The Diamond Coterie

The cottage stands quite by itself.

Opposite the doctor's cottage stands a handsome dwelling, far back among the trees. It is the home of Lawyer O'Meara and his wife; and the two are the doctor's firm friends.

Beyond the O'Meara dwelling and on the same side of the street, stretches a row of cottages, built and owned by Mr. O'Meara. These are occupied by some thrifty mechanics, and one or two of the best of the mill workers. They are neat, new, tasteful, and well cared for by their tenants.

Clifford Heath awakes a little later than usual, this dismal, gray morning; he had returned from his second visit to Sybil Burrill at a late hour, and after sitting beside his fire, pondering long over many things, had retired, to sleep soundly, and to wake late. What first rouses him is a knocking upon his door, a regular tattoo, beaten by his housekeeper, grown impatient over coffee too long brewed, and muffins too brown.

He makes his toilet after a leisurely fashion, smiling a little at the vociferous barking of his dog, Prince.

The dog is always confined in the stable at night, where he is a safe companion and sure protection to the doctor's fine horse; and now, it being past the time when he is usually liberated, he is making his wrongs heard, and there will be no more repose or quiet until Prince is set free.

"Poor fellow," calls his master, as he swings open the stable door. "Poor Prince! Good, old boy! Come now, and you shall have a splendid breakfast, to compensate for my neglect."

The dog bounds out, a splendid bull dog, strong, fierce, and white as milk. He fawns upon his master, leaps about him, barks joyfully, and then follows obediently to the kitchen. The dog provided for, Doctor Heath goes in out of the rain, shaking the water from his coat, and tossing it aside in favor of a dry one; and then he applies himself to his own breakfast.

The warmth and comfort within are intensified by the dreariness without. Mrs. Gray has lighted a fire in the grate, and he turns toward it, sipping his coffee leisurely, enjoying the warmth all the more because of an occasional glance out of the window.

Two men pass—two of the cottagers—his neighbors, who, dismayed by the storm, have turned back toward their homes.

"Poor devils!" mutters the doctor, sympathetically; "they don't fancy laying brick and mixing mortar in weather like this; and one of them has no overcoat; I must keep that in mind, and supply him, if he will accept one, from out my store."

He stirs the fire briskly, takes another sip from his half emptied cup, and goes off in a reverie. Presently there comes the sound of a dog's angry barking, and soon mingled with the canine cries, the voices of men calling to one another, crying for aid. But so pleasant is his meditation, and so deep, that their sounds do not rouse him; they reach his ears, 'tis true; he has a vague sense of disagreeable sounds, but they do not break his reverie.

Something else does, however, a brisk hammering on the street door, and a loud, high pitched voice, calling:

"Heath! Heath, I say!"

He starts up, shakes himself and his ideas, together, and goes to face the intruder upon his meditations. It is his neighbor across the way.

"Heath, have you lost your ears? or your senses?" he cries, impatiently; "what the devil has your dog found, that has set these fellows in such a panic? Something's wrong; they want you to come and control the dog."

"Heath! Heath!" comes from the adjoining vacant lot; "come, for God's sake, quick!"

In another moment, Clifford Heath has seized his hat, and, followed by his neighbor, is out in the yard.

"Come this way, O'Meara," he says, quickly; "that is if you can leap the fence, it's not high," and he strides through his own grounds, scales the intervening palings, and in a few seconds is on the scene.

On the scene! At the edge of the old cellar, one of the men recently denominated, "poor devils," by the musing doctor, is gesticulating violently, and urging him forward with lips that are pale with terror.

Down in the old cellar, the second man, paler still than the first, is making futile efforts to draw the dog away from something, at which he is clawing and tearing, barking furiously all the time.

Something lies under a heaped up mass of leaves, grass, and freshly turned earth; something from which the fierce beast is tearing away the covering with rapid movements. As he leaps down into the cellar, Clifford Heath sees what it is that has so terrified the two men. From under the leaves and earth, Prince has brought to light a human foot and leg!

Instantly he springs forward, his hand upon the dog's collar, his face pale as ashes.

"Prince!" he cries; "Prince! come away, sir."

"Prince, come away, sir!"

The dog crouches, quails for a moment, then utters a low growl, and tries to shake himself free; for the first time, he refuses to obey his master.

But it is his master; there is a short, sharp struggle, and then the brute cowers, whining at his feet.

"Wait!" he says, imperiously to the men, and then, speaking a stern word of command, he strides away, followed by the conquered and trembling brute.

It is the work of a moment to chain him fast; and then Clifford Heath goes swiftly back to the men, who stand very much as he left them.

"Can this be some trick?" Mr. O'Meara is saying, peering down from the edge of the cellar wall at the mound of earth and the protruding leg.

"There is no trick here," replies Clifford Heath, once more springing down into the cellar. "My dog would not be deceived. Come down here, O'Meara; this thing must be unearthed."

Mr. O'Meara lowers himself carefully down, and the man who has thus far stood sentinel follows suit. Then the four approach the mound once more. For a moment they regard each other silently; then one of the masons says:

"If we had a spade."

"Not yet," breaks in Lawyer O'Meara. "Let's make sure that we have found something before we cause any alarm to be given. Get some small boards; we do not want a spade."

The boards are found easily, and they look to O'Meara again, all but Clifford Heath, who stands near the mound gazing downward as if fascinated. While O'Meara speaks, he stoops swiftly, and then carries his hand to his pocket.

"Let's remove the—upper portion of whatever this is," says the lawyer nervously, "and work carefully. This looks like—"

"It looks like murder," says Clifford Heath, quietly. "Pull away the dirt carefully, men."

They are all strong-nerved, courageous men; yet they are all very pale, as they bend to their task.

A few moments, and Mr. O'Meara utters a sharp exclamation, drops his board, and draws back. They have unearthed a shoulder, an arm, a clenched hand.

A moment more, and Clifford Heath, too, withdraws from his task, the cold sweat standing thick upon his temples. They are uncovering a head, a head that is shrouded with something white.

To Mr. O'Meara, to Clifford Heath, the moment is one of intense unmixed horror. To the men who still bend to their work, the horror has its mixture of curiosity. Whose is the face they are about to look upon?

Instinctively the two more refined men draw farther back, instinctively the others bend closer.

Swiftly they work. The last bit of earth is removed from the face; carefully they draw away a large white handkerchief, then utter a cry of horror.

"My God!" cries one, "it is John Burrill."

A TURN IN THE GAME.

It is John Burrill!

Lying there, half buried still, with clenched hands and features distorted. It is John Burrill, dead.

Clifford Heath utters a sharp exclamation. He starts forward suddenly, and looks, not upon the dead face, but straight at the white thing that is still held in the hand of one of the masons. Then he snatches it from the man fiercely, looks at it again and more closely, and lets it fall from his grasp. For a moment all is black to his vision, and over his face a ghastly pallor creeps. Slowly, slowly, he lifts his hand to his forehead, rests it there for a moment, and seems making an effort to think. Then he drops his hand; he lifts his head; he draws himself erect.

"O'Meara," he says, in a voice strangely hollow and unfamiliar, and pointing to the fallen handkerchief. "Look at that. I am going home; when you want me you will find me there." And without having so much as glanced at the dead face so near him, he goes slowly towards his cottage, holding his head proudly erect still.

Mr. O'Meara turns away from the corpse, and gazes for a moment after the retreating form of his friend; then he picks up the handkerchief; it is of softest linen, and across one corner he reads the embroidered name of Clifford Heath. For a moment he stands with the telltale thing held loosely in his hand, and then he bends down, spreads it once more over the dead face, and turns to the men.

"This body must not be disturbed further," he says, authoritatively. "One of you go at once and notify Soames, and then Corliss. Fortunately, Soames lives quite near. Don't bring a gang here. Let's conduct this business decently and in order. Do you go, Bartlett," addressing the younger of the two men. "We will stay here until the mayor comes."

And Lawyer O'Meara buttons his coat tightly about him and draws closer to the cellar wall, the better to protect himself from the drip, drip, of the rain.

"It is a horrible thing, sir," ventured the mechanic, drawing further away from the ghastly thing outlined, and made more horrible, by the wet, white covering. "It's a fearful deed for somebody, and—it looks as if the right man wasn't far away; we all know how he and Burrill were—"

"Hold your tongue, man," snapped O'Meara, testily, "keep 'what we all know' until you are called on to testify. I have something to think about."

And he does think, long and earnestly, regardless of the rain; regardless alike of the restless living companion and of the silent dead.

By and by, they come, the mayor, the officers, the curious gazers; the rain is nothing to them, in a case like this; there is much running to and fro; there are all the scenes and incidents attendant upon a first-class horror. A messenger is dispatched, in haste, to Mapleton, and, in the wind and the rain, the drama moves on.

The messenger to Mapleton rides in hot haste; he finds none but the servants astir in that stately house; to them he breaks the news, and then waits while they rouse Frank Lamotte; for Jasper Lamotte has not returned from the city.

After a time he comes down, pale and troubled of countenance; he can scarcely credit the news he hears; he is terribly shocked, speechless with the horror of the story told him.

By and by, he recovers his composure, in a measure; he goes to his mother's room, and tells her the horrible news; he orders the servants to be careful what they say in his sister's presence, and not to approach Evan's room; then he tells the coachman to meet Mr. Lamotte, who will come on the noon express, with the carriage. After which, he swallows a glass of brandy; and, without waiting for breakfast, mounts his horse and gallops madly townward.

Meantime, the fast express is steaming toward W——, bearing among its human freight, Mr. Jasper Lamotte; and never has W—— seen upon his usually serene face such a look as it now wears. It is harassed, baffled, discontented, surly. He knows no one among the passengers, and he sits aloof from his fellow travelers, making no effort to while away the time, as travelers do.

As they near W——, however, he shakes off his dullness, and lays aside his look of care; and when he steps upon the platform at W——, he is to all appearance, the same smiling suave man, who went away three days before.

There are several other passengers for W——, among whom we may see a portly, dignified gentleman who looks to be somewhere in the forties, and who evidently has a capital opinion of himself, and knows what he is about. He is fashionably dressed, and wears a splendid diamond in his shirt front. He carries in his hand a small valise, and asks for a carriage to the best hotel.

Close behind him is another man, of a different stripe. He is a rakish looking fellow, dressed in smart but cheap clothing. He carries in his hand a small, square package, neatly strapped, and this alone would betray his calling, were it not so obvious in his look and manner. The "book fiend" has descended upon W——. He looks about him carelessly, watches the portly gentleman as he is driven away in the carriage from the W—— Hotel, sees Mr. Jasper Lamotte enter his landau, and drive swiftly away, and then he trudges cheerily townward, swinging his packet of books as he goes.

When they are out of sight of the gaping crowd about the depot, the coachman, acting under Frank's orders, brings his horses to a walk, and, turning upon his seat, addresses his master.

"I've dreadful news to tell you, sir; and Mr. Frank said to let you know it quick, so as you could come there at once."

Jasper Lamotte stares in angry astonishment, scarcely taking in the meaning of the none too lucid sentence.

"Well, sir," he says, shortly, "what are you talking about?"

This time the man came at once to the point.

"Mr. Burrill has been murdered, sir. They found him this morning in an old cellar, close by Doctor Heath's; and they say, sir,—"

"What! what do you say? Burrill—"

"Murdered, sir—killed dead—stabbed right through the heart, sir. They are anxious for you to come. They are going to have an inquest right there."

"Drive there, at once," cried Mr. Lamotte, hoarsely. "I must see for myself," and he sinks back upon his seat, pale and trembling.

Meantime the carriage containing the portly gentleman arrives at the hotel. The rain is still falling, and the gentleman steps hurriedly from the carriage and across the pavement—so hurriedly, indeed, that he jostles against a boy who is passing with a tray of ivory carvings and pretty scroll-work.

Down comes the tray, and the gentleman, who is evidently kind-hearted, cries out:

"Why, boy! Bless me, but I'm sorry! Didn't see you, upon my word. Pick your wares up, sonny, and take stock of the broken things, then come in and I'll make it all square. Just ask for Mr. Wedron, and don't be bashful," and he bustles into the office of the W—— House, where he calls for the best room they can give him, registers as "A. C. Wedron, att'y, N. Y.," and, asking that he might have dinner as early as possible, he goes at once to his room.

"Why, boy! Bless me."

"I say," he calls to the porter who brings up his valise, "when that young image boy comes, just send him along to me; I owe him some damages."

A few minutes later, the boy enters the office and deposits his disordered tray upon a chair.

"Come along, you," calls the porter, gruffly. "The gentleman's looking for you."

"Wait a minit, can't ye?" retorts the boy coolly. "I jest want to take account of stock."

He drops on one knee and rearranges his tray with great care and no haste.

"There!" he exclaims, rising at length with a chuckle of satisfaction. "I reckon that big bloke'll be about two fifty out after I call." And he takes up his tray and says to the porter: "Now, then, give us the address."

"Twenty-one," he replies, and the boy ascends the stairs, and unceremoniously opens the door of twenty-one.

The gentleman, who stands at the window, turns quickly at the sound of the opening door, and when it has closed behind the boy, he advances and asks in a low tone:

"How lies the land, George? Is there any news?"

"I'm sorry, sir," replies the boy. "I was faithful to orders—but things have gone wrong."

"How, my boy?"

"The man you call Burrill was murdered last night."

"Ah!"

"Yes, sir, and I might have known who did it. This is the way it went, sir: I kept an eye on all of your men as well as I could, during the day, and kept the widest eye on the short fellow with the tramp lay-out and the ugly face. That was easy, for he lay low all day; so I managed to get around here two or three times during the afternoon, and I found that Mr. Belknap was laying low, too. He staid in and about the hotel all day, and, I think, all the evening. At night the tramp fellow began to show signs of life, and I piped him close. Early in the evening, at dusk, in fact, he went over the river and out toward Mapleton; on the way he met Burrill coming to town, and he faced about and stalked him back. Burrill lounged about a good bit, and then he went to the saloon you pointed out to me; some fellows were waiting there for him, and they got about a table and carried things high, drinking every five minutes. My man kept a close look on the saloon, and seemed uneasy all the time; once he went in, and drank two beers, but he did not venture near Burrill and his party. By and by, I think it must have been ten o'clock or later, Burrill came out from the saloon alone; he was very drunk, and staggered as he walked away. He turned south, and my man came out, as I supposed, to follow. But, instead, he took a short cut to the bridge and crossed over, hiding himself in the low hedge on the other side. He staid there until almost morning, and then he seemed to be disgusted, or discouraged, or both. I staid close by, and tracked him back to his roost! Then I turned in to get a little rest myself. I was out early, and looked first after my man; he was out too, prowling about uneasily. He went to the saloon, and seemed inclined to loaf there a bit; so I went to look after Mr. Belknap. He was not visible, and so I lounged about, as it was too wet to get out my wares. Well, it was not long before my man came out from old 'Forty Rods,' and started out on the south road, and I kept on behind him, and before we had gone far we met a party of excited men, gathered about the mayor's house, and learned that a murder had been committed. We fell in with the crowd, and went out to the place where the body lay. It was in an empty lot, right next to Doctor Heath's cottage; the body was down in an old cellar, and had been hastily buried by the murderers. They say it was Doctor Heath's dog that first discovered the body."

He pauses, and waits for a comment, but none comes; the gentleman stands with hands behind him, and head bent, as if still listening. For a long time, he stands thus, and then takes a turn or two about the room.

"Why, George," he says, at last. "I don't see that you could have done better. It was no part of our plan to have this murder happen, and it bids fair to make us some trouble that we had not counted on. But we are used to that, George. So you think you might have known who did the deed?"

"I might, sir, if I had followed Burrill; I felt all the time that he was the man to watch."

"Oh!" with an odd smile; "your instincts are on the alert. However, you did right in disregarding instinct, and obeying orders. Now then, be off sir, and until you have further notice, keep both your eyes on Mr. Belknap. By the by, when do they hold an inquest?"

"At three o'clock, sir; they want to have Mr. Lamotte there."

"Well! that's all, George; you had better dispose of your traps for the day, and look sharp after Mr. Belknap."

"All right, sir;" and taking up his tray, the little detective goes out, dropping back into his old impudent manner, as the door closes behind him.

"So, Burrill has been killed," soliloquizes the portly gentleman seating himself before his cheery fire. "Well, that goes to show that we detectives don't find out all the tangles. We are lucky oftener than we are shrewd! Now look, I fancied I had the game in my hands, and stepped into town this morning to throw my trump and win, and now, my game is blocked, and a new one opens against me."

INTRODUCING MR. SMITH.

All that long morning Clifford Heath sat alone in his cosy, parlor, and what his thoughts were no observer, had there been such, could have guessed. His features were grave, even stern, but there was no apprehension, no expectancy, no fear; nothing but calm gravity and inflexible haughtiness could be discerned in the face that was sometimes bent over a favorite book, sometimes submerged in clouds of smoke from his big German meerschaum; but that never once turned toward the window that overlooked the scene of the morning's discovery. All day the sounds from thence penetrated to his ear; all day men were coming and going, with much loud talk as they passed his doorway, and much bustle and excitement. But Clifford Heath might have been deaf and blind, so little interest did he manifest in the sights and sounds that were attendant upon the scene of John Burrill's low, rain-soaked bed of death.

Crouched at his feet lay the great dog Prince, who had been comforted by his master for any harshness that he had suffered necessarily, and he now lay watchful but quiet, seeming to share, in a measure, the mood of his master and best friend.

At one o'clock Mrs. Gray came in and spread his luncheon beside him in tempting array, and the doctor laid aside his pipe, and, favoring Mrs. Gray with one of those kindly smiles that she always melted under to the extent of admitting to herself that her master was "a man who meant well, in spite of his horrid ways."

Then he drew his chair up beside the lunch table, and immediately set Mrs. Gray's good humor awry by indulging in one of his "horrid ways," namely, the tossing of dainty bits to Prince, who caught them in his mouth with much adroitness and without quitting his position upon the Turkish rug.

Finally, when Prince had received his share of Mrs. Gray's dainties, the doctor fell upon the rest and made a hearty meal.

As he was washing down a tart with a large tumbler of claret, there came a knock upon the street door, and without a moment's hesitation—indeed, with some alacrity—he arose to answer it in person.

Once more it was his neighbor, O'Meara.

"Come in O'Meara," said he, coolly. "I'm just finishing luncheon," and he led the way back to the parlor.

"I just looked in for a moment in my capacity of friend and neighbor, Heath," said the little lawyer, briskly, at the same time seating himself near the table. "Later on I may give you a call in my professional capacity, but not now, not now, sir."

"Don't do it at all, O'Meara," said the doctor, with a short laugh; "I have no earthly use for a lawyer."

"No more have I for a medical adviser just this minute, sir; but I may need one before night."

"And before night I may need a lawyer, O'Meara—is that it?"

The little man shook his head.

"I'm afraid of it, Heath; I'm afraid of it, as things look now."

"And things look now very much as they did this morning, I suppose?"

O'Meara nodded.

"Then, this is the prospect ahead—a coroner's verdict thus: 'Deceased came to his death at the hands of Clifford Heath, M. D.;' and circumstantial evidence thus: 'Deceased has on several occasions been threatened by accused; he was found buried near the premises of accused, and upon his person was found a handkerchief bearing the name, Clifford Heath.' This, and how much more I can't tell. It's a beautiful case, O'Meara."

The little lawyer stared, astonished at his coolness.

"Don't underrate this business, Heath," he said, anxiously. "I'm glad to see that it has not had the opposite effect on you. I'm glad to see plenty of pluck, but—"

"But, there's a strong case against me; that's what you would say, O'Meara. I don't doubt, and let me tell you that neither you nor I can guess how strong the case is; not yet."

"Such an affair is bad enough, at the best, Heath; I don't see anything in the case, thus far, that will hold up against an impartial investigation; as for other evidence, am I to understand—"

Clifford Heath bent forward, and lifted one hand warningly.

"Understand nothing for the present, O'Meara; after the verdict come to me, not as a lawyer, but as a friend, and I will explain my language and—attitude; for the present I have nothing to say."

"Then I must be satisfied with what you have said," replied the lawyer cheerfully. "Of course you will be at the inquest?"

The doctor nodded.

"Well, having seen—and heard you, it is not necessary to offer any suggestions, I see that," and the lawyer arose and took up his hat, "and it won't be policy for me to remain here too long. Count on me Heath, in any emergency. I'm your man."

"Thank you, O'Meara; rest assured such friendship is fully appreciated." And he extended his hand to the friendly lawyer, who grasped it silently, seemed struggling, either to speak or to repress some thought, and then dropped it and went out silently, followed in equal silence by his host, who closed the door behind him, and then went thoughtfully back to his claret.

"Zounds!" muttered Lawyer O'Meara, picking his way back across the muddy street, and entering his own dwelling. "To think of accusing a man of so much coolness, and presence of mind, of such a bungling piece of work as this. It's a queer suspicion, but I could almost swear that Heath smells a plot."

At this moment a carriage drove hastily by, all mud bespattered, and lying open in defiance of the rain.

"It's Lamotte's landau," said the lawyer, peeping out from the shelter of his verandah; "it's Lamotte's carriage, and it's Lamotte himself; I would like to see how he looks, just for one moment; but it's too wet, and I must go tell the old woman how her favorite doctor faces the situation."

A few moments after the landau had deposited Jasper Lamotte at the gate of the vacant lot, a pedestrian, striding swiftly along, as if eager to be upon the scene and sate his curiosity, came in among the group of men that, all day long, had hovered about the cellar.

"What's a going on here?" he demanded of the first man upon whom his glance fell, "an—accident?"

"Good Lord!" exclaimed the man, who was one of Old Forty Rod's customers; "where have you come from that you don't know a man has been killed!"

"Killed!"

"Yes, murdered! stabbed last night and buried in this old cellar."

"Heavens, man! was—was he a citizen?"

"Well, I should say! and a rum chap, too. Why, you are a stranger to these parts if you don't know John Burrill."

"Never heard of him in my life, old Top," replied the stranger. "I don't live in these parts."

The man drew back a little, and seeing this, the stranger came closer and laid one hand familiarly upon his arm, at the same time leaning nearer, and saying in a loud whisper:

"Any of the stiff's friends in this gang?"

"Any of the stiff's friends in this gang?"

The satellite of "Old Forty," who had at first seemed somewhat disposed to resent too much familiarity on the part of the stranger, turned toward him, drew closer, and allowed his features to relax into a grin of friendliness. He had not been so fortunate as to receive a morning dram, and the breath of the stranger had wafted to his nostrils the beloved, delicious odor of "whisky killers."

"Hush!" he whispered confidentially, "that man over there the tall, good-looking one with the whiskers, d'ye mind—"

"Yes, yes! high toned bloke?"

"Exactly; that's the dead man's father-in-law."

"Father-in-law, eh!"

"Yes, and that young chap beside him, the pale, handsome one, that's his son."

"Whose son?"

"The tall man's son; Frank Lamotte's his name."

"You don't say; good-looking duffer! Found the assassin?"

"Not exactly, but they say—"

"Look here, pard, this sniffs of romance; now I'm gone on romance in real life; just let's step back among these cedars, and out of the crowd, where I can give you a pull at my brandy flask, and you can tell me all the particulars."

And the jaunty young man tapped his breast suggestively and winked knowingly down at his new found friend.

"Agreed," said the man, eagerly, and turning at once toward the nearest clump of trees.

"I may as well say that my name is Smith," said the stranger, as he passed over his brandy flask. "Now then, pard, fire ahead, and don't forget when you get thirsty to notify Smith, the book peddler."

The man began his story, and the book peddler stood with ear attentive to the tale, and eye fixed upon Jasper Lamotte.

OPENLY ACCUSED.

It is three o'clock. The rain has ceased falling, but the sky is still gray and threatening. The wind howls dismally among the old trees that surround John Burrill's shallow grave, and its weird wail, combined with the rattle and creak of the branches, and the drip, drip of water, dropping from the many crevices into the old cellar, unite to form a fitting requiem for an occasion so strange, so uncanny.

Down in the cellar, standing ankle deep in the mud and slime, are the "good men and true," who have been summoned by Justice, to decide upon the manner in which John Burrill met his death. There, too, is the mayor, dignified, grave, and important. The officers of the law are there, and close behind the coroner stand the Lamottes, father and son. A little farther back are grouped the witnesses. Those of the morning, the two masons, Mr. O'Meara, Dr. Heath,—they are all there except the first and surest one, Prince. There are the men who were Burrill's companions of the night before, reluctant witnesses, ferreted out through the officiousness of one of the saloon habitues, and fearing, a little, to relate their part in the evening's programme, each eager to lighten his own burden of the responsibility at the expense of his comrades in the plot. There are three women and one man, all eye-witnesses to the first meeting between John Burrill and Doctor Heath in Nance Burrill's cottage, and there is Nance Burrill herself. The women stand a little aloof, upon a few boards that have been thrown carelessly down for their comfort. And Nance Burrill talks loudly, and cries as bitterly as if the dead man had been her life's comfort, not its curse.

And there, too, is Raymond Vandyck. He stands aloof from them all, stands near the ghastly thing that once, not long ago, came between him and all his happiness. There is a strange look in his blue eyes, as they rest upon the lifeless form, from which the coverings have been removed, but which still lies in the shallow place scooped out for it by the hands that struck it from among the living. Under the eyes of them all the dirt has been removed from the broad breast, and two gaping wounds are disclosed; cuts, deep and wide, are made with some broad, heavy weapon, of the dagger species.

When they have all, in turn, examined the body, as it lies, it is lifted out carefully, and placed upon a litter, in the midst of the group, and then all turn their eyes from the shallow grave to the new resting place of its late occupant.

Not all; Raymond Vandyck, still gazing as if fascinated by that hollowed-out bit of earth, starts forward suddenly, then draws shudderingly back, and points to something that lies almost imbedded in the soft soil. Somebody comes forward, examines, and then draws from out the grave, where it has lain, directly under the body, a knife—a knife of peculiar shape and workmanship—a long, keen, surgeon's knife! There are dark stains upon the blade and handle; and a murmur of horror runs through the crowd as it is held aloft to their view.

Raymond Vandyck draws instinctively away from the grave now, and from the man who still holds the knife; and in so doing he comes nearer the group of women, and catches a sentence that falls from the lips of Nance Burrill.

Suddenly his face flames into anger, and he strides across to where Mr. O'Meara stands.

"O'Meara, what is this that I hear; have they dared accuse Heath?"

"Don't you know, Vandyck?"

"No; I have heard nothing, save the fact of the murder; the coroner's summons found me at home."

"Heath will be accused, I think."

Raymond Vandyck turns and goes over to Clifford Heath; without uttering a word, he links his arm within that of the suspected man, and standing thus, listens to the opening of the trial.

The only sign of recognition he receives is a slight pressure of the arm upon which his hand rests; but before Clifford Heath's eyes, just for the moment, there swims a suspicious moisture.

Above them, crowding close about the cellar walls, is a motley throng, curious, eager, expectant; among the faces peering down may be seen that of the portly gentleman; his diamond pin glistening as he turns this way and that; his great coat blown back by the gusts of wind, and a natty umbrella clutched firmly in his plump, gloved hand. Not far distant is private detective Belknap, looking as curious as any, and still nearer the cellar's edge is the rakish book-peddler, supported by his now admiring friend of the morning, who has warmed into a hearty interest in "that fine young fellow, Smith," under the exhilarating influence of the "fine young fellow's" brandy flask.

Dodging about among the spectators, too, is the boy George, who has abandoned his tray of pretty wares, and is making his holiday a feast of horrors.

And now all ears are strained to hear the statements of the various witnesses in this strange case.

Frank Lamotte is the first. He is pale and nervous, and he avoids the eyes of all save the ones whom he addresses. Doctor Heath keeps two steady, searching orbs fixed upon his face, but can draw to himself no responsive glance. Frank testifies as follows:

John Burrill had left Mapleton the evening before at an early hour, not later than eight o'clock. Witness had seen little of him during the day. Deceased was in a state of semi-intoxication when last he saw him. That was at six o'clock, or near that time. No, he did not know the destination of deceased. They seldom went out together. Did not know if Burrill had any enemies. Was not much in his confidence.

Upon being questioned closer, he displays some unwillingness to answer, but finally admits that he has heard Burrill speak in bitter terms of Doctor Heath, seeming to know something concerning the doctor's past life that he, Heath, wished to conceal.

What was the nature of the knowledge?

That he cannot tell.

Jasper Lamotte is called. He has been absent from home, and can throw no light upon the subject.

The two masons, one after the other, testify; their statements do not vary.

They were returning home, having turned back from their day's labor, because of the rain. When they came near the old cellar, the barking of a dog attracted their attention. It came from the cellar, and one of them, curious to see what the dog had hunted down, went to look. The dog was tugging at what appeared to be a human foot. He called his companion, and then leaped down into the cellar, and tried to drive the dog from what he now feared was a half buried human being. The other man called for help, and, seeing O'Meara, shouted to him to tell Heath to come and call off his dog.

They tell it all. How Doctor Heath came and mastered the dog, after a hard struggle; how the face of the dead was uncovered, and how Doctor Heath had snatched at the white thing they had taken from off it, scrutinized it for a moment, and then flung it from him. They repeat his words to Mr. O'Meara with telling effect; and then they stand aside.

Doctor Heath is sworn. He has nothing to say that has not been said. He knows nothing of the murdered man, save that once he had knocked him down for beating a woman, and once for insulting himself.

Had he ever threatened deceased? He believed that he had on the occasion last mentioned. What was the precise language used? That he could not recall.

Then the handkerchief is produced; is presented to him.

"Doctor Heath, is that yours?" Every man holds his breath; every man is visibly agitated; every man save the witness.

Coolly lifting his hand to his breast pocket, he draws from thence a folded handkerchief; he shakes out the snowy square, and offers it to the coroner.

"It is mine or an exact counterpart of mine. Your honor can compare them."

Astonishment sits on every face. What matchless coolness! what a splendid display of conscious innocence! or of cool effrontery!

The coroner examines the two pieces of linen long and closely, then he passes them to one of the jurymen; and then they go from hand to hand; and all the while Clifford Heath stands watching the scrutiny. Not eagerly, not even with interest, rather with a bored look, as if he must see something, and with every feature locked in impenetrable calm.

Finally the coroner receives them back. They are precisely alike, and so says his honor:

"Clifford Heath, do you believe this handkerchief, which I hold in my hand, and which was recently found upon the face of this dead man, to be, or to have been yours?"

"I do," calmly.

"Are you aware that you have recently lost such a handkerchief?"

"I am not."

"Has such a one been stolen from you?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"Then you have no idea how your property came where it was this morning found?"

"You are seeking facts, sir, not ideas."

A moment's silence; the coroner takes up the knife.

"Doctor Heath, will you look at this knife?"

The doctor steps promptly forward and receives it from his hand.

"Did you ever see that knife before?"

"Did you ever see that knife before?"

"I can't say, sir," turning it carelessly in his hands, and examining the spots upon the blade.

"Did you ever see one like it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you ever own one like it?"

"I do own one like it."

"Are such knives common?"

"They are—to the surgical profession."

"Do you own more than one knife of this sort?"

"I do not."

"Did you ever own more than one like this?"

"Not at the same time."

"Then you have lost a knife like this?"

"No; but I have broken two."

"When did you last see deceased alive?"

"Not since our encounter on the street; that was a week ago, I should think, perhaps longer."

"Who witnessed that affair?"

"Mr. Vandyck was with me; the others were strangers."

"That is all, Doctor Heath."

Lawyer O'Meara comes next; his testimony is brief, and impatiently given. He adds nothing new to the collected evidence.

Next comes the man Rooney, and he rehearses the scene at "Old Forty Rods," sparing himself as much as possible.

"We didn't really think he'd go to Doctor Heath's," he says in conclusion. "We all called it a capital joke, and agreed to go out and look him up after a little. He was reeling drunk when he went out, and we all expected to find him floored on the way. After a while, an hour perhaps, we started out, half a dozen of us, with a lantern, and went along the road he had taken; we went almost to Heath's cottage, looking all about the road as we went. When we did not find him, we concluded that he had gone straight home, and that if we staid out longer the laugh would be on us. So we went back, and agreed to say nothing about the matter to Burrill when we should see him."

"How near did you come to Doctor Heath's house?"

"Very near, sir; almost as near as we are now."

"But you were in the opposite direction."

"Just so, sir; we came from the town."

"Did you hear any movements; any sounds of any sort?"

"Nothing particular, sir; we were making some noise ourselves."

"Did you meet any one, either going or coming?"

"No, sir; but a man might easily have passed us in the dark on the other side of the road."

Five men confirm Rooney's statement, and every word weighs like lead against Clifford Heath.

John Burrill left the saloon to go to Doctor Heath's house; in drunken bravado, he would go at night to disturb and annoy the man who had, twice, in public, chastised him, and on both occasions uttered a threat and a warning; unheeding these, he had gone to brave the man who had warned him against an approach—and he has never been seen alive since; he has been found dead, murdered, hidden away near the house of the man who had said: "If he ever should cross my path, rest assured I shall know how to dispose of him."

These words distinctly remembered by all three of the women who witnessed the rescue in Nance Burrill's house, are repeated by each one in turn, and the entire scene is rehearsed.

Nance Burrill is called upon, and just as she comes forward, Mr. Lamotte beckons the coroner, and whispers a few words in his ear. The coroner nods, and returns to his place. Nance Burrill is sworn, and all listen eagerly, expecting to hear her rehearse the story of her life as connected with that of the dead man. But all are doomed to disappointment. She tells the story of the rescue in her cottage, much as did the others; she repeats the words of Clifford Heath, as did the others, and she turns back to her friends, leaving the case against the man who had been her champion, darker than before.

Raymond Vandyck is called; he does not stir from his position beside his friend, and his face wears a look of defiant stubbornness.

"Ray," says Clifford Heath, quietly, "your silence would be construed against me; go forward and tell the whole truth."

Then he obeys the summons; but the truth has to be drawn from him by hard labor; he will not help them to a single fact. For example:

"What do you know concerning this case?"

"Nothing," he says, shortly.

"Did you know that man," pointing to the body of Burrill; "in his life."

"I had not that honor."

"Ah—you have seen him."

"I believe so," indifferently.

"You can't swear to the fact, then?"

"I knew him better by reputation, than by sight."

The coroner wiggled, uneasily.

"You are a friend to Doctor Heath?"

"I am," promptly.

"Please relate what you know of his—difference with Mr. Burrill?"

"What I—know."

"Yes, sir."

"Why, I don't exactly know anything"

"Why, sir, did you not witness a meeting between the two?"

"I—suppose so."

"You suppose!"

"Well, I can't swear that the man I saw knocked down, if that is what you mean, was Burrill; it was night, and I did not see his face clearly."

"You believed it to be Burrill?"

"Yes."

"Dr. Heath so believed?"

"I don't know."

More uneasiness on the part of the coroner.

"Please state what Doctor Heath said to the man he knocked down?"

"Well, I can't repeat the exact words. He said what any one would have said under the circumstances."

"Ah! what were the circumstances?"

"The fellow was half drunk. He approached Dr. Heath in a coarse and offensive manner."

"Was his language offensive?"

"I didn't hear what he said."

"Did you hear what Dr. Heath said?"

"I did."

"You heard it distinctly?"

"Quite."

"Ah!" smiling triumphantly. "Then you can give us his words?"

"Not verbatim."

"Give us his meaning, then."

"His meaning, as nearly as I could understand it, was this: He would allow no man to insult him or to meddle with his affairs, and he finished with something like this: 'Keep my name off your lips, wherever you are, if you want whole bones in your skin.'"

"He said that?"

"Well, something like that; I may have put it too strong."

"Do you remember what Dr. Heath said by way of comment on the affair?"

"One of the men picked the fellow by the sleeve, and said, 'Come out of that, Burrill!' and then Heath turned to me and asked, 'Who the deuce is Burrill?'"

"And your reply?"

"I said—" stopping a moment and turning his eyes upon the two Lamottes—"I said, 'He is Jasper Lamotte's son-in-law.'"

"And then, sir?"

"Then Dr. Heath made about the same sort of comment others have made before him—something to the effect that Mr. Lamotte had made a very remarkable choice."

"Mr. Vandyck," says the coroner severely, "it seems to me that your memory is singularly lucid on some points, and deficient on others of more importance."

"That's a fact, sir," with cheerful humility. "I'm always that way."

"Ah!" with an excess of dignity. "Mr. Vandyck, I won't tax your memory further."

Ray turns away, looking as if, having done his duty, he might even survive the coroner's frown, and as he moves again to the side of the suspected man, some one in the audience above, a portly gentleman, with a diamond shining on his immaculate breast, makes this mental comment: "There is a witness who has withheld more than he has told." And he registers the name of Raymond Vandyck upon his memory.

This is the last witness.

While the jurymen stand aside to deliberate, there is a buzz and murmur among the people up above, and profound quiet below. Attention is divided between the gentlemen of the jury and Clifford Heath. The former are very much agitated. They look troubled, uneasy and uncomfortable. They gesticulate rapidly and with a variety of movements that would be ludicrous were the occasion less solemn, the issue less than a man's life and honor.

Finally the verdict is reached, and is pronounced:

The coroner's jury "find, after due deliberation, that John Burrill came to his death by two dagger, or knife strokes from the hand of Dr. Clifford Heath."

The accused, who, during the entire scene, has stood as immovable as the sphynx, and has not once been startled, disturbed, or surprised from his calm by anything that has been brought forward by the numerous witnesses, lifts his head proudly; lifts his hat, too, with a courtly gesture, to the gentlemen of the jury, that may mean total exoneration from blame, so far as they are concerned, or a haughty defiance, and then, after one sweeping glance around the assembly, a glance which turns for an instant upon the faces of the Lamottes, he beckons to the constable; beckons with a gesture that is obeyed as if it were a command.

"Corliss," he says, just as he would say—"give the patient a hot drink and two powders." "Corliss, I suppose you won't want to lose sight of me, since I have suddenly become public property. Come with me, if you please; I am going home; then—I am at your service."

And without more words, without let or hindrance, without so much as a murmur of disapproval, he lifts himself out of the cellar, and walks, at a moderate pace, and with firm aspect, toward his cottage, closely followed by Corliss, who looks, for the first time, in his official career, as if he would gladly be a simple private citizen, at that moment.

The coroner's inquest is over; there remains now nothing save to remove the body to a more suitable resting place, and to disperse.

Jasper Lamotte moves about, giving short orders in a low tone. He is pallid and visibly nervous. If it were his own son who lay there in their midst, stiff and cold, and saturated with his own blood, he could scarcely appear more agitated, more shocked and sorrowful. He is really shocked; really sorry; he actually regrets the loss of this man, who must have been a constant crucifixion to his pride.

This is what they whisper among themselves, as they gather in knots and furtively watch him, as he moves about the bier.

It has been a shock to Frank Lamotte, too, although he never had seemed to crave the society of his brother-in-law, and always turned away from any mention of his name, with a sneer.

Two men, who withdraw quickly from the crowd, are Lawyer O'Meara and Ray Vandyck. As they come up out of the cellar and go out from the hateful place, Ray breaks into bitter invective; but O'Meara lays a firm hand upon his arm.

"Hold your impulsive tongue, you young scamp! Do you want to be impeached for a prejudiced witness? You want to help Heath, not to hurt him; and let me tell you, he will need strong friends and shrewd helpers, before we see him a free man again."

Ray grinds out something profane, and then paces on in wrathful silence.

"You are right, of course," he says, after a moment's pause, and in a calmer tone. "But, good God! to bring such a charge against Heath, of all men! O'Meara," suddenly, "you must defend him."

"I intend to," grimly. "And in his interest I want to see you as soon as the vicinity is quiet; we must think the matter over and then see Heath."

"Heath puzzles me; he's strangely apathetic."

"He'll puzzle you more yet, I'm thinking. I half think he knows who did the deed, and don't intend to tell." He pauses, having come to the place where their ways diverge. "Come around by dark, Vandyck, we can't lose any time, that is if the buzzards are out of the way."

"The buzzards will follow the carrion," scornfully. "I'll be on hand, Mr. O'Meara."

He goes on, looking longingly at Clifford Heath's cottage, as he passes the gate, and the little lawyer begins to pick his way across the muddy street, not caring to go on to the proper crossing.

"Mr. O'Meara."

He turns nervously, to encounter the gaze of a large gentleman with a rosy face, curling, iron-gray hair, and beard, and a blazing diamond in his shirt front.

"Eh! sir; you addressed me?"

"I did," replies the gentleman, in a low, energetic tone, strangely at variance with his general appearance, at the same time coming close and grasping the lawyer's hand with great show of cordiality, and before the astounded little man can realize what he is about. "Call me Wedron, sir, Wedron, ahem, of the New York Bar. I must have an interview with you, sir, and at once."

O'Meara draws back and replies rather frigidly:

"I am glad to know you, sir; but if your business is not too urgent—if another time will do—"

"Another time will not do? my business concerns Clifford Heath."

"Then, sir, I am at your service."

AN OBSTINATE CLIENT.

"There, sir; I think we understand each other, sir."

"Humph! well, that's according to how you put it. My knowledge is sufficient unto the day, at any rate. I am to visit Heath at once, taking young Vandyck with me; I am to insist upon his making a strong defence, and to watch him closely. Vandyck is to add his voice, and he'll do it with a roar, and then we are to report to you. Is that it?"

"Exactly."

The speakers are Lawyer O'Meara and "Mr. Wedron, of the New York Bar;" for more than an hour they have been seated in the lawyer's study, conversing in low, earnest tones; and during this interval, O'Meara's valuation of his vis-à-vis has evidently "taken a rise," and stands now at a high premium. His spirits have risen, too; he views the case of Clifford Heath through a new lens; evidently he recognizes, in the man before him, a strong ally.

It is arranged that, for the present, Mr. Wedron shall retain his room at the hotel, but shall pass the most of his time with the O'Mearas, and the uninitiated are to fancy him an old friend, as well as a brother practitioner. Even Mrs. O'Meara is obliged to accept this version, while inwardly wondering that she has never heard her husband mention his friend, "Wedron, of the New York Bar."

Evidently they trust each other, these two men, and, as O'Meara has just said, their mutual understanding is sufficient unto the hour. Therefore, it being already sunset, they go together to the parlor, and are soon seated, in company with Mrs. O'Meara, about a cosy tea table.

"It is best that Vandyck should not see me here until after your interview with Heath," Mr. Wedron has said to the little lawyer; therefore when, a little later, Ray puts in an appearance, he sees only O'Meara, and is immediately hurried away toward the county jail.

They find Corliss at the sheriff's desk, his superior officer having been for several days absent from the town. The constable looks relieved and fatigued. He believes that within the hour he, single handed, has conveyed into safe custody one of the most ferocious assassins of his time; and, having gained so signal a victory, he now feels inclined to take upon himself airs, and he hesitates, becomingly, over O'Meara's civilly worded request to be shown to the cell assigned Doctor Heath.