really found the robbers?"

"Listen," said the detective, and while they all fixed upon him their gravest attention he began.



CHAPTER XLV.

TOLD BY A DETECTIVE.

"For several years past," began Mr. Bathurst, "the city and many of the wealthier suburban towns have been undergoing a systematic overhauling. Through the network of big thefts, and little thefts, petit larcenies and bank robberies, there has run one clear-cut burglarious specialty—a style of depredations noticeably similar in case after case; alike in 'design and execution,' and always baffling to the officers.



"I allude to a series of robberies of jewelry and plate, a succession of provoking thefts, monstrous, enough to be easily traced, but executed with such exceeding finesse that, in no single instance, has the property been recovered, or the robbers run to earth.

"These fastidious thieves never took money in large amounts, only took plate when it was of the purest metal and least cumbersome sort; and always aimed for the brightest, the purest, the costliest diamonds. Diamonds indeed seemed their specialty.

"This gang has operated in such a gingerly, gentlemanly, mysterious manner, and has raided for diamonds so long and so successfully, that they have come to be called, among New York detectives, The Diamond Coterie, although no man knew whether they numbered two, or twenty.

"They could always recognize their handiwork, however, and whenever the news came that some lady in the city, or suburbs, had lost her diamonds, and that the thieves had made a 'clean job' of it, the officers said, 'that's the work of the Diamond Coterie.'

"I have been much abroad of late, but every time I came back to New York the Coterie had gathered fresh jewels into its treasure box, and no man had found a clue to the sly fellows.

"I began to feel interested in the clique and resolved to take a hand at them, at the first opportunity. That opportunity came, with the news of the great Wardour robbery, and I came down to W——.

"I saw enough in this robbery to interest me, for various reasons.

"I believed I could see distinctly the handiwork of the Diamond Coterie, and I saw another thing; it was the first piece of work I had known them to bungle. And they had bungled in this.

"I made some of my conclusions known to Miss Wardour and her friends, but I kept to myself the most important ones.

"The story of the chloroform, so carefully administered, was one of the things over which I pondered much; I borrowed the chloroform bottle and the piece of linen that had been used to apply the drug, and that night I accepted the hospitality proffered me by Sir Clifford. I took a wax impression of the vial, at his house, and I made an important discovery while there.

"Sir Clifford found me half famished and ordered his housekeeper to bring in a lunch. Not wishing my identity known, I pretended to be a patient; and just as my host was leaving the room, he tossed me a handkerchief, which he took from a side table, bidding me make myself a bandage to partially conceal my face.

"Now my eyes are trained to see much at a glance, and the moment they fell upon that bit of white linen they were riveted there.

"The handkerchief was precisely like the mutilated one used with the chloroform. This might be a coincidence—plain white handkerchiefs with wide borders were not uncommon, but this handkerchief was marked!

"I could scarcely wait until Sir Clifford should show me to my room, so anxious was I to compare the two pieces of linen.

"The whole one bore the initials F. L., and on the raw, torn edge of the half square was a black dot that was undoubtedly the fragment of a letter, or name, that had been torn hastily off. It corresponded exactly with the lower end of the letter L. upon the whole handkerchief given me by Sir Clifford.

"This might be a coincidence, but it is one of my rules to suspect two coincidences coming close together; and I had already discovered three remarkable ones in this case.

"Sitting alone in my room, I reflected thus:

"Take it for granted that this robbery was perpetrated by the Diamond Coterie, what are the facts?

"The robbers knew where to enter, and where to look for plunder; ergo, they must have known the premises.

"They administered the deadly chloroform with nicest calculation; ergo, they must have known Miss Wardour.

"One of them was something of a dandy,—witness the superfine bit of cambric, and the print of jaunty boots where he leaped the garden fence.

"The next morning I took unceremonious leave of my host, and set out on my explorations. As I approached Wardour Place I met a man, who immediately drew my interest to himself.

"This man was Jerry Belknap. He wore a disguise quite familiar to me, and I recognized him easily. He entered at the Wardour gate, and I sauntered on, having found new food for thought.

"Now, a word concerning this man Belknap.

"At one time he was an honorable member of the best detective force in the city; but he had too much cupidity, and not enough moral firmness. Twice he allowed himself to be bribed into letting a case fall through, and finally I caught him in secret conclave with a gang of bank burglars, who were conspiring to raise a fortune for each, and escape with their booty through the connivance of our false detective.

"I exploded this little scheme, and compelled Belknap to withdraw from the force. Imagine my surprise when, a little later, Miss Wardour told me that Mr. Belknap was the detective sent down from the city by Mr. Lamotte!

"Well, Mr. Belknap went to work upon the case, and Miss Wardour concealed me near her dining room so that I might have the pleasure of listening to his first report.

"That was a fortunate ambush for me. Mr. Belknap's deductions were as diametrically opposite to mine as if he had purposely studied out the contrast; and I was shaking my sides with the thought of how all this plausibility must be puzzling Miss Wardour and her aunt, when a new element was introduced into the programme.

"Mr. Frank Lamotte, fresh from an amateur robber hunt, came into the room. It had been arranged that Mrs. Aliston should break to this young man the news that his sister had that day eloped with John Burrill; but first, he was to relate his adventures, and this he did.