The Diamond Coterie

They find Corliss at the Sheriff's desk.

But O'Meara, who possesses all the brusqueness of the average Yankee lawyer, has no mind to argue the case.

"I don't know, sir," says Corliss, with some pomposity. "Really, I consider Heath a very unsafe prisoner, and—"

"The deuce you do," breaks in the impatient lawyer. "Well, I'll promise that Doctor Heath shan't damage you any, so just trot ahead with your keys, and don't parley. My time is worth something."

Corliss slips down from his stool and looks at Ray.

"But Mr. Vandyck, sir?" he begins.

"Mr. Vandyck will see Doctor Heath too, sir," interrupts Ray, with much decision. "And you won't find it to your interest, Corliss, to hunt up too many scruples."

It filters into the head of the constable that the wealthiest and most popular of W——'s lawyers, and the bondsman and firm friend of the absent sheriff, are hardly the men to baffle, and so, for the safety of his own official head, he takes his keys and conducts them to Doctor Heath.

The jail is new and clean and comfortable, more than can be said of many in our land, and the prisoner has a cell that is fairly lighted, and not constructed on the suffocation plan.

They find him sitting by his small table, his head resting upon his hand, his eyes fixed upon the floor, seemingly lost in thought. Evidently he is glad to see his visitors, for a smile breaks over his face as he rises to greet them.

It is not a time for commonplaces, and O'Meara, who sees that time is of value, is in no mood for a prologue to his task; so he begins at the right place.

"Heath, I'm sorry enough that you, almost a stranger among us, should be singled out as a victim in this case. It don't speak well for the judgment of our citizens. However, we are bound to set you right, and I've come to say that I shall esteem it a privilege to defend you—that is, if you have not a more able friend to depend upon."

The prisoner smiles as he replies:

"You are very good, O'Meara, and you are the man I should choose to defend me; but—you will have to build your case; I can't make one for you, and—you heard the evidence."

"Hang the evidence!" cries the lawyer, drawing from his pocket a small note book.

"We'll settle their evidence; just you give me a few items of information, and then I will let Vandyck talk; he wants to, terribly."

The prisoner turns slowly in his chair, and looks steadfastly first at one, then at the other, and then he says:

"Do you really believe, O'Meara, that I had no hand in this murder?"

"I do," emphatically.

"And you, Ray?"

"I! You deserve to be kicked for asking. I'll tell just what I think, a little later; I know you didn't kill Burrill."

Clifford Heath withdraws his gaze from the faces of his visitors, and seems to hesitate; then he says slowly:

"I am deeply grateful for your confidence in me; but, I fear my actions must belie my words. My friends, the evidence is more than I can combat. I can't prove an alibi; and there's no other way to clear myself."

"Bah!" retorts O'Meara; "there are several ways. Let us take the ground that you are innocent; there must then be some one upon whom to fasten the guilt. You have an enemy; some one has stolen your handkerchief and your knife. Who is that enemy? Whom do you suspect?"

The prisoner shook his head. "I shall accuse no one," he said, briefly.

"What!" burst out Ray Vandyck; "you will not hunt down your enemy? This is too much! Heath, I believe you could put your hand on the assassin."

No reply from the prisoner; he sits with his head bowed upon his hand, a look of dogged resolution upon his face.

"Vandyck," says the little lawyer, who has been gazing fixedly at his obstinate client, and who now turns two keen eyes upon the excited Ray; "keep cool! keep cool, my lad! Heath, look here, sir, I'm bound to defend your case—do you object to that?"

"On the contrary, O'Meara, you are my only hope; but, your success must depend upon your own shrewdness. I can't give you any help."

Down went something in the lawyer's note book.

"That means you won't give me any help," writing briskly.

"It's an ungracious way of putting it," smiling slightly; "but—that's about the way it stands."

"Just so," writing still; "you believe the handkerchief to have been yours?"

"Yes."

"And the knife?"

"Yes. Stay, send Corliss with some one else, to my office; let them examine my case of instruments, and see if the knife is among them; this, for form's sake."

"It shall be attended to—for form's sake. Heath, who beside yourself had access to your office?"

"My office was insecurely locked; any one might easily force an entrance, and a common key would open my door."

Scratch, scratch; the lawyer seems not to notice the doctor's evasion of the question.

"Ahem! As your lawyer, Heath, is there any truth in these stories about a previous knowledge of Burrill?"

"Do you mean my previous knowledge of the man?"

"Yes."

"I never knew the fellow; never saw him until I knocked him down in his first wife's defence."

"Yet, he claimed to know you."

"So I am told."

"And you don't know where he may have seen you?"

"All I know, you have heard in the evidence given to-day."

"And—" hesitating slightly; "is there nothing in your past life that might weigh in your favor; nothing that will give the lie to these hints so industriously scattered by Burrill?"

"O'Meara, let us understand each other; your question means this: Do I intend, now that this crisis has come, to make public, for the benefit of W——, the facts concerning my life previous to my coming here as a resident? My answer must be this, and again I must give you reason to think me ungracious, ungrateful. There is nothing in my past that could help me in this present emergency; there is no one who could come forward to my assistance. I have not in all America one friend who is so well known to me, or who knows me as well as Vandyck here, or yourself. I can not drag to light any of the events of my past life; on the contrary, I must redouble my efforts to keep that past a mystery."

Utter silence in the cell. The lawyer's pencil travels on—scratch, scratch, scratch. Ray sits moody and troubled of aspect. Doctor Heath looks with some curiosity upon the movements of the little lawyer, and inwardly wonders at his coolness. He has expected expostulation, indignation; has even fancied that his obstinate refusal to lend his friends any assistance may alienate them from his case, leaving him to face his fate alone. He sees how Vandyck is chafing, but he is puzzled by the little lawyer's phlegmatic acceptance of the situation.

Presently, the lawyer looks up, snaps his note book together with a quick movement, and then stows it away carefully in his breast pocket.

"Umph!" he begins, raising the five fingers of his right hand and checking off his items with the pencil which he has transferred to the left. "Umph! Then your case stands like this, my friend: A man is found dead near your premises; a handkerchief bearing your name covers his face; a knife supposed to belong to you is with the body. You are known to have differed with this man; you have knocked him down; you have threatened him in the public streets. You are a stranger to W——. This murdered man claimed to know something to your disadvantage. He is known to have set out for your house; he is found soon after, as I have said, dead. You acknowledge the knife and handkerchief to be yours; you can offer no alibi, you can rebut none of the testimony. You refuse to tell aught concerning your past life. That's a fine case, now; don't you think so?"

"It's a worthless case for you, O'Meara. You had better leave me to fight my own battles."

"Umph! I'm going to leave you for the present; but this battle may turn out to be not entirely your property, my friend. Since you won't help me, I won't disturb you farther. Come along, Vandyck."

Young Vandyck began at once to expostulate, to entreat, to argue; but the little lawyer cut short the tide of his eloquence.

"Vandyck, be quiet! Can't you let a gentleman hang himself, if he sees fit? No, I see you can't; it's against your nature. Well, come along; we will see if we can't outwit this would-be suicide, and the hangman, too." And he fairly forces poor, bewildered Ray from the room. Then, turning again toward his uncommunicative client, he says:

"Oh, I'll attend to that knife business at once, Heath, and let you hear the result."

"Stop a moment, O'Meara. There is one thing I can say, and that is,—have the wounds in that body examined at once. As nearly as I could observe, without a closer scrutiny, the knife that killed was not the knife found with the body. It was a smaller, narrower bladed knife; and—if an expert examines that knife, the one found, he will be satisfied that it has never entered any body, animal or human. The point has never been dipped in blood."

"Oh! ho!" cries O'Meara, rubbing his hands together briskly. "So! we are waking up! why didn't you mention all this before? But there's time enough! time enough yet. I'll have the body examined; and by the best surgeons, sir; and I'll see you to-morrow, early; good evening, Heath."

"I'm blessed if I understand all this," burst out Ray Vandyck, when they had gained the street. "Here you have kept me with my mouth stopped all through this queer confab. I want a little light on this subject. What the deuce ails Heath, that he won't lift his voice to defend himself? And what the mischief do you let him throw away his best chances for? I never heard of such foolhardiness."

"Young man," retorts the little lawyer, with a queer smile upon his face, "just at present I have got no use for that tongue of yours. You may be all eyes and ears, the more the better; but, I'm going to include you in a very important private consultation; and, don't you open your mouth until somebody asks you to; and then mind you get it open quick enough and wide enough."

BEGINNING THE INVESTIGATION.

"Well!"

It is Mr. Wedron, of the New York Bar, who utters this monosyllable. He sits at the library table in the little lawyer's sanctum; opposite him is his host, and a little farther away, stands Ray Vandyck; a living, breathing, gloomy faced but mute interrogation point. He has just been introduced to Mr. Wedron, and he is anxiously waiting to hear how these two men propose to save from the gallows, a man who will make no effort to save himself.

"Well!" repeats Mr. Wedron, "you have seen the prisoner?"

"We have seen him."

"And the result?"

"Was what you predicted. See, here in my note book, I have his very words; you can judge for yourself."

O'Meara passes his note book across to his questioner, and the latter reads rapidly, the short sentences scrawled by his host.

"So," he says, lifting his eyes from the note book. "Doctor Heath refuses to defend himself. Mr. Vandyck," turning suddenly upon Ray, "sit down, sir; draw your chair up here; I wish to look at you, sir."

Not a little astonished, but obeying orders like a veteran, Ray complies mutely.

"Now then," says Mr. Wedron, with brisk good nature, "let's get down to business. Mr. Vandyck, I am here to save Clifford Heath; I was at the inquest; I have had long experience in this sort of business, and I arrive at my conclusions rapidly, after a way of my own. O'Meara, prepare to write a synopsis of our reasonings."

"Of your reasonings," corrects the lawyer, drawing pen and paper toward himself.

"Of my reasonings then. First; are you ready, O'Meara?"

"All ready."

"Well, then; and don't stop to be astonished at anything I may say. First, Clifford Heath knows who stole his handkerchief; and who stole his knife."

A grunt of approbation from O'Meara; a stare of astonishment from Ray.

"For some reason, Heath has resolved to screen the thief." Scratch, scratch. "But he does not feel at all sure that the one who stole his belongings is the one who struck the blow."

Ray stares in astonishment.

"Now then, there has been a plot on foot against Heath, and I believe him to have been aware of it." He is looking at Ray, and that young man starts guiltily.

"Put down this, O'Meara," says Mr. Wedron, suddenly withdrawing his gaze. "Doctor Heath has nothing to blush for, in his past. He withholds his story through pride, not through fear; but it may be necessary to tell it in court, in order to prove that he did not know John Burrill previous to the meeting in Nance Burrill's cottage; and if he refuses to tell his story, I must tell it for him."

It is O'Meara's turn to be surprised, and he writes on with eager eyes and bated breath.

"And now, O'Meara," concludes Mr. Wedron, "there were two parties sworn to-day, who did not tell all they knew concerning this affair. One was—Mr. Francis Lamotte."

Ray breathes again.

"The other was—Mr. Raymond Vandyck."

Ray colors hotly, and half starts up from his seat. O'Meara lays down his pen, and stares across at his contemporary, but that individual proceeds with unruffled serenity.

"Mr. Vandyck did not tell all that he knows, because he feared that in some way his testimony might be turned against Clifford Heath. Here he can have no such scruples. Our first step in this case, must be to find out who Clifford Heath suspects; and why he will not denounce him."

"And that bids fair to be a tough undertaking," says O'Meara.

"Not at all, Mr. O'Meara. I expect that this young man can give us all the help we need."

"I," burst out Ray. "You mistake, sir; I can not help you."

"Softly, sir; softly; reflect a little, this is no time for over-nice scruples; besides, I know too much already. We three are here to help Clifford Heath. Mr. Vandyck, can you not trust to our discretion; you may be able, unknown to yourself, to speak the word that will free your friend from the foulest charge that was ever preferred against a man. Will you answer my questions frankly, or—must we set detectives to hunt for the information you could so easily give?"

"Softly, Sir; softly; reflect a little."

The calm, resolute tones of the stranger have their weight with the mystified Ray. Instinctively he feels the power of the man, and the weight of the argument.

"What do you wish to know, sir?" he says, quietly. "I am ready to serve Clifford Heath."

"Ah, very good;" signing to O'Meara. "First, sir, as a friend of Doctor Heath, do you know if he has recently had any trouble, any disappointment? He is a young man. Has he been jilted, or—"

"Ah-h-h!" breaks in O'Meara; "why didn't you ask me that, Wedron? Upon my soul, I have heard plenty about this same business."

"Then take the witness stand, sir. What do you know? You won't be over delicate in bringing facts to the surface."

"Why," rubbing his hands serenely, "I can't see your drift, Wedron, any more than can Vandyck here; but I have heard Mrs. O'Meara discuss the probable future of Clifford Heath, until I have it by heart. Not long ago she was sure he, Heath, was in love with Miss Wardour, and we all thought she rather favored him, although it's hard to guess at a woman's real feelings. Later, quite lately, in fact, the thing seemed to be all off, and my wife has commented on it not a little."

"Oh!" ejaculates Mr. Wedron. "And—had Doctor Heath any rivals?"

"Miss Wardour has always plenty of lovers; but I believe that Mr. Frank Lamotte was the only rival he ever had any reason to fear."

"Ah! so Mr. Frank Lamotte has been Heath's rival? Handsome fellow, that Lamotte! Mr. Vandyck," turning suddenly upon Ray, "the ice is now broken. What do you know, or think, or believe, about this attachment to Miss Wardour?"

"I think that Heath really hoped to win her at one time, and I believed his chances were good. Something, I don't know what, has come between them."

"Do you think she has refused him?"

"Honestly, I don't, sir. I think there is a misunderstanding."

"And young Lamotte, what of him?"

"I suppose he has come in ahead; in fact, have very good cause for thinking him engaged to Miss Wardour."

"Bah!" cries O'Meara, contemptuously, "I don't believe it. There's nothing sly about Constance. She would have told me or my wife."

"I'll tell you my reasons for saying this, gentlemen," says Ray, after a moment's hesitation. "I'll tell you all I can about the business. Some time ago, shortly after Heath's last encounter with Burrill, I came into town one day to keep an appointment with him."

"Stay! Can you recall the date?"

"It was on Monday, I believe, and early in the month."

"Go on."

"I met one of the Wardour servants, who gave me a note. It was a request that I wait upon Miss Wardour at once; she wished to consult me on some private matters. Miss Wardour and I, you must understand, are very old friends."

"Yes, yes; go on."

"I excused myself to Heath, and, just as I was leaving the office, Lamotte came in. He challenged me, in badinage, as though he had a right to say who should visit Wardour. He overheard me telling Heath where I was going."

"Yes."

"During my call, I made some allusion to Lamotte, speaking of him as her accepted lover. She did not deny the charge my language implied, and I came away believing her engaged to Lamotte. When I returned to Heath's office, Lamotte had gone, and Heath asked me, rather abruptly, if I believed Miss Wardour would marry Lamotte. I replied, that I did believe it then, for the first time."

"Ah, yes! Mr. Vandyck, are you aware that on this same day, this Monday of which you speak, Clifford Heath received an anonymous note, in a feminine hand; warning him against danger, and begging him to leave town?"

"What, sir?" starting and coloring, hotly.

"Ah, you are aware of that fact. Did you see that note, Mr. Vandyck?"

"I did," uneasily.

"How did Heath treat it?"

"With utter indifference."

"So! And did he, to your knowledge, receive other warnings?"

"I am quite sure he did not."

"During your call at Wardour Place, did Miss Wardour mention Doctor Heath."

"She—did," reluctantly.

"She did. Can you recall what was said."

"It was soon after that street encounter with Burrill. I related the circumstance; she had not heard of it."

"And did she seem unfriendly toward Heath?"

"On the contrary I think she was, and is, his friend."

"You met Lamotte in Heath's office. Does Lamotte go there often?"

"Why, he made a pretence of studying with Heath; but he never stuck very close to anything; he had read a little in the city, I believe."

"Then he is quite at home in Heath's office?"

"Quite at home."

"Thank you, Mr. Vandyck." Mr. Wedron draws back from the table and smiles blandly upon poor Ray. "Thank you, sir. You are an admirable witness; for the second time to-day you have evaded leading questions, and withheld more than you have told. But I won't bear malice. I see that you are resolved not to tell why Miss Wardour summoned you to her presence on that particular day; so, I won't insist upon it—I will find out in some other way."

"Thank you," retorts Ray, rather stiffly. "It will be a relief to me, if you can do so. Can I answer any more questions, sir?"

"Not to-night. And, Mr. Vandyck, as a friend of Clifford Heath's, we ask you to help us, and to share our confidence. Now, we must find out first, if Constance Wardour is engaged to Lamotte; and second, the cause of the estrangement between herself and Doctor Heath. Can you suggest a plan?"

"Yes," replies Ray, a smile breaking over his face. "Send for Mrs. Aliston, and question her as you have me."

"Good!" cries Mr. Wedron. "Excellent!"

AN APPEAL TO THE WARDOUR HONOR.

During the night that saw Sybil Burrill's reason give way under the long, horrible strain, that had borne upon it; the night that witnessed the downfall of Frank Lamotte's cherished hopes, and closed the earthly career of John Burrill; Mrs. Lamotte and Mrs. Aliston hovered over the bed where lay Sybil, now tossing in delirium, now sinking into insensibility. Early in the evening, Dr. Heath had been summoned, and he had responded promptly to Mrs. Lamotte's eager call.

They could do little, just then, save to administer opiates; he told them there was every symptom of brain fever; by to-morrow he would know what course of treatment to pursue; until then, keep the patient quiet, humor all her whims, so far as was possible; give her no stimulants, and, if there was any marked change, send for him at once.

The two anxious women hung upon his words; afterward, they both remembered how cheerful, how brave and strong he had seemed that night; how gentle his voice was; how kindly his glance; how soothing and reassuring his manner.

In the gray of the morning, Sybil dropped into one of her lethargies after hours of uneasy mutterings, that would have been mad ravings, but for the doctor's powerful opiate; and then, after a word combat with Mrs. Lamotte, just such an argument as has occurred by hundreds of sick beds, where two weary, anxious watchers vie with each other for the place beside the bed, and the right to watch in weariness, while the other rests; after such an argument, Mrs. Aliston yielded to the solicitations of her hostess, and withdrew, to refresh herself with a little sleep.

The vigil had been an unusual one, and Mrs. Aliston was very weary. No sound disturbed the quiet of the elegant guest chamber where she lay; and so it happened that a brisk rapping at her door; at ten o'clock in the morning, awoke her from heavy, dreamless slumber, and set her wandering wits to wondering vaguely what all this strangeness meant. Then suddenly recalling the events of the previous night, she sat up in bed and called out:

"Who is there?"

"It's ten o'clock, madam," replied the voice of Mrs. Lamotte's maid; "and will you have breakfast in your room, or in the dining room?"

Slipping slowly out from the downy bed, Mrs. Aliston crossed to the door, and peering out at the servant, said:

"I will breakfast here, Ellen. How is Sybil?"

"She is worse, I think, madam, and Mrs. Lamotte is very uneasy; I think she wishes to speak with you, or she would not have had you wakened."

"Tell her I will come to her at once;" and Mrs. Aliston closed the door and began a hurried toilet; before it was completed, Mrs. Lamotte herself appeared; she was pale and heavy eyed, and seemed much agitated.

"Pardon my intrusion," she began, hurriedly; "I am uneasy about Sybil; she is growing very restless, and for more than an hour has called unceasingly for Constance. Do you think your niece would come to us this morning? Her strong, cool nerves might have some influence upon poor Sybil."

"I am sure she will come," replied Mrs. Aliston, warmly "and without a moment's delay. I will drive home at once, Mrs. Lamotte, and send Constance back."

"Not until you have had breakfast, Mrs. Aliston. And how can I thank you for your goodness, and your help, during the past horrible night?"

"By saying nothing at all about it, my dear, and by ordering the carriage the moment I have swallowed a cup of coffee," replied the good-hearted soul, cheerily. "I hope and trust that Sybil will recover very soon; but if she grows worse, you must let me help you all I can."

Half an hour later the Lamotte carriage rolled swiftly across the bridge and towards Wardour; and so Mrs. Aliston, for the time at least, was spared the shock that fell upon the house of Mapleton, scarce fifteen minutes later, the news of John Burrill's murder, and the finding of the body.

Little more than an hour later, Constance Wardour sprang from the carriage at the door of Mapleton, and ran hurriedly up the broad steps. The outer door stood wide open, and a group of servants were huddled about the door of the drawing room, with pale, affrighted faces, and panic-stricken manner.

Seeing them, Constance at once takes the alarm. Sybil must be worse; must be very ill indeed. Instantly the question rises to her lips:

"Is Sybil—is Mrs. Burrill worse?" and then she hears the startling truth.

"John Burrill is dead. John Burrill has been murdered." In bewilderment, in amazement, she hears all there is to tell, all that the servants know. A messenger came, telling only the bare facts. John Burrill's body has been found in an old cellar; Frank has just gone, riding like a madman, to see that the body is cared for, and to bring it home. Mrs. Lamotte has been told the horrible news; has received it like an icicle; has ordered them to prepare the drawing room for the reception of the body, and has gone back to her daughter.

All this Constance hears, and then, strangely startled, and vaguely thankful that Frank is not in the house, she goes up to the sick room. Mrs. Lamotte rises to greet her, with a look upon her face that startles Constance, even more than did the news she has just heard below stairs.

Intense feeling has been for so long frozen out of that high-bred, haughty face, that the look of the eyes, the compression of the lips, the fear and horror of the entire countenance, amount almost to a transfiguration.

She draws Constance away from the bed, and into the dressing room beyond. Then, in a voice husky with suppressed emotion, she addresses her as follows:

"Constance Wardour, I am about to place my honor, my daughter's life, the honor of all my family, in your hands. There is not another living being in whom to trust, and I must trust some one. I must, for my child's sake, have relief, or my reason, too, will desert me. Constance, that sick room holds a terrible secret—Sybil's secret. If you can share it with me, for Sybil's sake, I will try to brave this tempest, as I have braved others; if you refuse"—she paused a moment, and then whispered fiercely:

"If you refuse, I will lock that chamber door, and Sybil Lamotte shall die in her delirium before I will allow an ear that I can not trust, within those walls, or the hand of a possible enemy to administer one life-saving draught."

"Sybil Lamotte shall die in her delirium."

Over the face of Constance Wardour crept a look of horror indescribable. In an instant her mind is illuminated, and all the fearful meaning of Mrs. Lamotte's strange words, is grasped and mastered. She reels as if struck by a heavy hand, and a low moan breaks from her lips. So long she stands thus, mute and awe-stricken, that Mrs. Lamotte can bear the strain of suspense no longer.

"For God's sake, speak," she gasps; "there have been those of your race who could not abandon a fallen friend."

Over the cheek, and neck, and brow, the hot, proud, loyal Wardour blood, comes surging. The gray eyes lift themselves with a proud flash; low and firm comes the answer:

"The Wardours were never Summer friends. Sybil has been as a sister, in prosperity; I shall be no less than a sister now. You may trust me as you would yourself; and—I am very glad you sent for me, and trusted no other."

"God bless you, Constance! No one else can be trusted. With your help I must do this work alone."

Then comes a cry from the sick room; they go back, and Constance enters at once upon her new, strange task. Her heart heavy; her hand firm; her ears smitten by the babbling recitation of that awful secret; and her lips sealed with the seal of the Wardour honor.

All that day she is at her post. Mrs. Lamotte, who is resolved to retain her strength for Sybil's sake, lies down in the dressing room and sleeps from sheer exhaustion.

As the day wears on there is movement and bustle down stairs, they are bringing in the body of the murdered man. The undertaker goes about his work with pompous air, and solemn visage; and when darkness falls, John Burrill's lifeless form lies in state in the drawing room of Mapleton, that room over the splendors of which his plebeian soul has gloated, his covetous eyes feasted and his ambitious bosom swelled with a sense of proprietorship. He is clothed in finest broadcloth, surrounded with costly trappings; but not one tear falls over him; not one heart grieves for him; not one tongue utters a word of sorrow or regret; he has schemed and sinned, to become a member of the aristocracy, to ally himself to the proud Lamottes; and to-night, one and all of the Lamottes, breathe the freer, because his breathing has forever ceased. Even Constance Wardour has no pitying thought for the dead man; she keeps aloof from the drawing room, shuddering when compelled to pass its closed doors; living, John Burrill was odious to her; dead, he is loathsome.

The day passes, and Doctor Heath does not visit his patient. At intervals during the long afternoon, they have discussed the question, "What shall we do to keep the patient quiet when the doctor comes?"

It is Constance who solves the problem.

"We must send for Doctor Benoit, Mrs. Lamotte; Doctor Heath's tardiness will furnish sufficient excuse, and Doctor Benoit's partial deafness will render him our safest physician."

It is a happy thought; Doctor Benoit is old, and partially deaf, but he is a thoroughly good and reliable physician.

Late that night, Jasper Lamotte applies for admittance at the door of his daughter's sick room. Constance opens the door softly, and as his eyes fall upon her, she fancies that a look of fierce hatred gleams at her for a moment from those sunken orbs and darkens his haggard countenance. Of course it is only a fancy. In another moment he is asking after his daughter, with grave solicitude.

"She is quiet; she must not be disturbed;" so Constance tells him. And he glides away softly, murmuring his gratitude to his daughter's friend, as he goes.

It is midnight at Mapleton; in Sybil Lamotte's room the lights burn dimly, and Mrs. Lamotte and Constance sit near the bed, listening, with sad, set faces, to the ravings of the delirious girl.

"Ha! ha!" she cries, tossing her bare arms aloft. "How well you planned that, Constance! the Wardour diamonds; ah, they are worth keeping, they are worth plotting to keep—and it's often done—it's easy to do. Hush! Mr. Belknap, I need your help—meet me, meet me to-night, at the boat house. If a man were to disappear, never to come back, mind—what would I give? One thousand dollars! two! three! It shall be done! I shall be free! free! free! Ha! ha! Constance, your diamonds are safer than mine—but what are diamonds—I shall live a lie—let me adorn myself with lies. Why not? Why care? I will be free. You have been the tool of others, Mr. Belknap, why hesitate to serve me—you want money—here it is, half of it—when it is done, when I know it is done, I will come here again—at night—and the rest is yours."

With a stifled moan, Mrs. Lamotte leans forward, and lays a hand upon her companion's arm.

"Constance—do you know what she means?"

Slowly and shudderingly, the girl answers:

"I fear—that I know too well."

"And—that boat-house appointment?"

"Must be kept, Mrs. Lamotte; for Sybil's sake, it must be kept, by you or me."

It is midnight. In Evan Lamotte's room lamps are burning brightly, and the fumes of strong liquor fill the air. On the bed lies Evan, with flushed face, and mud bespattered clothing; he is in a sleep that is broken and feverish, that borders in fact, upon delirium; beside him, pale as a corpse, with nerves unstrung, and trembling, sits Frank Lamotte, fearing to leave him, and loath to stay. At intervals, the sleeper grows more restless, and then starts up with wild ejaculations, or bursts of demonaic laughter. At such times, Frank Lamotte pours, from a bottle at his side, a powerful draught of burning brandy, and holds it to the frenzied lips. They drain off the liquor, and presently relapse into quiet.

It is midnight. In the library of Mapleton, Jasper Lamotte sits at his desk, poring over a pile of papers. The curtains are closely drawn, the door securely locked. Now and then he rises, and paces nervously up and down the room, gesticulating fiercely, and wearing such a look as has never been seen upon the countenance of the Jasper Lamotte of society.

It is midnight. In the Mapleton drawing room, all that remains of John Burrill, lies in solemn solitary state; and, down in his cell, face downward upon his pallet, lies Clifford Heath, broad awake, and bitterly reviewing the wrongs heaped upon him by fate; realizing, to the full, his own helplessness, and the peril before him, and doggedly resolving to die, and make no sign.

I CAN SAVE HIM IF I WILL.

Doctor Benoit was old and deaf; he was also very talkative. One of those physicians who invariably leave a titbit of news alongside of their powders and pellets. A constant talker is apt to be an indiscreet talker, and, very often, wanting in tact. Doctor Benoit was not so much deficient in tact, as in memory. In growing old, he had grown forgetful, and not being a society man, social gossip was less dear to his heart than the news of political outbreaks, business strivings, and about-town sensations. Doubtless he had heard, like all the world of W——, that Doctor Clifford Heath had, at one time, been an aspirant for the favor of the proud heiress of Wardour, and that suddenly he had fallen from grace, and was no more seen within the walls of Wardour, or at the side of its mistress on social occasions. If so, he had entirely forgotten these facts. Accordingly, during his second call, made on the morning after the inquest, he began to drop soft remarks concerning the recent horror.

Mrs. Lamotte was lying down, and Constance had decided not to arouse her when the doctor arrived, inasmuch as the patient was in one of her stupors, and not likely to rouse from it.

The arrest of a brother practitioner on such a charge as was preferred against Clifford Heath, had created no little commotion in the mind of Dr. Benoit, and he found it difficult to keep the subject off his tongue, so, after he had given Constance full instructions concerning the patient, he said, standing hat in hand near the dressing room door:

"This is a terrible state of affairs for W——, Miss Wardour. Do you know," drawing a step nearer, and lowering his voice, "Do you know if Mr. Lamotte has been informed that O'Meara, as Heath's lawyer, demands a surgical examination?"

"As Heath's lawyer!" The room seemed to swim about her. She turned instinctively toward the door of the chamber, closed it softly, and came very close to the old doctor, lifting her pale lips to his ear.

"I don't understand you, doctor. What has Mr. O'Meara to do with the murder?"

"Hey? What's that? What is O'Meara going to do? He's going to defend young Heath." Then, seeing the startled, perplexed look upon her face, "Is it possible you have not heard about Heath's arrest?"

She shook her head, and again lifted her mouth to his ear.

"I have heard nothing; tell me all."

"It seems that there was an old feud between Heath and Burrill," began the doctor, beginning to feel that somehow he had made a blunder. "They have hunted up some pretty strong evidence against Heath, and the coroner's jury brought in a verdict against him. You know the body was found in an old cellar, close by Heath's cottage."

At this moment there came a soft tap on the outer door, which Constance at once recognized. Mechanically she moved forward and opened the door. Mrs. Lamotte stood on the threshold.

Seeing the doctor and Constance, she at once inferred that Sybil was the subject under discussion, and to insure the patient against being disturbed, beckoned the doctor to come outside.

As he stepped out into the hall, Constance, hoping to get a little information from him, came forward, and standing in the doorway, partially closed the door behind her.

"Doctor," said Mrs. Lamotte, anxiously, "do you see any change in Sybil?"

He shook his head gravely.

"There is no marked change, madam; but I see a possibility that she may return to consciousness within the next forty-eight hours, in which case I must warn you against letting her know or guess at the calamity that has befallen her."

The two women exchanged glances of relief.

"If she receives no shock until her mental balance is fully restored, her recovery may be hoped for; otherwise—"

"Otherwise, doctor?"

"Otherwise, if she retains her life, it will be at the cost of her reason."

"Oh!" moaned the mother, "death would be better than that."

There was the sound of a door opening softly down the hall. They all turned their eyes that way to see Frank Lamotte emerging from Evan's room. He came hurriedly toward them, and Constance noticed the nervous unsteadiness of his gait, the pinched and pallid look of his face, the feverish fire of his sunken eyes.

"Mother," he said, in a constrained voice, and without once glancing toward Constance, "I think you had better have Doctor Benoit see Evan. I have been with him all night, and am thoroughly worn out."

"What ails Evan, Frank?"

"Too much liquor," with a shrug of the shoulders. "He is on the verge of the 'brandy madness,' he sometimes sings of. He must have powerful narcotics, and no cessation of his stimulants, or we will have him raving about the house like a veritable madman; and—I have not told him about Burrill."

A look of contrition came into the mother's face. Evan had kept his room for days, but, in her anxiety for her dearest child, she had quite forgotten him.

"Come, doctor," she said, quickly; "let us go to Evan at once."

They passed on to the lower room, leaving Constance and Frank face to face.

Constance moved back a pace as if to re-enter the dressing-room; burning with anxiety as she was, to hear more concerning Clifford Heath, her womanly instincts were too true to permit her to ask information of her discarded suitor. But Frank's voice stayed her movements.

"Constance, only one moment," he said, appealingly. "Have a little patience with me now. Have a little pity for my misery."

His misery! The words sounded hypocritical; he had never loved John Burrill over much, she knew.

"I bestow my pity whenever it is truly needed, Frank," she said, coldly, her face whitening with the anguish of her inward thought. "Do you think you are the only sufferer in this miserable affair?"

"I am the only one who can not enlist your sympathies. I must live without your love; I must bear a name disgraced, yet those who brought about this family disgrace, even Clifford Heath, in a felon's cell, no doubt you will aid and pity; he is a martyr perhaps, while I—"

"While you—go on, sir;" fierce scorn shining from the gray eyes; bitter sarcasm in the voice.

"While I," coming closer and fairly hissing the words, "am set aside for him, a felon, Oh! you are a proud woman, and you keep your secrets well, but you can not hide from me the fact that ever since the accursed day that brought you and Clifford Heath together, he has been the man preferred by you. If I have lost you, you have none the less lost him; listen."

Before she is aware of his purpose, he has her two wrists in a vice-like grip; and bending down, until his lips almost touch the glossy locks on her averted head, he is pouring out, in swift cutting sentences, the story of the inquest; all the damning evidence is swiftly rehearsed; nothing that can weigh against his rival, is omitted.

Feeling instinctively that he utters the truth; paralyzed by the weight of his words; she stands with head drooping more and more, with cheeks growing paler, with hands that tremble and grow cold in his clasp.

He sees her terror, a sudden thought possesses his brain; grasping her hands still tighter, he goes madly on:

"Constance Wardour, in spite of the coldness between you, you love Clifford Heath. What will you do to save him?"

"Constance Wardour, you love Clifford Heath."

"This is too much! This is horrible!" She makes a mad effort to free herself from his grasp.

The question comes like a taunt, a declaration of her helplessness. Coming from him, it is maddening. It restores her courage; it makes her mistress of herself once more.

"Don't repeat that question," she says, flashing upon him a look of defiance.

"I do repeat it!" he goes on wildly. "Go to O'Meara; to whom you please; satisfy yourself that Clifford Heath has a halter about his neck; then come to me, and tell me if you will give yourself as his ransom. I can save him if I will. I will save him, only on one condition. You know what that is."

With a sudden fierce effort she frees herself from his clasp, and stands erect before him, fairly panting with the fierceness of her anger.

"Traitor! monster! Cain! Not to save all the lives of my friends; not to save the world from perdition, would I be your wife! You would denounce the destroyer of that worthless clay below us. You! Before that should happen, to save the world the knowledge that such a monster exists, I will tell the world where the guilt lies, for I know."

Before he can realize the full meaning of her words, the dressing-room door is closed between them, and Frank Lamotte stands gnashing his teeth, beating the air with his hands in a frenzy of rage and despair.

While he stands thus, a step comes slowly up the stairs; he turns to meet the gaze of his father.

"Frank," says Jasper Lamotte, in low, guarded accents, "Come down to the library at once. It is time you knew the truth."

A LAST RESORT.

Like a man in a dream, Frank Lamotte obeys his father's call, never once thinking that the summons is strangely worded. Over and over in his mind the question is repeating itself—What did she mean? Was he going mad? Was he dreaming? Had Constance Wardour really said a word that rendered himself and all that household unsafe? If she knew who should stand in Clifford Heath's stead, would she really spare the culprit? No; it was impossible. Was her talk bravado? was she seeking to deceive him?

"Impossible," he reasons. "If she knew who struck that blow, then I am ruined utterly. But she does not know—she can not."

Jasper Lamotte leads the way to the library. It seems natural that he should move softly, cautiously. A supernatural stillness pervades the lower floor. Frank Lamotte shudders and keeps his eyes turned away from the closed-up drawing room with its silent tenant.

When they are seated face to face, with locked door and closely drawn curtains, Frank looks across at his father, and notes for the first time that day the lines of care settling about the sallow mouth, and underneath the dark, brooding eyes. A moment of silence rests between them, while each reads the signs of disaster in the face of the other. Finally the elder says, with something very like a sneer in his voice:

"One would think you a model mourner, your visage is sufficiently woful." Then leaning across the table, and elevating one long forefinger; "Something more than the simple fact of Burrill's death has shaken you, Frank. What is it?"

Frank Lamotte utters a low mirthless laugh.

"I might say the same of you, sir; your present pallor can scarcely be attributed to grief."

"True;" a darker shadow falling across his countenance. "Nor is it grief. It is bitter disappointment. Have you seen Miss Wardour?"

"Yes;" averting his head.

"And your case in that quarter?"

"Hopeless."

"What!" sharply.

"Hopeless, I tell you, sir; do I look like a prosperous wooer? she will not look at me. She will not touch me. She will not have me at any price."

Jasper Lamotte mutters a curse. "Then you have been playing the poltroon," he says savagely.

The countenance of the younger man grows livid. He starts up from his chair, then sinks weakly back again.

"Drop the subject," he says hoarsely. "That card is played, and lost. Is this all you have to say?"

"All! I wish it were. What took me to the city?"

"What took you, true enough. The need of a few thousands, ready cash."

"Yes. Well! I have not got the cash."

"But—good heavens! you had ample—securities."

"Ample securities, yes," with a low grating laugh. "Look, I don't know who has interposed thus in our favor, but—if John Burrill were alive to-night you and I would be—beggars."

"Impossible, while you hold the valuable—"

"Bah! valuable indeed! you and I have been fooled, duped, deluded. Our treasured securities are—"

"Well, are what?"

"Shams."

"Shams!" incredulously. "But that is impossible."

"Is it?" cynically. "Then the impossible has come to pass. There's nothing genuine in the whole lot."

A long silence falls between them. Frank Lamotte sits staring straight before him; sudden conviction seems to have overtaken his panic-stricken senses. Jasper Lamotte drums upon the table impatiently, looking moody and despondent.

"A variety of queer things may seem plain to you now," he says, finally. "Perhaps you realize the necessity for instant action of some sort."

Frank stirs restlessly, and passes his hand across his brows.

"I can't realize anything fully," he says, slowly. "It's as well that Burrill did not live to know this."

"Well! It's providential! We should not have a chance; as it is, we have one. Do you know where Burrill kept his papers?"

"No."

"Who removed his personal effects? Were you present?"

"Assuredly. There were no papers of value to us upon the body."

"Well, those papers must be found. Once in our hands, we are safe enough for the present; but until we find them, we are not so secure. However, I have no doubt but that they are secreted somewhere about his room. Have you seen Belknap to-day?"

"Only at the inquest. Curse that fellow; I wish we were rid of him entirely."

"I wish we were rid of his claim; but it must be paid somehow."

"Somehow!" echoing the word, mockingly.

"That is the word I used. I must borrow the money."

"Indeed! Of whom?"

"Of Constance Wardour."

"What!"

"Why not, pray? Am I to withdraw because you have been discarded? Why should I not borrow from this tricky young lady? Curse her!"

"Well!" rising slowly, "she is under your roof at this moment. Strike while the iron is hot. Have you anything more to say to-night?"

"No. You are too idiotic. Get some of the cobwebs out of your brain, and that scared look out of your face. One would think that you, and not Heath, were the murderer of Burrill."

A strange look darts from the eyes of Frank Lamotte.

"It won't be so decided by a jury," he says, between his shut teeth. "Curse Heath, he is the man who, all along, has stood in my way."

"Well, there's a strong likelihood that he will be removed from your path. There, go, and don't look so abjectly hopeless. We have nothing to do at present, but to quiet Belknap. Good night."

With lagging steps, Frank Lamotte ascends the stairs, and enters his own room. He locks the door with a nervous hand, and then hurriedly lowers the curtains. He goes to the mirror, and gazes at his reflected self,—hollow, burning eyes, haggard cheeks, blanched lips, that twitch convulsively, a mingled expression of desperation, horror, and despair,—that is what he sees, and the sight does not serve to steady his nerves. He turns away, with a curse upon the white lips.

He flings himself down in a huge easy chair, and dropping his chin upon his breast, tries to think; but thought only deepens the despairing horror and fear upon his countenance. Where his father sees one foe, Francis Lamotte sees ten.

He sees before him Jerry Belknap, private detective, angry, implacable, menacing, not to be quieted. He sees Clifford Heath, pale, stern, accusing. Constance Wardour, scornful, menacing, condemning and consigning him to dreadful punishment. The dead face of John Burrill rises before him, jeering, jibing, odious, seeming to share with him some ugly secret. He passes his hand across his brow, and starts up suddenly.

"Bah!" he mutters, "this is no time to dally; on every side I see a pitfall. Let every man look to himself. If I must play in my last trump, let me be prepared."

He takes from his pocket a bunch of keys, and, selecting one of the smallest, unlocks a drawer of his dressing case. He draws forth a pair of pistols and examines them carefully. Then he withdraws the charges from both weapons, and loads one anew. The latter he conceals about his person, and then takes up the other. He hesitates a moment, and then loads that also, replaces it in its hiding place, closes and locks the drawer. Then he breathes a long sigh of relief.

"It's a deadly anchor to windward," he mutters, turning away. "It's a last resort. Now I have only to wait."

A STRANGE INTERVIEW.

While Frank Lamotte, in his own chamber, is preparing himself for emergencies, Constance Wardour stands by the bedside of her unconscious friend, struggling for self control; shutting her lips firmly together, clenching her teeth; mastering her outward self, by the force of her strong will; and striving to bring the chaos of her mind into like subjection. Three facts stare her in the face; three ideas dance through her brain and mingle themselves in a confused mass. Clifford Heath is in peril. She can save him by betraying a friend and a trust. She loves him.

Yes, stronger than all, greater than all, this fact stands out; in this hour of peril the truth will not be frowned down. She loves this man who stands accused of murder; she loves him, and, great heavens! he is innocent, and yet, must suffer for the guilty.

What can she do? What must she do? She can not go to him; she, by her own act, has cut off all friendly intercourse between them. But, something must be done, shall be done.

Suddenly, she bends down, and looks long and earnestly into the face of the sleeper. The dark lashes rest upon cheeks that are pale as ivory; the face looks torture-stricken; the beautiful lips quiver with the pain of some dismal dream.

Involuntarily, this cry escapes the lips of the watcher:

"My God! To think that two noble lives must be blasted, because of that pitiful, worthless thing, that lies below."

The moments drag on heavily, her thoughts gradually shaping themselves into a resolve, while she watches by the bedside and waits the return of Mrs. Lamotte. At last, she comes, and there is an added shade of sorrow in her dark eyes; Evan is very ill, she fears for his reason, too.

"What has come upon my children, Constance?" she asks, brokenly; "even Frank has changed for the worse."

"Poor Evan," sighs Constance, thinking of his loyal love for Sybil; and thus with her new resolve strong in her mind, she says, briefly:

"I must go to town at once, Mrs. Lamotte, and will return as soon as possible. Can you spare me without too much weight upon yourself."

Without a question, Mrs. Lamotte bids her go; and very soon she is driving swiftly toward W——, behind the splendid Lamotte horses.

Straight to Lawyer O'Meara she is whirled, and by the time she reaches the gate, she is as calm as an iceberg.

Coming down the steps is a familiar form, that of her aunt, Mrs. Aliston. Each lady seems a trifle disconcerted by this unexpected meeting; neither is inclined to explain her presence there.

Mrs. Aliston appears the more disturbed and startled of the two; she starts and flushes, guiltily, at sight of her niece.

But, Constance is intent upon her errand; she pauses long enough to inquire after her aunt's health, to report that Sybil is much the same, and Evan ill, and then she says:

"Is Mr. O'Meara at home, Aunt Honor?"

"Yes. That is, I believe so," stammers Mrs. Aliston.

"Then I must not detain you, or delay myself; good morning, auntie;" and she enters the house, leaving Mrs. Aliston looking perplexed and troubled.

Ushered into the presence of Mr. O'Meara, Constance wastes no words.

"Mr. O'Meara," she begins, in her most straightforward manner, "I have just come from Mapleton, where I have been with Sybil since last night. This morning, Doctor Benoit horrified me by telling me that Doctor Heath has been arrested for the murder of John Burrill."

Just here the study door opens softly, and a portly, pleasant faced gentleman enters. He bows with easy self-possession, and turns expectantly toward O'Meara. That gentleman performed the ceremony of introduction.

"Miss Wardour, permit me: Mr. a—Wedron, of the New York Bar. Mr. Wedron, my dear, is here in the interest of Doctor Heath."

A pair of searching gray eyes are turned full upon the stranger, who bears the scrutiny with infinite composure. She bows gravely, and then seats herself opposite the two gentleman.

"Mr. O'Meara," she says, imperiously, "I want to hear the full particulars of this affair, from the very first, up to the present moment."

The two professional men exchange glances. Then Mr. Wedron interposes: "Miss Wardour," he says, slowly, "we are acting for Clifford Heath, in this matter, therefore, I must ask, do you come as a friend of the accused, or—to offer testimony?"

Again the gray eyes flash upon him. "I come as a friend of Doctor Heath," she says, haughtily; "and I ask only what is known to all W——, I suppose."

Mr. Wedron conceals a smile of satisfaction behind a smooth white hand; then he draws a bundle of papers from his pocket.

"O'Meara," he says, passing them to his colleague; "here are the items of the case, as we summed them up last evening; please read them to Miss Wardour." And he favors the little lawyer, with a swift, but significant glance.

Drawing his chair a little nearer that of his visitor, O'Meara begins, while the portly gentleman sits in the background and notes, lynx-like, every expression that flits across the face of the listening girl.

O'Meara reads on and on. The summing up is very comprehensive. From the first discovery of the body, to the last item of testimony before the coroner's jury; and after that, the strangeness, the apathy, the obstinacy of the accused, and his utter refusal to add his testimony, or to accuse any other. Utter silence falls upon them as the reading ceases.

Constance sits mute and pale as a statue; Mr. Wedron seems quite self-absorbed, and Mr. O'Meara, glances around nervously, as if waiting for a cue.

Constance turns her head slowly, and looks from one to the other.

"Mr. O'Meara, Mr. Wedron, you are to defend Doctor Heath, you tell me?" They both nod assent.

"And—have you, as his counsel, gathered no palliating proof? Nothing to set against this mass of blighting circumstantial evidence?"

Mr. Wedron leans forward, fastens his eyes upon her face, and says gravely: "Miss Wardour, all that can be done for Clifford Heath will be done. But—the case as it stands is against him. For some reason he has lost courage. He seems to place small value upon his life I believe that he knows who is the guilty one, and that he is sacrificing himself. Furthermore, I believe that there are those who can tell, if they will, far more than has been told concerning this case; those who may withhold just the evidence that in a lawyer's hands will clear Clifford Heath."

The pallid misery of her face is pitiful, but it does not move Mr. Wedron.

"Last night," he goes on mercilessly, "Mr. Raymond Vandyck sat where you sit now, and I said to him what I now say to you. Miss Wardour, Raymond Vandyck knows more than he has told." His keen eyes search her face, her own orbs fall before his gaze. Then she lifts them suddenly, and asks abruptly:

"Who are the other parties who are withholding their testimony?"

Again Mr. Wedron suppresses a smile. "Another who knows more than he chooses to tell is Mr. Frank Lamotte."

She starts perceptibly.

"And—are there others?"

"Another, Miss Wardour, is—yourself."