"And you saw the name of Clavering?"

"I did; Henry Ritchie Clavering."

"Did you read the letter?" I was trembling now.

The secretary did not reply.

"Mr. Harwell," I reiterated, "this is no time for false delicacy. Did you read that letter?"

"I did; but hastily, and with an agitated conscience."

"You can, however, recall its general drift?"

"It was some complaint in regard to the treatment received by him at the hand of one of Mr. Leavenworth's nieces. I remember nothing more."

"Which niece?"

"There were no names mentioned."

"But you inferred——"

"No, sir; that is just what I did not do. I forced myself to forget the whole thing."

"And yet you say it produced an effect upon the family?"

"I can see now that it did. None of them have ever appeared quite the same as before."

"Mr. Harwell," I gravely continued; "when you were questioned as to the receipt of any letter by Mr. Leavenworth, which might seem in any manner to be connected with this tragedy, you denied having seen any such; how was that?"

"Mr. Raymond, you are a gentleman; have a chivalrous regard for the ladies; do you think you could have brought yourself (even if in your secret heart you considered some such result possible, which I am not ready to say I did) to mention, at such a time as that, the receipt of a letter complaining of the treatment received from one of Mr. Leavenworth's nieces, as a suspicious circumstance worthy to be taken into account by a coroner's jury?"

I shook my head. I could not but acknowledge the impossibility.

"What reason had I for thinking that letter was one of importance? I knew of no Henry Ritchie Clavering."

"And yet you seemed to think it was. I remember you hesitated before replying."

"It is true; but not as I should hesitate now, if the question were put to me again."

Silence followed these words, during which I took two or three turns up and down the room.

"This is all very fanciful," I remarked, laughing in the vain endeavor to throw off the superstitious horror his words had awakened.

He bent his head in assent. "I know it," said he. "I am practical myself in broad daylight, and recognize the nimsiness of an accusation based upon a poor, hardworking secretary's dream, as plainly as you do. This is the reason I desired to keep from speaking at all; but, Mr. Raymond," and his long, thin hand fell upon my arm with a nervous intensity which gave me almost the sensation of an electrical shock, "if the murderer of Mr. Leavenworth is ever brought to confess his deed, mark my words, he will prove to be the man of my dream."

I drew a long breath. For a moment his belief was mine; and a mingled sensation of relief and exquisite pain swept over me as I thought of the possibility of Eleanore being exonerated from crime only to be plunged into fresh humiliation and deeper abysses of suffering.

"He stalks the streets in freedom now," the secretary went on, as if to himself; "even dares to enter the house he has so wofully desecrated; but justice is justice and, sooner or later, something will transpire which will prove to you that a premonition so wonderful as that I received had its significance; that the voice calling 'Trueman, Trueman,' was something more than the empty utterances of an excited brain; that it was Justice itself, calling attention to the guilty."

I looked at him in wonder. Did he know that the officers of justice were already upon the track of this same Clavering? I judged not from his look, but felt an inclination to make an effort and see.

"You speak with strange conviction," I said; "but in all probability you are doomed to be disappointed. So far as we know, Mr. Clavering is a respectable man."

He lifted his hat from the table. "I do not propose to denounce him; I do not even propose to speak his name again. I am not a fool, Mr. Raymond. I have spoken thus plainly to you only in explanation of last night's most unfortunate betrayal; and while I trust you will regard what I have told you as confidential, I also hope you will give me credit for behaving, on the whole, as well as could be expected under the circumstances." And he held out his hand.

"Certainly," I replied as I took it. Then, with a sudden impulse to test the accuracy of this story of his, inquired if he had any means of verifying his statement of having had this dream at the time spoken of: that is, before the murder and not afterwards.

"No, sir; I know myself that I had it the night previous to that of Mr. Leavenworth's death; but I cannot prove the fact."

"Did not speak of it next morning to any one?"

"O no, sir; I was scarcely in a position to do so."

"Yet it must have had a great effect upon you, unfitting you for work——"

"Nothing unfits me for work," was his bitter reply.

"I believe you," I returned, remembering his diligence for the last few days. "But you must at least have shown some traces of having passed an uncomfortable night. Have you no recollection of any one speaking to you in regard to your appearance the next morning?"

"Mr. Leavenworth may have done so; no one else would be likely to notice." There was sadness in the tone, and my own voice softened as I said:

"I shall not be at the house to-night, Mr. Harwell; nor do I know when I shall return there. Personal considerations keep me from Miss Leavenworth's presence for a time, and I look to you to carry on the work we have undertaken without my assistance, unless you can bring it here——"

"I can do that."

"I shall expect you, then, to-morrow evening."

"Very well, sir "; and he was going, when a sudden thought seemed to strike him. "Sir," he said, "as we do not wish to return to this subject again, and as I have a natural curiosity in regard to this man, would you object to telling me what you know of him? You believe him to be a respectable man; are you acquainted with him, Mr. Raymond?"

"I know his name, and where he resides."

"And where is that?"

"In London; he is an Englishman."

"Ah!" he murmured, with a strange intonation.

"Why do you say that?"

He bit his lip, looked down, then up, finally fixed his eyes on mine, and returned, with marked emphasis: "I used an exclamation, sir, because I was startled."

"Startled?"

"Yes; you say he is an Englishman. Mr. Leavenworth had the most bitter antagonism to the English. It was one of his marked peculiarities. He would never be introduced to one if he could help it."

It was my turn to look thoughtful.

"You know," continued the secretary, "that Mr. Leavenworth was a man who carried his prejudices to the extreme. He had a hatred for the English race amounting to mania. If he had known the letter I have mentioned was from an Englishman, I doubt if he would have read it. He used to say he would sooner see a daughter of his dead before him than married to an Englishman."

I turned hastily aside to hide the effect which this announcement made upon me.

"You think I am exaggerating," he said. "Ask Mr. Veeley."

"No," I replied. "I have no reason for thinking so."

"He had doubtless some cause for hating the English with which we are unacquainted," pursued the secretary. "He spent some time in Liverpool when young, and had, of course, many opportunities for studying their manners and character." And the secretary made another movement, as if to leave.

But it was my turn to detain him now. "Mr. Harwell, you must excuse me. You have been on familiar terms with Mr. Leavenworth for so long. Do you think that, in the case of one of his nieces, say, desiring to marry a gentleman of that nationality, his prejudice was sufficient to cause him to absolutely forbid the match?"

"I do."

I moved back. I had learned what I wished, and saw no further reason for prolonging the interview.



XXII. PATCH-WORK

"Come, give us a taste of your quality." Hamlet.

STARTING with the assumption that Mr. Clavering in his conversation of the morning had been giving me, with more or less accuracy, a detailed account of his own experience and position regarding Eleanore Leavenworth, I asked myself what particular facts it would be necessary for me to establish in order to prove the truth of this assumption, and found them to be:

I. That Mr. Clavering had not only been in this country at the time designated, but that he had been ocated for some little time at a watering-place in New York State.

II. That this watering-place should correspond to the one in which Miss Eleanore Leavenworth was staying at the same time.

III. That they had been seen while there to hold nore or less communication.

IV. That they had both been absent from town, at Lorne one time, long enough to have gone through the ceremony of marriage at a point twenty miles or so away.

V. That a Methodist clergyman, who has since died, lived at that time within a radius of twenty miles of said ratering-place.

I next asked myself how I was to establish these acts. Mr. Clavering's life was as yet too little known o me to offer me any assistance; so, leaving it for the present, I took up the thread of Eleanore's history, and found that at the time given me she had been in R——, a fashionable watering-place in this State. Now, if his was true, and my theory correct, he must have been there also. To prove this fact, became, consequently, my first business. I resolved to go to R—— on the morrow.

But before proceeding in an undertaking of such importance, I considered it expedient to make such inquiries and collect such facts as the few hours I had left to work in rendered possible. I went first to the house of Mr. Gryce.

I found him lying upon a hard sofa, in the bare sitting-room I have before mentioned, suffering from a severe attack of rheumatism. His hands were done up in bandages, and his feet incased in multiplied folds of a dingy red shawl which looked as if it had been through the wars. Greeting me with a short nod that was both a welcome and an apology, he devoted a few words to an explanation of his unwonted position; and then, without further preliminaries, rushed into the subject which was uppermost in both our minds by inquiring, in a slightly sarcastic way, if I was very much surprised to find my bird flown when I returned to the Hoffman House that afternoon.

"I was astonished to find you allowed him to fly at this time," I replied. "From the manner in which you requested me to make his acquaintance, I supposed you considered him an important character in the tragedy which has just been enacted."

"And what makes you think I don't? Oh, the fact that I let him go off so easily? That's no proof. I never fiddle with the brakes till the car starts down-hill. But let that pass for the present; Mr. Clavering, then, did not explain himself before going?"

"That is a question which I find it exceedingly difficult to answer. Hampered by circumstances, I cannot at present speak with the directness which is your due, but what I can say, I will. Know, then, that in my opinion Mr. Clavering did explain himself in an interview with me this morning. But it was done in so blind a way, it will be necessary for me to make a few investigations before I shall feel sufficiently sure of my ground to take you into my confidence. He has given me a possible clue——"

"Wait," said Mr. Gryce; "does he know this? Was it done intentionally and with sinister motive, or unconsciously and in plain good faith?"

"In good faith, I should say."

Mr. Gryce remained silent for a moment. "It is very unfortunate you cannot explain yourself a little more definitely," he said at last. "I am almost afraid to trust you to make investigations, as you call them, on your own hook. You are not used to the business, and will lose time, to say nothing of running upon false scents, and using up your strength on unprofitable details."

"You should have thought of that when you admitted me into partnership."

"And you absolutely insist upon working this mine alone?"

"Mr. Gryce, the matter stands just here. Mr. Clavering, for all I know, is a gentleman of untarnished reputation. I am not even aware for what purpose you set me upon his trail. I only know that in thus following it I have come upon certain facts that seem worthy of further investigation."

"Well, well; you know best. But the days are slipping by. Something must be done, and soon. The public are becoming clamorous."

"I know it, and for that reason I have come to you for such assistance as you can give me at this stage of the proceedings. You are in possession of certain facts relating to this man which it concerns me to know, or your conduct in reference to him has been purposeless. Now, frankly, will you make me master of those facts: in short, tell me all you know of Mr. Clavering, without requiring an immediate return of confidence on my part?"

"That is asking a great deal of a professional detective."

"I know it, and under other circumstances I should hesitate long before preferring such a request; but as things are, I don't see how I am to proceed in the matter without some such concession on your part. At all events——"

"Wait a moment! Is not Mr. Clavering the lover of one of the young ladies?"

Anxious as I was to preserve the secret of my interest in that gentleman, I could not prevent the blush from rising to my face at the suddenness of this question.

"I thought as much," he went on. "Being neither a relative nor acknowledged friend, I took it for granted he must occupy some such position as that in the family."

"I do not see why you should draw such an inference," said I, anxious to determine how much he knew about him. "Mr. Clavering is a stranger in town; has not even been in this country long; has indeed had no time to establish himself upon any such footing as you suggest."

"This is not the only time Mr. Clavering has been in New York. He was here a year ago to my certain knowledge."

"You know that?"

"Yes."

"How much more do you know? Can it be possible I am groping blindly about for facts which are already in your possession? I pray you listen to my entreaties, Mr. Gryce, and acquaint me at once with what I want to know. You will not regret it. I have no selfish motive in this matter. If I succeed, the glory shall be yours; it I fail, the shame of the defeat shall be mine."

"That is fair," he muttered. "And how about the reward?"

"My reward will be to free an innocent woman from the imputation of crime which hangs over her."

This assurance seemed to satisfy him. His voice and appearance changed; for a moment he looked quite confidential. "Well, well," said he; "and what is it you want to know?"

"I should first like to know how your suspicions came to light on him at all. What reason had you for thinking a gentleman of his bearing and position was in any way connected with this affair?"

"That is a question you ought not to be obliged to put," he returned.

"How so?"

"Simply because the opportunity of answering it was in your hands before ever it came into mine."

"What do you mean?"

"Don't you remember the letter mailed in your presence by Miss Mary Leavenworth during your drive from her home to that of her friend in Thirty-seventh Street?"

"On the afternoon of the inquest?"

"Yes."

"Certainly, but——"

"You never thought to look at its superscription before it was dropped into the box."

"I had neither opportunity nor right to do so."

"Was it not written in your presence?"

"It was."

"And you never regarded the affair as worth your attention?"

"However I may have regarded it, I did not see how I could prevent Miss Leavenworth from dropping a letter into a box if she chose to do so."

"That is because you are a gentleman. Well, it has its disadvantages," he muttered broodingly.

"But you," said I; "how came you to know anything about this letter? Ah, I see," remembering that the carriage in which we were riding at the time had been procured for us by him. "The man on the box was in your pay, and informed, as you call it."

Mr. Gryce winked at his muffled toes mysteriously. "That is not the point," he said. "Enough that I heard that a letter, which might reasonably prove to be of some interest to me, had been dropped at such an hour into the box on the corner of a certain street. That, coinciding in the opinion of my informant, I telegraphed to the station connected with that box to take note of the address of a suspicious-looking letter about to pass through their hands on the way to the General Post Office, and following up the telegram in person, found that a curious epistle addressed in lead pencil and sealed with a stamp, had just arrived, the address of which I was allowed to see——"

"And which was?"

"Henry R. Clavering, Hoffman House, New York."

I drew a deep breath. "And so that is how your attention first came to be directed to this man?"

"Yes."

"Strange. But go on—what next?"

"Why, next I followed up the clue by going to the Hoffman House and instituting inquiries. I learned that Mr. Clavering was a regular guest of the hotel. That he had come there, direct from the Liverpool steamer, about three months since, and, registering his name as Henry R. Clavering, Esq., London, had engaged a first-class room which he had kept ever since. That, although nothing definite was known concerning him, he had been seen with various highly respectable people, both of his own nation and ours, by all of whom he was treated with respect. And lastly, that while not liberal, he had given many evidences of being a man of means. So much done, I entered the office, and waited for him to come in, in the hope of having an opportunity to observe his manner when the clerk handed him that strange-looking letter from Mary Leavenworth."

"And did you succeed?"

"No; an awkward gawk of a fellow stepped between us just at the critical moment, and shut off my view. But I heard enough that evening from the clerk and servants, of the agitation he had shown on receiving it, to convince me I was upon a trail worth following. I accordingly put on my men, and for two days Mr. Clavering was subjected to the most rigid watch a man ever walked under. But nothing was gained by it; his interest in the murder, if interest at all, was a secret one; and though he walked the streets, studied the papers, and haunted the vicinity of the house in Fifth Avenue, he not only refrained from actually approaching it, but made no attempt to communicate with any of the family. Meanwhile, you crossed my path, and with your determination incited me to renewed effort. Convinced from Mr. Clavering's bearing, and the gossip I had by this time gathered in regard to him, that no one short of a gentleman and a friend could succeed in getting at the clue of his connection with this family, I handed him over to you, and——"

"Found me rather an unmanageable colleague."

Mr. Gryce smiled very much as if a sour plum had been put in his mouth, but made no reply; and a momentary pause ensued.

"Did you think to inquire," I asked at last, "if any one knew where Mr. Clavering had spent the evening of the murder?"

"Yes; but with no good result. It was agreed he went out during the evening; also that he was in his bed in the morning when the servant came in to make his fire; but further than this no one seemed posted."

"So that, in fact, you gleaned nothing that would in any way connect this man with the murder except his marked and agitated interest in it, and the fact that a niece of the murdered man had written a letter to him?"

"That is all."

"Another question; did you hear in what manner and at what time he procured a newspaper that evening?"

"No; I only learned that he was observed, by more than one, to hasten out of the dining-room with the Post in his hand, and go immediately to his room without touching his dinner."

"Humph! that does not look—-"

"If Mr. Clavering had had a guilty knowledge of the crime, he would either have ordered dinner before opening the paper, or, having ordered it, he would have eaten it."

"Then you do not believe, from what you have learned, that Mr. Clavering is the guilty party?"

Mr. Gryce shifted uneasily, glanced at the papers protruding from my coat pocket and exclaimed: "I am ready to be convinced by you that he is."

That sentence recalled me to the business in hand. Without appearing to notice his look, I recurred to my questions.

"How came you to know that Mr. Clavering was in this city last summer? Did you learn that, too, at the Hoffman House?"

"No; I ascertained that in quite another way. In short, I have had a communication from London in regard to the matter.

"From London?"

"Yes; I've a friend there in my own line of business, who sometimes assists me with a bit of information, when requested."

"But how? You have not had time to write to London, and receive an answer since the murder."

"It is not necessary to write. It is enough for me to telegraph him the name of a person, for him to understand that I want to know everything he can gather in a reasonable length of time about that person."

"And you sent the name of Mr. Clavering to him?"

"Yes, in cipher."

"And have received a reply?"

"This morning."

I looked towards his desk.

"It is not there," he said; "if you will be kind enough to feel in my breast pocket you will find a letter——"

It was in my hand before he finished his sentence. "Excuse my eagerness," I said. "This kind of business is new to me, you know."

He smiled indulgently at a very old and faded picture hanging on the wall before him. "Eagerness is not a fault; only the betrayal of it. But read out what you have there. Let us hear what my friend Brown has to tell us of Mr. Henry Ritdsie Clavering, of Portland Place, London."

I took the paper to the light and read as follows:

"Henry Ritchie Clavering, Gentleman, aged 43. Born in

——, Hertfordshire, England. His father was Chas. Clavering, for short time in the army. Mother was Helen Ritchie, of Dumfriesshire, Scotland; she is still living. Home with H. R. C., in Portland Place, London. H. R. C. is a bachelor, 6 ft. high, squarely built, weight about 12 stone. Dark complexion, regular features. Eyes dark brown; nose straight. Called a handsome man; walks erect and rapidly. In society is considered a good fellow; rather a favorite, especially with ladies. Is liberal, not extravagant; reported to be worth about 5000 pounds per year, and appearances give color to this statement. Property consists of a small estate in Hertfordshire, and some funds, amount not known. Since writing this much, a correspondent sends the following in regard to his history. In '46 went from uncle's house to Eton. From Eton went to Oxford, graduating in '56. Scholarship good. In 1855 his uncle died, and his father succeeded to the estates. Father died in '57 by a fall from his horse or a similar accident. Within a very short time H. R. C. took his mother to London, to the residence named, where they have lived to the present time.

"Travelled considerably in 1860; part of the time was with ——, of Munich; also in party of Vandervorts from New York; went as far east as Cairo. Went to America in 1875 alone, but at end of three months returned on account of mother's illness. Nothing is known of his movements while in America.

"From servants learn that he was always a favorite from a boy. More recently has become somewhat taciturn. Toward last of his stay watched the post carefully, especially foreign ones. Posted scarcely anything but newspapers. Has written to Munich. Have seen, from waste-paper basket, torn envelope directed to Amy Belden, no address. American correspondents mostly in Boston; two in New York. Names not known, but supposed to be bankers. Brought home considerable luggage, and fitted up part of house, as for a lady. This was closed soon afterwards. Left for America two months since. Has been, I understand, travelling in the south. Has telegraphed twice to Portland Place. His friends hear from him but rarely. Letters rec'd recently, posted in New York. One by last steamer posted in F——, k. Y.

"Business here conducted by ——. In the country, —— of —— has charge of the property.

"BROWN."

The document fell from my hands.

F——, N. Y., was a small town near R——.

"Your friend is a trump," I declared. "He tells me just what I wanted most to know." And, taking out my book, I made memoranda of the facts which had most forcibly struck me during my perusal of the communication before me. "With the aid of what he tells me, I shall ferret out the mystery of Henry Clavering in a week; see if I do not."

"And how soon," inquired Mr. Gryce, "may I expect to be allowed to take a hand in the game?"

"As soon as I am reasonably assured I am upon the right tack."

"And what will it take to assure you of that?"

"Not much; a certain point settled, and——"

"Hold on; who knows but what I can do that for you?" And, looking towards the desk which stood in the corner, Mr. Gryce asked me if I would be kind enough to open the top drawer and bring him the bits of partly-burned paper I would find there.

Hastily complying, I brought three or four strips of ragged paper, and laid them on the table at his side.

"Another result of Fobbs' researches under the coal on the first day of the inquest," Mr. Gryce abruptly explained. "You thought the key was all he found. Well, it wasn't. A second turning over of the coal brought these to light, and very interesting they are, too."

I immediately bent over the torn and discolored scraps with great anxiety. They were four in number, and appeared at first glance to be the mere remnants of a sheet of common writing-paper, torn lengthwise into strips, and twisted up into lighters; but, upon closer inspection, they showed traces of writing upon one side, and, what was more important still, the presence of one or more drops of spattered blood. This latter discovery was horrible to me, and so overcame me for the moment that I put the scraps down, and, turning towards Mr. Gryce, inquired:

"What do you make of them?"

"That is just the question I was going to put to you."

Swallowing my disgust, I took them up again. "They look like the remnants of some old letter," said I.

"They have that appearance," Mr. Gryce grimly assented.

"A letter which, from the drop of blood observable on the written side, must have been lying face up on Mr. Leavenworth's table at the time of the murder—"

"Just so."

"And from the uniformity in width of each of these pieces, as well as their tendency to curl up when left alone, must first have been torn into even strips, and then severally rolled up, before being tossed into the grate where they were afterwards found."

"That is all good," said Mr. Gryce; "go on."

"The writing, so far as discernible, is that of a cultivated gentleman. It is not that of Mr. Leavenworth; for I have studied his chirography toe much lately not to know it at a glance; but it may be—Hold!" I suddenly exclaimed, "have you any mucilage handy? I think, if I could paste these strips down upon a piece of paper, so that they would remain flat, I should be able to tell you what I think of them much more easily."

"There is mucilage on the desk," signified Mr. Gryce.

Procuring it, I proceeded to consult the scraps once more for evidence to guide me in their arrangement. These were more marked than I expected; the longer and best preserved strip, with its "Mr. Hor" at the top, showing itself at first blush to be the left-hand margin of the letter, while the machine-cut edge of the next in length presented tokens fully as conclusive of its being the right-hand margin of the same. Selecting these, then, I pasted them down on a piece of paper at just the distance they would occupy if the sheet from which they were torn was of the ordinary commercial note size. Immediately it became apparent: first, that it would take two other strips of the same width to fill up the space left between them; and secondly, that the writing did not terminate at the foot of the sheet, but was carried on to another page.

Taking up the third strip, I looked at its edge; it was machine-cut at the top, and showed by the arrangement of its words that it was the margin strip of a second leaf. Pasting that down by itself, I scrutinized the fourth, and finding it also machine-cut at the top but not on the side, endeavored to fit it to the piece already pasted down, but the words would not match. Moving it along to the position it would hold if it were the third strip, I fastened it down; the whole presenting, when completed, the appearance seen on the opposite page.

"Well!" exclaimed Mr. Gryce, "that's business." Then, as I held it up before his eyes: "But don't show it to me. Study it yourself, and tell me what you think of it."

"Well," said I, "this much is certain: that it is a letter directed to Mr. Leavenworth from some House, and dated—let's see; that is an h, isn't it?" And I pointed to the one letter just discernible on the line under the word House.

"I should think so; but don't ask me."

"It must be an h. The year is 1875, and this is not the termination of either January or February. Dated, then, March 1st, 1876, and signed——"

Mr. Gryce rolled his eyes in anticipatory ecstasy towards the ceiling.

"By Henry Clavering," I announced without hesitation.

Mr. Gryce's eyes returned to his swathed finger-ends. "Humph! how do you know that?"

"Wait a moment, and I'll show you"; and, taking out of my pocket the card which Mr. Clavering had handed me as an introduction at our late interview, I laid it underneath the last line of writing on the second page. One glance was sufficient. Henry Ritchie Clavering on the card; H——chie—in the same handwriting on the letter.

"Clavering it is," said he, "without a doubt." But I saw he was not surprised.

"And now," I continued, "for its general tenor and meaning." And, commencing at the beginning, I read aloud the words as they came, with pauses at the breaks, something as follows: "Mr. Hor—Dear—a niece whom yo—one too who see—the love and trus—any other man ca—autiful, so char——s she in face fo——conversation, ery rose has its——rose is no exception———ely as she is, char——tender as she is, s—————pable of tramplin———one who trusted——heart——————. —————————— him to——he owes a——honor——ance.

"If———t believe —— her to——cruel——face,—— what is——ble serv——yours

"H———tchie"

"It reads like a complaint against one of Mr. Leavenworth's nieces," I said, and started at my own words.

"What is it?" cried Mr. Gryce; "what is the matter?"

"Why," said I, "the fact is I have heard this very letter spoken of. It is a complaint against one of Mr. Leavenworth's nieces, and was written by Mr. Clavering." And I told him of Mr. Harwell's communication in regard to the matter.

"Ah! then Mr. Harwell has been talking, has he? I thought he had forsworn gossip."

"Mr. Harwell and I have seen each other almost daily for the last two weeks," I replied. "It would be strange if he had nothing to tell me."

"And he says he has read a letter written to Mr. Leavenworth by Mr. Clavering?"

"Yes; but the particular words of which he has now forgotten."

"These few here may assist him in recalling the rest."

"I would rather not admit him to a knowledge of the existence of this piece of evidence. I don't believe in letting any one into our confidence whom we can conscientiously keep out."

"I see you don't," dryly responded Mr. Gryce.

Not appearing to notice the fling conveyed by these words, I took up the letter once more, and began pointing out such half-formed words in it as I thought we might venture to complete, as the Hor—, yo—, see—utiful——, har——, for——, tramplin——, pable——, serv——.

This done, I next proposed the introduction of such others as seemed necessary to the sense, as Leavenworth after Horatio; Sir after Dear; have with a possible you before a niece; thorn after Us in the phrase rose has its; on after trampling; whom after to; debt after a; you after If; me ask after believe; beautiful after cruel.

Between the columns of words thus furnished I interposed a phrase or two, here and there, the whole reading upon its completion as follows:

"—————— House." March 1st, 1876.

"Mr. Horatio Leavenworth; Dear Sir:

"(You) have a niece whom you one too who seems worthy the love and trust of any other man ca so beautiful, so charming is she in face form and conversation. But every rose has its thorn and (this) rose is no exception lovely as she is, charming (as she is,) tender as she is, she is capable of trampling on one who trusted her heart a him to whom she owes a debt of honor a ance

"If you don't believe me ask her to her cruel beautiful face what is (her) humble servant yours:

"Henry Ritchie Clavering."

"I think that will do," said Mr. Gryce. "Its general tenor is evident, and that is all we want at this time."

"The whole tone of it is anything but complimentary to the lady it mentions," I remarked. "He must have had, or imagined he had, some desperate grievance, to provoke him to the use of such plain language in regard to one he can still characterize as tender, charming, beautiful."

"Grievances are apt to lie back of mysterious crimes."

"I think I know what this one was," I said; "but"—seeing him look up—"must decline to communicate my suspicion to you for the present. My theory stands unshaken, and in some degree confirmed; and that is all I can say."

"Then this letter does not supply the link you wanted?"

"No: it is a valuable bit of evidence; but it is not the link I am in search of just now."

"Yet it must be an important clue, or Eleanore Leavenworth would not have been to such pains, first to take it in the way she did from her uncle's table, and secondly——"

"Wait! what makes you think this is the paper she took, or was believed to have taken, from Mr. Leavenworth's table on that fatal morning?"

"Why, the fact that it was found together with the key, which we know she dropped into the grate, and that there are drops of blood on it."

I shook my head.

"Why do you shake your head?" asked Mr. Gryce.

"Because I am not satisfied with your reason for believing this to be the paper taken by her from Mr. Leavenworth's table."

"And why?"

"Well, first, because Fobbs does not speak of seeing any paper in her hand, when she bent over the fire; leaving us to conclude that these pieces were in the scuttle of coal she threw upon it; which surely you must acknowledge to be a strange place for her to have put a paper she took such pains to gain possession of; and, secondly, for the reason that these scraps were twisted as if they had been used for curl papers, or something of that kind; a fact hard to explain by your hypothesis."

The detective's eye stole in the direction of my necktie, which was as near as he ever came to a face. "You are a bright one," said he; "a very bright one. I quite admire you, Mr. Raymond."

A little surprised, and not altogether pleased with this unexpected compliment, I regarded him doubtfully for a moment and then asked:

"What is your opinion upon the matter?"

"Oh, you know I have no opinion. I gave up everything of that kind when I put the affair into your hands."

"Still——"

"That the letter of which these scraps are the remnant was on Mr. Leavenworth's table at the time of the murder is believed. That upon the body being removed, a paper was taken from the table by Miss Eleanore Leavenworth, is also believed. That, when she found her action had been noticed, and attention called to this paper and the key, she resorted to subterfuge in order to escape the vigilance of the watch that had been set over her, and, partially succeeding in her endeavor, flung the key into the fire from which these same scraps were afterwards recovered, is also known. The conclusion I leave to your judgment."

"Very well, then," said I, rising; "we will let conclusions go for the present. My mind must be satisfied in regard to the truth or falsity of a certain theory of mine, for my judgment to be worth much on this or any other matter connected with the affair."

And, only waiting to get the address of his subordinate P., in case I should need assistance in my investigations, I left Mr. Gryce, and proceeded immediately to the house of Mr. Veeley.



XXIII. THE STORY OF A CHARMING WOMAN

"Fe, fi, fo, fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman." —Old Song.

"I hold you as a thing enskied and sainted." —Measure for Measure.

"YOU have never heard, then, the particulars of Mr. Leavenworth's marriage?"

It was my partner who spoke. I had been asking him to explain to me Mr. Leavenworth's well-known antipathy to the English race.

"No."

"If you had, you would not need to come to me for this explanation. But it is not strange you are ignorant of the matter. I doubt if there are half a dozen persons in existence who could tell you where Horatio Leavenworth found the lovely woman who afterwards became his wife, much less give you any details of the circumstances which led to his marriage."

"I am very fortunate, then, in being in the confidence of one who can. What were those circumstances, Mr. Veeley?"

"It will aid you but little to hear. Horatio Leavenworth, when a young man, was very ambitious; so much so, that at one time he aspired to marry a wealthy lady of Providence. But, chancing to go to England, he there met a young woman whose grace and charm had such an effect upon him that he relinquished all thought of the Providence lady, though it was some time before he could face the prospect of marrying the one who had so greatly interested him; as she was not only in humble circumstances, but was encumbered with a child concerning whose parentage the neighbors professed ignorance, and she had nothing to say. But, as is very apt to be the case in an affair like this, love and admiration soon got the better of worldly wisdom. Taking his future in his hands, he offered himself as her husband, when she immediately proved herself worthy of his regard by entering at once into those explanations he was too much of a gentleman to demand. The story she told was pitiful. She proved to be an American by birth, her father having been a well-known merchant of Chicago. While he lived, her home was one of luxury, but just as she was emerging into womanhood he died. It was at his funeral she met the man destined to be her ruin. How he came there she never knew; he was not a friend of her father's. It is enough he was there, and saw her, and that in three weeks—don't shudder, she was such a child—they were married. In twenty-four hours she knew what that word meant for her; it meant blows. Everett, I am telling no fanciful story. In twenty-four hours after that girl was married, her husband, coming drunk into the house, found her in his way, and knocked her down. It was but the beginning. Her father's estate, on being settled up, proving to be less than expected, he carried her off to England, where he did not wait to be drunk in order to maltreat her. She was not free from his cruelty night or day. Before she was sixteen, she had run the whole gamut of human suffering; and that, not at the hands of a coarse, common ruffian, but from an elegant, handsome, luxury-loving gentleman, whose taste in dress was so nice he would sooner fling a garment of hers into the fire than see her go into company clad in a manner he did not consider becoming. She bore it till her child was born, then she fled. Two days after the little one saw the light, she rose from her bed and, taking her baby in her arms, ran out of the house. The few jewels she had put into her pocket supported her till she could set up a little shop. As for her husband, she neither saw him, nor heard from him, from the day she left him till about two weeks before Horatio Leavenworth first met her, when she learned from the papers that he was dead. She was, therefore, free; but though she loved Horatio Leavenworth with all her heart, she would not marry him. She felt herself forever stained and soiled by the one awful year of abuse and contamination. Nor could he persuade her. Not till the death of her child, a month or so after his proposal, did she consent to give him her hand and what remained of her unhappy life. He brought her to New York, surrounded her with luxury and every tender care, but the arrow had gone too deep; two years from the day her child breathed its last, she too died. It was the blow of his life to Horatio Leavenworth; he was never the same man again. Though Mary and Eleanore shortly after entered his home, he never recovered his old light-heartedness. Money became his idol, and the ambition to make and leave a great fortune behind him modified all his views of life. But one proof remained that he never forgot the wife of his youth, and that was, he could not bear to have the word 'Englishman' uttered in his hearing."

Mr. Veeley paused, and I rose to go. "Do you remember how Mrs. Leavenworth looked?" I asked. "Could you describe her to me?"

He seemed a little astonished at my request, but immediately replied: "She was a very pale woman; not strictly beautiful, but of a contour and expression of great charm. Her hair was brown, her eyes gray—"

"And very wide apart?"

He nodded, looking still more astonished. "How came you to know? Have you seen her picture?"

I did not answer that question.

On my way downstairs, I bethought me of a letter which I had in my pocket for Mr. Veeley's son Fred, and, knowing of no surer way of getting it to him that night than by leaving it on the library table, I stepped to the door of that room, which in this house was at the rear of the parlors, and receiving no reply to my knock, opened it and looked in.

The room was unlighted, but a cheerful fire was burning in the grate, and by its glow I espied a lady crouching on the hearth, whom at first glance I took for Mrs. Veeley. But, upon advancing and addressing her by that name, I saw my mistake; for the person before me not only refrained from replying, but, rising at the sound of my voice, revealed a form of such noble proportions that all possibility of its being that of the dainty little wife of my partner fled.

"I see I have made a mistake," said I. "I beg your pardon "; and would have left the room, but something in the general attitude of the lady before me restrained me, and, believing it to be Mary Leavenworth, I inquired:

"Can it be this is Miss Leavenworth?"

The noble figure appeared to droop, the gently lifted head to fall, and for a moment I doubted if I had been correct in my supposition. Then form and head slowly erected themselves, a soft voice spoke, and I heard a low "yes," and hurriedly advancing, confronted—not Mary, with her glancing, feverish gaze, and scarlet, trembling lips—but Eleanore, the woman whose faintest look had moved me from the first, the woman whose husband I believed myself to be even then pursuing to his doom!

The surprise was too great; I could neither sustain nor conceal it. Stumbling slowly back, I murmured something about having believed it to be her cousin; and then, conscious only of the one wish to fly a presence I dared not encounter in my present mood, turned, when her rich, heart-full voice rose once more and I heard:

"You will not leave me without a word, Mr. Raymond, now that chance has thrown us together?" Then, as I came slowly forward: "Were you so very much astonished to find me here?"

"I do not know—I did not expect—" was my incoherent reply. "I had heard you were ill; that you went nowhere; that you had no wish to see your friends."

"I have been ill," she said; "but I am better now, and have come to spend the night with Mrs. Veeley, because I could not endure the stare of the four walls of my room any longer."

This was said without any effort at plaintiveness, but rather as if she thought it necessary to excuse herself for being where she was.

"I am glad you did so," said I. "You ought to be here all the while. That dreary, lonesome boarding-house is no place for you, Miss Leavenworth. It distresses us all to feel that you are exiling yourself at this time."

"I do not wish anybody to be distressed," she returned. "It is best for me to be where I am. Nor am I altogether alone. There is a child there whose innocent eyes see nothing but innocence in mine. She will keep me from despair. Do not let my friends be anxious; I can bear it." Then, in a lower tone: "There is but one thing which really unnerves me; and that is my ignorance of what is going on at home. Sorrow I can bear, but suspense is killing me. Will you not tell me something of Mary and home? I cannot ask Mrs. Veeley; she is kind, but has no real knowledge of Mary or me, nor does she know anything of our estrangement. She thinks me obstinate, and blames me for leaving my cousin in her trouble. But you know I could not help it. You know,—" her voice wavered off into a tremble, and she did not conclude.

"I cannot tell you much," I hastened to reply; "but whatever knowledge is at my command is certainly yours. Is there anything in particular you wish to know?"

"Yes, how Mary is; whether she is well, and—and composed."

"Your cousin's health is good," I returned; "but I fear I cannot say she is composed. She is greatly troubled about you."

"You see her often, then?"

"I am assisting Mr. Harwell in preparing your uncle's book for the press, and necessarily am there much of the time."

"My uncle's book!" The words came in a tone of low horror.

"Yes, Miss Leavenworth. It has been thought best to bring it before the world, and——"

"And Mary has set you at the task?"

"Yes."

It seemed as if she could not escape from the horror which this caused. "How could she? Oh, how could she!"

"She considers herself as fulfilling her uncle's wishes. He was very anxious, as you know, to have the book out by July."

"Do not speak of it!" she broke in, "I cannot bear it." Then, as if she feared she had hurt my feelings by her abruptness, lowered her voice and said: "I do not, however, know of any one I should be better pleased to have charged with the task than yourself. With you it will be a work of respect and reverence; but-a stranger—Oh, I could not have endured a stranger touching it."

She was fast falling into her old horror; but rousing herself, murmured: "I wanted to ask you something; ah, I know"—and she moved so as to face me. "I wish to inquire if everything is as before in the house; the servants the same and—and other things?"

"There is a Mrs. Darrell there; I do not know of any other change."

"Mary does not talk of going away?"

"I think not."

"But she has visitors? Some one besides Mrs. Darrell to help her bear her loneliness?"

I knew what was coming, and strove to preserve my composure.

"Yes," I replied; "a few."

"Would you mind naming them?" How low her tones were, but how distinct!

"Certainly not. Mrs. Veeley, Mrs. Gilbert, Miss Martin, and a—a——"

"Go on," she whispered.

"A gentleman by the name of Clavering."

"You speak that name with evident embarrassment," she said, after a moment of intense anxiety on my part. "May I inquire why?"

Astounded, I raised my eyes to her face. It was very pale, and wore the old look of self-repressed calm I remembered so well. I immediately dropped my gaze.

"Why? because there are some circumstances surrounding him which have struck me as peculiar."

"How so?" she asked.

"He appears under two nanias. To-day it is Clavering; a short time ago it was——"

"Go on."

"Robbins."

Her dress rustled on the hearth; there was a sound of desolation in it; but her voice when she spoke was expressionless as that of an automaton.

"How many times has this person, of whose name you do not appear to be certain, been to see Mary?"

"Once."

"When was it?"

"Last night."

"Did he stay long?"

"About twenty minutes, I should say."

"And do you think he will come again?"

"No."

"Why?"

"He has left the country."

A short silence followed this, I felt her eyes searching my face, but doubt whether, if I had known she held a loaded pistol, I could have looked up at that moment.

"Mr. Raymond," she at length observed, in a changed tone, "the last time I saw you, you told me you were going to make some endeavor to restore me to my former position before the world. I did not wish you to do so then; nor do I wish you to do so now. Can you not make me comparatively happy, then, by assuring me you have abandoned or will abandon a project so hopeless?"

"It is impossible," I replied with emphasis. "I cannot abandon it. Much as I grieve to be a source of-sorrow to you, it is best you should know that I can never give up the hope of righting you while I live."

She put out her hand in a sort of hopeless appeal inexpressibly touching to behold in the fast waning firelight. But I was relentless.

"I should never be able to face the world or my own conscience if, through any weakness of my own, I should miss the blessed privilege of setting the wrong right, and saving a noble woman from unmerited disgrace." And then, seeing she was not likely to reply to this, drew a step nearer and said: "Is there not some little kindness I can show you, Miss Leavenworth? Is there no message you would like taken, or act it would give you pleasure to see performed?"

She stopped to think. "No," said she; "I have only one request to make, and that you refuse to grant."

"For the most unselfish of reasons," I urged.

She slowly shook her head. "You think so "; then, before I could reply, "I could desire one little favor shown me, however."

"What is that?"

"That if anything should transpire; if Hannah should be found, or—or my presence required in any way,—you will not keep me in ignorance. That you will let me know the worst when it conies, without fail."

"I will."

"And now, good-night. Mrs. Veeley is coming back, and you would scarcely wish to be found here by her."

"No," said I.

And yet I did not go, but stood watching the firelight flicker on her black dress till the thought of Clavering and the duty I had for the morrow struck coldly to my heart, and I turned away towards the door. But at the threshold I paused again, and looked back. Oh, the flickering, dying fire flame! Oh, the crowding, clustering shadows! Oh, that drooping figure in their midst, with its clasped hands and its hidden face! I see it all again; I see it as in a dream; then darkness falls, and in the glare of gas-lighted streets, I am hastening along, solitary and sad, to my lonely home.



XXIV. A REPORT FOLLOWED BY SMOKE

"Oft expectation fails, and most oft there Where most it promises; and oft it hits Where Hope is coldest, and Despair most sits." —All's Well that Ends Well.

WHEN I told Mr. Gryce I only waited for the determination of one fact, to feel justified in throwing the case unreservedly into his hands, I alluded to the proving or disproving of the supposition that Henry Clavering had been a guest at the same watering-place with Eleanore Leavenworth the summer before.

When, therefore, I found myself the next morning with the Visitor Book of the Hotel Union at R—— in my hands, it was only by the strongest effort of will I could restrain my impatience. The suspense, however, was short. Almost immediately I encountered his name, written not half a page below those of Mr. Leavenworth and his nieces, and, whatever may have been my emotion at finding my suspicions thus confirmed, I recognized the fact that I was in the possession of a clue which would yet lead to the solving of the fearful problem which had been imposed upon me.

Hastening to the telegraph office, I sent a message for the man promised me by Mr. Gryce, and receiving for an answer that he could not be with me before three o'clock, started for the house of Mr. Monell, a client of ours, living in R——. I found him at home and, during our interview of two hours, suffered the ordeal of appearing at ease and interested in what he had to say, while my heart was heavy with its first disappointment and my brain on fire with the excitement of the work then on my hands.

I arrived at the depot just as the train came in.

There was but one passenger for R——, a brisk young man, whose whole appearance differed so from the description which had been given me of Q that I at once made up my mind he could not be the man I was looking for, and was turning away disappointed, when he approached, and handed me a card on which was inscribed the single character "?" Even then I could not bring myself to believe that the slyest and most successful agent in Mr. Gryce's employ was before me, till, catching his eye, I saw such a keen, enjoyable twinkle sparkling in its depths that all doubt fled, and, returning his bow with a show of satisfaction, I remarked:

"You are very punctual. I like that."

He gave another short, quick nod. "Glad, sir, to please you. Punctuality is too cheap a virtue not to be practised by a man on the lookout for a rise. But what orders, sir? Down train due in ten minutes; no time to spare."

"Down train? What have we to do with that?"

"I thought you might wish to take it, sir. Mr. Brown"—winking expressively at the name, "always checks his carpet-bag for home when he sees me coming. But that is your affair; I am not particular."

"I wish to do what is wisest under the circumstances."

"Go home, then, as speedily as possible." And he gave a third sharp nod exceedingly business-like and determined.

"If I leave you, it is with the understanding that you bring your information first to me; that you are in my employ, and in that of no one else for the time being; and that mum is the word till I give you liberty to speak."

"Yes, sir. When I work for Brown & Co. I do not work for Smith & Jones. That you can count on."

"Very well then, here are your instructions."

He looked at the paper I handed him with a certain degree of care, then stepped into the waiting-room and threw it into the stove, saying in a low tone: "So much in case I should meet with some accident: have an apoplectic fit, or anything of that sort."

"But——"

"Oh, don't worry; I sha'n't forget. I've a. memory, sir. No need of anybody using pen and paper with me."

And laughing in the short, quick way one would expect from a person of his appearance and conversation, he added: "You will probably hear from me in a day or so," and bowing, took his brisk, free way down the street just as the train came rushing in from the West.

My instructions to Q were as follows:

1. To find out on what day, and in whose company, the Misses Leaven worth arrived at R—— the year before. What their movements had been while there, and in whose society they were oftenest to be seen. Also the date of their departure, and such facts as could be gathered in regard to their habits, etc.

2. Ditto in respect to a Mr. Henry Clavering, fellow-guest and probable friend of said ladies,

3. Name of individual fulfilling the following requirements: Clergyman, Methodist, deceased since last December or thereabouts, who in July of Seventy-five was located in some town not over twenty miles from R——.

4. Also name and present whereabouts of a man at that time in service of the above.

To say that the interval of time necessary to a proper inquiry into these matters was passed by me in any reasonable frame of mind, would be to give myself credit for an equanimity of temper which I unfortunately do not possess. Never have days seemed so long as the two which interposed between my return from R—— and the receipt of the following letter:

"Sir:

"Individuals mentioned arrived in R—— July 3, 1875. Party consisted of four; the two ladies, their uncle, and the girl named Hannah. Uncle remained three days, and then left for a short tour through Massachusetts. Gone two weeks, during which ladies were seen more or less with the gentleman named between us, but not to an extent sufficient to excite gossip or occasion remark, when said gentleman left R—— abruptly, two days after uncle's return. Date July 19. As to habits of ladies, more or less social. They were always to be seen at picnics, rides, etc., and in the ballroom. M—— liked best. E——considered grave, and, towards the last of her stay, moody. It is remembered now that her manner was always peculiar, and that she was more or less shunned by her cousin.

However, in the opinion of one girl still to be found at the hotel, she was the sweetest lady that ever breathed. No particular reason for this opinion. Uncle, ladies, and servants left R—— for New York, August 7, 1875.

"2. H. C. arrived at the hotel in R——July 6, 1875, in-company with Mr. and Mrs. Vandervort, friends of the above. Left July 19, two weeks from day of arrival. Little to be learned in regard to him. Remembered as the handsome gentleman who was in the party with the L, girls, and that is all.

"3. F——, a small town, some sixteen or seventeen miles from R——, had for its Methodist minister, in July of last year, a man who has since died, Samuel Stebbins by name. Date of decease, Jan. 7 of this year.

"4. Name of man in employ of S. S. at that time is Timothy Cook. He has been absent, but returned to P—— two days ago. Can be seen if required."

"Ah, ha!" I cried aloud at this point, in my sudden surprise and satisfaction; "now we have something to work upon!" And sitting down I penned the following reply:

"T. C. wanted by all means. Also any evidence going to prove that H. C. and B. L. were married at the house of Mr. S. on any day of July or August last."

Next morning came the following telegram:

"T. C. on the road. Remembers a marriage. Will be with you by 2 p.m."

At three o'clock of that same day, I stood before Mr. Gryce. "I am here to make my report," I announced.

The nicker of a smile passed over his face, and he gazed for the first time at his bound-up finger-ends with a softening aspect which must have done them good. "I'm ready," said he.

"Mr. Gryce," I began, "do you remember the conclusion we came to at our first interview in this house?"

"I remember the one you came to."

"Well, well," I acknowledged a little peevishly, "the one I came to, then. It was this: that if we could find to whom Eleanore Leavenworth felt she owed her best duty and love, we should discover the man who murdered her uncle."

"And do you imagine you have done this?"

"I do."

His eyes stole a little nearer my face. "Well! that is good; go on."

"When I undertook this business of clearing Eleanore Leavenworth from suspicion," I resumed, "it was with the premonition that this person would prove to be her lover; but I had no idea he would prove to be her husband."

Mr. Gryce's gaze flashed like lightning to the ceiling.

"What!" he ejaculated with a frown.

"The lover of Eleanore Leavenworth is likewise her husband," I repeated. "Mr. Clavering holds no lesser connection to her than that."

"How have you found that out?" demanded Mr. Gryce, in a harsh tone that argued disappointment or displeasure.

"That I will not take time to state. The question is not how I became acquainted with a certain thing, but is what I assert in regard to it true. If you will cast your eye over this summary of events gleaned by me from the lives of these two persons, I think you will agree with me that it is." And I held up before his eyes the following:

"During the two weeks commencing July 6, of the year 1875, and ending July 19, of the same year, Henry R. Clavering, of London, and Eleanore Leavenworth, of New York, were guests of the same hotel. Fact proved by Visitor Book of the Hotel Union at R——, New York.

"They were not only guests of the same hotel, but are known to have held more or less communication with each other. Fact proved by such servants now employed in R—— as were in the hotel at that time.

"July 19. Mr. Clavering left R—— abruptly, a circumstance that would not be considered remarkable if Mr. Leavenworth, whose violent antipathy to Englishmen as husbands is publicly known, had not just returned from a journey.

"July 30. Mr. Clavering was seen in the parlor of Mr. Stebbins, the Methodist minister at F——, a town about sixteen miles from R——, where he was married to a lady of great beauty. Proved by Timothy Cook, a man in the employ of Mr. Stebbins, who was called in from the garden to witness the ceremony and sign a paper supposed to be a certificate.

"July 31. Mr. Clavering takes steamer for Liverpool. Proved by newspapers of that date.

"September. Eleanore Leavenworth in her uncle's house in New York, conducting herself as usual, but pale of face and preoccupied in manner. Proved by servants then in her service. Mr. Clavering in London; watches the United States mails with eagerness, but receives no letters. Fits up room elegantly, as for a lady. Proved by secret communication from London.

"November. Miss Leavenworth still in uncle's house. No publication of her marriage ever made. Mr. Clavering in London; shows signs of uneasiness; the room prepared for lady closed. Proved as above.

"January 17, 1876. Mr. Clavering, having returned to America, engages room at Hoffman House, New York.

"March 1 or 2. Mr. Leavenworth receives a letter signed by Henry Clavering, in which he complains of having been ill-used by one of that gentleman's nieces. A manifest shade falls over the family at this time.

"March 4. Mr. Clavering under a false name inquires at the door of Mr. Leavenworth's house for Miss Eleanore Leavenworth. Proved by Thomas.'"

"March 4th?" exclaimed Mr. Gryce at this point. "That was the night of the murder.-"

"Yes; the Mr. Le Roy Robbins said to have called that evening was none other than Mr. Clavering."

"March 19. Miss Mary Leavenworth, in a conversation with me, acknowledges that there is a secret in the family, and is just upon the point of revealing its nature, when Mr. Clavering enters the house. Upon his departure she declares her unwillingness ever to mention the subject again."

Mr. Gryce slowly waved the paper aside. "And from these facts you draw the inference that Eleanore Leavenworth is the wife of Mr. Clavering?"

"I do."

"And that, being his wife——"

"It would be natural for her to conceal anything she knew likely to criminate him."

"Always supposing Clavering himself had done anything criminal!"

"Of course."

"Which latter supposition you now propose to justify!"

"Which latter supposition it is left for us to justify."

A peculiar gleam shot over Mr. Gryce's somewhat abstracted countenance. "Then you have no new evidence against Mr. Clavering?"

"I should think the fact just given, of his standing in the relation of unacknowledged husband to the suspected party was something."

"No positive evidence as to his being the assassin of Mr. Leavenworth, I mean?"

I was obliged to admit I had none which he would Consider positive. "But I can show the existence of motive; and I can likewise show it was not only possible, but probable, he was in the house at the time of the murder."

"Ah, you can!" cried Mr. Gryce, rousing a little from his abstraction.

"The motive was the usual one of self-interest. Mr. Leavenworth stood in the way of Eleanore's acknowledging him as a husband, and he must therefore be put out of the way."

"Weak!"

"Motives for murders are sometimes weak."

"The motive for this was not. Too much calculation was shown for the arm to have been nerved by anything short of the most deliberate intention, founded upon the deadliest necessity of passion or avarice."

"Avarice?"

"One should never deliberate upon the causes which have led to the destruction of a rich man without taking into account that most common passion of the human race."

"But——"

"Let us hear what you have to say of Mr. Clavering's presence in the house at the time of the murder."

I related what Thomas the butler had told me in regard to Mr. Clavering's call upon Miss Leavenworth that night, and the lack of proof which existed as to his having left the house when supposed to do so.

"That is worth remembering," said Mr. Gryce at the conclusion. "Valueless as direct evidence, it might prove of great value as corroborative." Then, in a graver tone, he went on to say: "Mr. Raymond, are you aware that in all this you have been strengthening the case against Eleanore Leavenworth instead of weakening it?"

I could only ejaculate, in my sudden wonder and dismay.

"You have shown her to be secret, sly, and unprincipled; capable of wronging those to whom she was most bound, her uncle and her husband."

"You put it very strongly," said I, conscious of a shocking discrepancy between this description of Eleanore's character and all that I had preconceived in regard to it.

"No more so than your own conclusions from this story warrant me in doing." Then, as I sat silent, murmured low, and as if to himself: "If the case was dark against her before, it is doubly so with this supposition established of her being the woman secretly married to Mr. Clavering."

"And yet," I protested, unable to give up my hope without a struggle; "you do not, cannot, believe the noble-looking Eleanore guilty of this horrible crime?"

"No," he slowly said; "you might as well know right here what I think about that. I believe Eleanore Leavenworth to be an innocent woman."

"You do? Then what," I cried, swaying between joy at this admission and doubt as to the meaning of his former expressions, "remains to be done?"

Mr. Gryce quietly responded: "Why, nothing but to prove your supposition a false one."



XXV. TIMOTHY COOK

"Look here upon this picture and on this." —Hamlet.

I STARED at him in amazement. "I doubt if it will be so very difficult," said he. Then, in a sudden burst, "Where is the man Cook?"

"He is below with Q."

"That was a wise move; let us see the boys; have them up."

Stepping to the door I called them.

"I expected, of course, you would want to question them," said I, coming back.

In another moment the spruce Q and the shock-headed Cook entered the room.

"Ah," said Mr. Gryce, directing his attention at the latter in his own whimsical, non-committal way; "this is the deceased Mr. Stebbins' hired man, is it? Well, you look as though you could tell the truth."

"I usually calculate to do that thing, sir; at all events, I was never called a liar as I can remember."

"Of course not, of course not," returned the affable detective. Then, without any further introduction: "What was the first name of the lady you saw married in your master's house last summer?"

"Bless me if I know! I don't think I heard, sir."

"But you recollect how she looked?"

"As well as if she was my own mother. No disrespect to the lady, sir, if you know her," he made haste to add, glancing hurriedly at me. "What I mean is, she was so handsome, I could never forget the look of her sweet face if I lived a hundred years."

"Can you describe her?"

"I don't know, sirs; she was tall and grand-looking, had the brightest eyes and the whitest hand, and smiled in a way to make even a common man like me wish he had never seen her."

"Would you know her in a crowd?"

"I would know her anywhere."

"Very well; now tell us all you can about that marriage."

"Well, sirs, it was something like this. I had been in Mr. Stebbins' employ about a year, when one morning as I was hoeing in the garden I saw a gentleman walk rapidly up the road to our gate and come in. I noticed him particularly, because he was so fine-looking; unlike anybody in F——, and, indeed, unlike anybody I had ever seen, for that matter; but I shouldn't have thought much about that if there hadn't come along, not five minutes after, a buggy with two ladies in it, which stopped at our gate, too. I saw they wanted to get out, so I went and held their horse for them, and they got down and went into the house."

"Did you see their faces?"

"No, sir; not then. They had veils on."

"Very well, go on."

"I hadn't been to work long, before I heard some one calling my name, and looking up, saw Mr. Stebbins standing in the doorway beckoning. I went to him, and he-said, 'I want you, Tim; wash your hands and come into the parlor.' I had never been asked to do that before, and it struck me all of a heap; but I did what he asked, and was so taken aback at the looks of the lady I saw standing up on the floor with the handsome gentleman, that I stumbled over a stool and made a great racket, and didn't know much where I was or what was going on, till I heard Mr. Stebbins say 'man and wife'; and then it came over me in a hot kind of way that it was a marriage I was seeing."

Timothy Cook stopped to wipe his forehead, as if overcome with the very recollection, and Mr. Gryce took the opportunity to remark:

"You say there were two ladies; now where was the other one at this time?"

"She was there, sir; but I didn't mind much about her, I was so taken up with the handsome one and the way she had of smiling when any one looked at her. I never saw the beat."

I felt a quick thrill go through me.

"Can you remember the color of her hair or eyes?"

"No, sir; I had a feeling as if she wasn't dark, and that is all I know."

"But you remember her face?"

"Yes, sir!"

Mr. Gryce here whispered me to procure two pictures which I would find in a certain drawer in his desk, and set them up in different parts of the room unbeknown to the man.

"You have before said," pursued Mr. Gryce, "that you have no remembrance of her name. Now, how was that? Weren't you called upon to sign the certificate?"

"Yes, sir; but I am most ashamed to say it; I was in a sort of maze, and didn't hear much, and only remember it was a Mr. Clavering she was married to, and that some one called some one else Elner, or something like that. I wish I hadn't been so stupid, sir, if it would have done you any good."

"Tell us about the signing of the certificate," said Mr. Gryce.

"Well, sir, there isn't much to tell. Mr. Stebbins asked me to put my name down in a certain place on a piece of paper he pushed towards me, and I put it down there; that is all."

"Was there no other name there when you wrote yours?"

"No, sir. Afterwards Mr. Stebbins turned towards the other lady, who now came forward, and asked her if she wouldn't please sign it, too; and she said,' yes,' and came very quickly and did so."

"And didn't you see her face then?"

"No, sir; her back was to me when she threw by her veil, and I only saw Mr. Stebbins staring at her as she stooped, with a kind of wonder on his face, which made me think she might have been something worth looking at too; but I didn't see her myself."

"Well, what happened then?"

"I don't know, sir. I went stumbling out of the room, and didn't see anything more."

"Where were you when the ladies went away?"

"In the garden, sir. I had gone back to my work."

"You saw them, then. Was the gentleman with them?"

"No, sir; that was the queer part of it all. They went back as they came, and so did he; and in a few minutes Mr. Stebbins came out where I was, and told me I was to say nothing about what I had seen, for it was a secret."

"Were you the only one in the house who knew anything about it? Weren't there any women around?"

"No, sir; Miss Stebbins had gone to the sewing circle."

I had by this time some faint impression of what Mr. Gryce's suspicions were, and in arranging the pictures had placed one, that of Eleanore, on the mantel-piece, and the other, which was an uncommonly fine photograph of Mary, in plain view on the desk. But Mr. Cook's back was as yet towards that part of the room, and, taking advantage of the moment, I returned and asked him if that was all he had to tell us about this matter.

"Yes, sir."

"Then," said Mr. Gryce, with a glance at Q, "isn't there something you can give Mr. Cook in payment for his story? Look around, will you?"

Q nodded, and moved towards a cupboard in the wall at the side of the mantel-piece; Mr. Cook following him with his eyes, as was natural, when, with a sudden start, he crossed the room and, pausing before the mantelpiece, looked at the picture of Eleanore which I had put there, gave a low grunt of satisfaction or pleasure, looked at it again, and walked away. I felt my heart leap into my throat, and, moved by what impulse of dread or hope I cannot say, turned my back, when suddenly I heard him give vent to a startled exclamation, followed by the words: "Why! here she is; this is her, sirs," and turning around saw him hurrying towards us with Mary's picture in his hands.

I do not know as I was greatly surprised. I was powerfully excited, as well as conscious of a certain whirl of thought, and an unsettling of old conclusions that was very confusing; but surprised? No. Mr. Gryce's manner had too well prepared me.

"This the lady who was married to Mr. Clavering, my good man? I guess you are mistaken," cried the detective, in a very incredulous tone.

"Mistaken? Didn't I say I would know her anywhere? This is the lady, if she is the president's wife herself." And Mr. Cook leaned over it with a devouring look that was not without its element of homage.

"I am very much astonished," Mr. Gryce went on, winking at me in a slow, diabolical way which in another mood would have aroused my fiercest anger. "Now, if you had said the other lady was the one"—pointing to the picture on the mantelpiece," I shouldn't have wondered."

"She? I never saw that lady before; but this one—would you mind telling me her name, sirs?"

"If what you say is true, her name is Mrs. Clavering."

"Clavering? Yes, that was his name."

"And a very lovely lady," said Mr. Gryce. "Morris, haven't you found anything yet?"

Q, for answer, brought forward glasses and a bottle.

But Mr. Cook was in no mood for liquor. I think he was struck with remorse; for, looking from the picture to Q, and from Q to the picture, he said:

"If I have done this lady wrong by my talk, I 'll never forgive myself. You told me I would help her to get her rights; if you have deceived me ——"

"Oh, I haven't deceived you," broke in Q, in his short, sharp way. "Ask that gentleman there if we are not all interested in Mrs. Clavering getting her due."

He had designated me; but I was in no mood to reply. I longed to have the man dismissed, that I might inquire the reason of the great complacency which I now saw overspreading Mr. Gryce's frame, to his very finger-ends.

"Mr. Cook needn't be concerned," remarked Mr. Gryce. "If he will take a glass of warm crink to fortify him for his walk, I think he may go to the lodgings Mr. Morris has provided for him without fear. Give the gent a glass, and let him mix for himself."

But it was full ten minutes before we were delivered of the man and his vain regrets. Mary's image had called up every latent feeling in his heart, and I could but wonder over a loveliness capable of swaying the low as well as the high. But at last he yielded to the seductions of the now wily Q, and departed.

Left alone with Mr. Gryce, I must have allowed some of the confused emotions which filled my breast to become apparent on my countenance; for after a few minutes of ominous silence, he exclaimed very grimly, and yet with a latent touch of that complacency I had before noticed:

"This discovery rather upsets you, doesn't it? Well, it don't me," shutting his mouth like a trap. "I expected it."

"Your conclusions must differ very materially from mine," I returned; "or you would see that this discovery alters the complexion of the whole affair."

"It does not alter the truth."

"What is the truth?"

Mr. Gryce's very legs grew thoughtful; his voice sank to its deepest tone. "Do you very much want to know?"

"Want to know the truth? What else are we after?"

"Then," said he, "to my notion, the complexion of things has altered, but very much for the better. As long as Eleanore was believed to be the wife, her action in this matter was accounted for; but the tragedy itself was not. Why should Eleanore or Eleanore's husband wish the death of a man whose bounty they believed would end with his life? But with Mary, the heiress, proved the wife!—I tell you, Mr. Raymond, it all hangs together now. You must never, in reckoning up an affair of murder like this, forget who it is that most profits by the deceased man's death."

"But Eleanore's silence? her concealment of certain proofs and evidences in her own breast—how will you account for that? I can imagine a woman devoting herself to the shielding of a husband from the consequences of crime; but a cousin's husband, never."

Mr. Gryce put his feet very close together, and softly grunted. "Then you still think Mr. Clavering the assassin of Mr. Leavenworth?"

I could only stare at him in my sudden doubt and dread. "Still think?" I repeated.

"Mr. Clavering the murderer of Mr. Leavenworth?"

"Why, what else is there to think? You don't—you can't—suspect Eleanore of having deliberately undertaken to help her cousin out of a difficulty by taking the life of their mutual benefactor?"

"No," said Mr. Gryce; "no, I do not think Eleanore Leavenworth had any hand in the business."

"Then who—" I began, and stopped, lost in the dark vista that was opening before me.

"Who? Why, who but the one whose past deceit and present necessity demanded his death as a relief? Who but the beautiful, money-loving, man-deceiving goddess——"

I leaped to my feet in my sudden horror and repugnance. "Do not mention the name! You are wrong; but do not speak the name."

"Excuse me," said he; "but it will have to be spoken many times, and we may as well begin here and now—who then but Mary Leavenworth; or, if you like it better, Mrs. Henry Clavering? Are you so much surprised? It has been my thought from the beginning."



XXVI. MR. GRYCE EXPLAINS HIMSELF

"Sits the wind in that corner?" —Much Ado about Nothing.

I DO not propose to enter into a description of the mingled feelings aroused in me by this announcement. As a drowning man is said to live over in one terrible instant the events of a lifetime, so each word uttered in my hearing by Mary, from her first introduction to me in her own room, on the morning of the inquest, to our final conversation on the night of Mr. Clavering's call, swept in one wild phantasmagoria through my brain, leaving me aghast at the signification which her whole conduct seemed to acquire from the lurid light which now fell upon it.

"I perceive that I have pulled down an avalanche of doubts about your ears," exclaimed my companion from the height of his calm superiority. "You never thought of this possibility, then, yourself?"

"Do not ask me what I have thought. I only know I will never believe your suspicions true. That, however much Mary may have been benefited by her uncle's death, she never had a hand in it; actual hand, I mean."

"And what makes you so sure of this?"

"And what makes you so sure of the contrary? It is for you to prove, not for me to prove her innocence."

"Ah," said Mr. Gryce, in his slow, sarcastic way, "you recollect that principle of law, do you? If I remember rightly, you have not always been so punctilious in regarding it, or wishing to have it regarded, when the question was whether Mr. Clavering was the assassin or not."

"But he is a man. It does not seem so dreadful to accuse a man of a crime. But a woman! and such a woman! I cannot listen to it; it is horrible. Nothing short of absolute confession on her part will ever make me believe Mary Leavenworth, or any other woman, committed this deed. It was too cruel, too deliberate, too——"

"Read the criminal records," broke in Mr. Gryce.

But I was obstinate. "I do not care for the criminal records. All the criminal records in the world would never make me believe Eleanore perpetrated this crime, nor will I be less generous towards her cousin Mary Leavenworth is a faulty woman, but not a guilty one."

"You are more lenient in your judgment of her than her cousin was, it appears."

"I do not understand you," I muttered, feeling a new and yet more fearful light breaking upon me.

"What! have you forgotten, in the hurry of these late events, the sentence of accusation which we overheard uttered between these ladies on the morning of the inquest?"

"No, but——"

"You believed it to have been spoken by Mary to Eleanore?"

"Of course; didn't you?"

Oh, the smile which crossed Mr. Gryce's face! "Scarcely. I left that baby-play for you. I thought one was enough to follow on that tack."

The light, the light that was breaking upon me! "And do you mean to say it was Eleanore who was speaking at that time? That I have been laboring all these weeks under a terrible mistake, and that you could have righted me with a word, and did not?"

"Well, as to that, I had a purpose in letting you follow your own lead for a while. In the first place, I was not sure myself which spoke; though I had but little doubt about the matter. The voices are, as you must have noticed, very much alike, while the attitudes in which we found them upon entering were such as to be explainable equally by the supposition that Mary was in the act of launching a denunciation, or in that of repelling one. So that, while I did not hesitate myself as to the true explanation of the scene before me, I was pleased to find you accept a contrary one; as in this way both theories had a chance of being tested; as was right in a case of so much mystery. You accordingly took up the affair with one idea for your starting-point, and I with another. You saw every fact as it developed through the medium of Mary's belief in Eleanore's guilt, and I through the opposite. And what has been the result? With you, doubt, contradiction, constant unsettlement, and unwarranted resorts to strange sources for reconcilement between appearances and your own convictions; with me, growing assurance, and a belief which each and every development so far has but served to strengthen and make more probable."

Again that wild panorama of events, looks, and words swept before me. Mary's reiterated assertions of her cousin's innocence, Eleanore's attitude of lofty silence in regard to certain matters which might be considered by her as pointing towards the murderer.

"Your theory must be the correct one," I finally admitted; "it was undoubtedly Eleanore who spoke. She believes in Mary's guilt, and I have been blind, indeed, not to have seen it from the first."

"If Eleanore Leavenworth believes in her cousin's criminality, she must have some good reasons for doing so."

I was obliged to admit that too. "She did not conceal in her bosom that telltale key,—found who knows where?—and destroy, or seek to destroy, it and the letter which introduced her cousin to the public as the unprincipled destroyer of a trusting man's peace, for nothing." "No, no."

"And yet you, a stranger, a young man who have never seen Mary Leavenworth in any other light than that in which her coquettish nature sought to display itself, presume to say she is innocent, in the face of the attitude maintained from the first by her cousin!"

"But," said I, in my great unwillingness to accept his conclusions, "Eleanore Leavenworth is but mortal. She may have been mistaken in her inferences. She has never stated what her suspicion was founded upon; nor can we know what basis she has for maintaining the attitude you speak of. Clavering is as likely as Mary to be the assassin, for all we know, and possibly for all she knows."

"You seem to be almost superstitious in your belief in Clavering's guilt."

I recoiled. Was I? Could it be that Mr. Harwell's fanciful conviction in regard to this man had in any way influenced me to the detriment of my better judgment?

"And you may be right," Mr. Gryce went on. "I do not pretend to be set in my notions. Future investigation may succeed in fixing something upon him; though I hardly think it likely. His behavior as the secret husband of a woman possessing motives for the commission of a crime has been too consistent throughout."

"All except his leaving her."

"No exception at all; for he hasn't left her."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that, instead of leaving the country, Mr. Clavering has only made pretence of doing so. That, in place of dragging himself off to Europe at her command, he has only changed his lodgings, and can now be found, not only in a house opposite to hers, but in the window of that house, where he sits day after day watching who goes in and out of her front door."

I remembered his parting injunction to me, in that memorable interview we had in my office, and saw myself compelled to put a new construction upon it.

"But I was assured at the Hoffman House that he had sailed for Europe, and myself saw the man who professes to have driven him to the steamer."

"Just so."

"And Mr. Clavering returned to the city after that?"

"In another carriage, and to another house."

"And you tell me that man is all right?"

"No; I only say there isn't the shadow of evidence against him as the person who shot Mr. Leavenworth."

Rising, I paced the floor, and for a few minutes silence fell between us. But the clock, striking, recalled me to the necessity of the hour, and, turning, I asked Mr. Gryce what he proposed to do now.

"There is but one thing I can do," said he.

"And that is?"

"To go upon such lights as I have, and cause the arrest of Miss Leavenworth."

I had by this time schooled myself to endurance, and was able to hear this without uttering an exclamation. But I could not let it pass without making one effort to combat his determination.

"But," said I, "I do not see what evidence you have, positive enough in its character, to warrant extreme measures. You have yourself intimated that the existence of motive is not enough, even though taken with the fact of the suspected party being in the house at the time of the murder; and what more have you to urge against Miss Leavenworth?"

"Pardon me. I said 'Miss Leavenworth'; I should have said 'Eleanore Leavenworth.'"

"Eleanore? What! when you and all unite in thinking that she alone of all these parties to the crime is utterly guiltless of wrong?"

"And yet who is the only one against whom positive testimony of any kind can be brought."

I could but acknowledge that.

"Mr. Raymond," he remarked very gravely; "the public is becoming clamorous; something must be done to satisfy it, if only for the moment. Eleanore has laid herself open to the suspicion of the police, and must take the consequences of her action. I am sorry; she is a noble creature; I admire her; but justice is justice, and though I think her innocent, I shall be forced to put her under arrest unless——"

"But I cannot be reconciled to it. It is doing an irretrievable injury to one whose only fault is an undue and mistaken devotion to an unworthy cousin. If Mary is the——."

"Unless something occurs between now and tomorrow morning," Mr. Gryce went on, as if I had not spoken.

"To-morrow morning?"

"Yes."

I tried to realize it; tried to face the fact that all my efforts had been for nothing, and failed.

"Will you not grant me one more day?" I asked in my desperation.

"What to do?"

Alas, I did not know. "To confront Mr. Clavering, and force from him the truth."

"To make a mess of the whole affair!" he growled. "No, sir; the die is cast. Eleanore Leavenworth knows the one point which fixes this crime upon her cousin, and she must tell us that point or suffer the consequences of her refusal."

I made one more effort.

"But why to-morrow? Having exhausted so much time already in our inquiries, why not take a little more; especially as the trail is constantly growing warmer? A little more moling——"

"A little more folderol!" exclaimed Mr. Gryce, losing his temper. "No, sir; the hour for moling has passed; something decisive has got to be done now; though, to be sure, if I could find the one missing link I want——"

"Missing link? What is that?"

"The immediate motive of the tragedy; a bit of proof that Mr. Leavenworth threatened his niece with his displeasure, or Mr. Clavering with his revenge, would place me on the vantage-point at once; no arresting of Eleanore then! No, my lady! I would walk right into your own gilded parlors, and when you asked me if I had found the murderer yet, say 'yes,' and show you a bit of paper which would surprise you! But missing links are not so easily found. This has been moled for, and moled for, as you are pleased to call our system of investigation, and totally without result. Nothing but the confession of some one of these several parties to the crime will give us what we want. I will tell you what I will do," he suddenly cried. "Miss Leavenworth has desired me to report to her; she is very anxious for the detection of the murderer, you know, and offers an immense reward. Well, I will gratify this desire of hers. The suspicions I have, together with my reasons for them, will make an interesting disclosure. I should not greatly wonder if they produced an equally interesting confession."

I could only jump to my feet in my horror.

"At all events, I propose to try it. Eleanore is worth that much risk any way."

"It will do no good," said I. "If Mary is guilty, she will never confess it. If not——"

"She will tell us who is."

"Not if it is Clavering, her husband."

"Yes; even if it is Clavering, her husband. She has not the devotion of Eleanore."

That I could but acknowledge. She would hide no keys for the sake of shielding another: no, if Mary were accused, she would speak. The future opening before us looked sombre enough. And yet when, in a short time from that, I found myself alone in a busy street, the thought that Eleanore was free rose above all others, filling and moving me till my walk home in the rain that day has become a marked memory of my life. It was only with nightfall that I began to realize the truly critical position in which Mary stood if Mr. Gryce's theory was correct. But, once seized with this thought, nothing could drive it from my mind. Shrink as I would, it was ever before me, haunting me with the direst forebodings. Nor, though I retired early, could I succeed in getting either sleep or rest. All night I tossed on my pillow, saying over to myself with dreary iteration: "Something must happen, something will happen, to prevent Mr. Gryce doing this dreadful thing." Then I would start up and ask what could happen; and my mind would run over various contingencies, such as,—Mr. Clavering might confess; Hannah might come back; Mary herself wake up to her position and speak the word I had more than once seen trembling on her lips. But further thought showed me how unlikely any of these things were to happen, and it was with a brain utterly exhausted that I fell asleep in the early dawn, to dream I saw Mary standing above Mr. Gryce with a pistol in her hand. I was awakened from this pleasing vision by a heavy knock at the door. Hastily rising, I asked who was there. The answer came in the shape of an envelope thrust under the door. Raising it, I found it to be a note. It was from Mr. Gryce, and ran thus: