The Detective’s Clew

THE DETECTIVE’S CLEW.

CHAPTER I.
THE BROTHER’S MESSAGE.

The little steamer Neptune plowed through the water, sweeping past lovely scenes of green verdure and jutting rocks, almost making her passengers regret that their journey’s end was so near. And, in truth, the approach to Dalton did form a most delightful close to a journey of some forty miles from one of the principal cities on the New England coast. The trip could be made by rail, but the Neptune had been fitted up by a company of enterprising men, who offered comfort and pleasure in opposition to speed and dust. The project succeeded well, the little steamer receiving its fair proportion of passenger traffic.

On she sped, cutting the water cleanly, and rapidly drawing near the wharf.

Two young men stood on the deck in a position where they could best view the town. One of them was a trifle below the medium height, but his form was well proportioned, and his features indicative of individuality and character. His complexion was rather light, and so was his hair, but his eyes were black, deep-set, and luminous. He had a frank expression, which was marred, however, for the moment by a look of uneasiness and a shade of sadness.

His companion was a fair sample of the young American of the present day. He was a trifle taller than his companion, well built, with brown hair and blue eyes, a dark mustache overhanging a well-cut mouth, erect in carriage, deliberate in his motions, his general appearance designating him to the casual observer as a “man of business.” You would naturally feel that he would be equal to any emergency—that his self possession would not be likely, even under trying circumstances, to desert him. Very different in this respect was he from his companion, who was plainly excitable, and whose total “make-up” suggested that he might not at all times be master of himself.

The latter spoke:

“I don’t know how my uncle will receive me, Leonard,” he said. “I almost tremble at going into his presence.”

“Nonsense!” said the other. “I should not tremble at all. All you have to do is to tell your story, and then, if he doesn’t behave himself, quietly bid him good-day.”

“Ah, I know that would be your way,” was the reply, “but I could not do it. He is my father’s brother.”

“Yes, and a model brother, too. His course has entitled him to so much respect that I should think you would be considerate of his feelings.”

The tone was impatient and ironical.

“But I am here for reconciliation, you know. They have been like strangers so long—never holding any communication with each other—and on his dying bed my father enjoined me to go to him and tell him how it all came about—how Geoffrey Haywood produced, by his lies and misrepresentations, an estrangement between two brothers that had always been so fond of each other. They were both passionate, and neither would seek explanations. Haywood was cool and calculating, and knew how to approach both of them.”

“And Haywood now lives in Dalton?”

“Yes; he still keeps on the right side of Colonel Conrad, and, I suspect, owes all his prosperity to his influence and aid.”

“When did your father discover that Haywood had been the means of the feud?”

“Nearly a year ago. His health was at that time poor, and he was unable to leave Europe, where he was traveling. He wrote to his brother, but the letter came back unopened. My father never grew better. He thought that, if I could see my uncle and lay the case before him, he might go down to his grave without the old hate rankling in his heart.”

The youth grew excited, and paced up and down the deck. Then he continued:

“I am to see this savage monster—this irate beast, as I have learned to regard him—and run the risk of hearing the memory of my father reviled, and his name insulted. It seems as if I could not bear it. His living face is yet too fresh in my memory. But the mission is intrusted to me, and I must fulfill it. I will tell him the facts, and my duty will have been done.”

Leonard Lester looked upon his cousin as he spoke, and smiled a pitying smile.

“It is rather tough,” he said, “to be obliged to get down on your knees to such an individual as I imagine your, or, rather, our uncle, to be—for I suppose he must be my uncle, since you and I are cousins, although I have never seen him. But I believe I am to accompany you, and if he lets off too much steam, I will let off some, too. I can do it, when there’s occasion.”

His eyes proclaimed the truth of what he said.

Leonard Lester and Carlos Conrad were distant cousins, and cherished a strong regard for each other. Carlos was the son of Anthony Conrad, who, years before, had married a Spanish girl. Her dark beauty had won the affection of the American, and they had lived together ten years, when she died. The only fruit of the union was a boy, whom they named Carlos. He inherited the warm and voluptuous nature of his mother, and the firm and stable, though somewhat passionate, character of his father. And there was within him a vein of delicate sensibility, peculiarly his own, which added to the refinement of his nature, though it might at times render him weak and irresolute. A considerable portion of his life had been spent in Europe, near the home of his mother, and in other portions of the Continent.

His father had died but a few weeks before the time at which this chapter opens, and had charged Carlos with a mission which, as we have seen, he was about to undertake.

Leonard Lester was connected with a large importing house in New York. He had been abroad on business for the firm several times, and had met Carlos in Paris, Vienna, Berlin, and other places. The cousins seemed to gravitate toward each other, and a warm affection sprang up between them.

On this occasion they were going together to the residence of Anthony Conrad’s brother, Colonel William Conrad, whose home was in the suburbs of the beautiful village of Dalton.

The steamer bumped against the dock, making everybody give an involuntary pitch forward, and was soon fastened to her moorings. The plank was thrown out, and the passengers thronged ashore.

Leonard and Carlos stood looking about for a moment, endeavoring to decide which way to turn.

“Shall we go to a hotel?” asked Leonard.

“Yes, by all means,” quickly responded Carlos. “We will not intrude on his hospitality until we know what our reception is to be.”

“It will be all right, I will venture,” said Leonard, cheeringly. “If you have proofs of what you are about to say, he surely will not be so unreasonable as to turn you off.”

Carlos sighed, but did not reply, as they stepped into a hack. They were driven rapidly through the lively streets of the busy village, and conveyed to a hospitable-looking hotel. A pleasant room, which commanded a fine view of the ocean in the distance, was placed at their disposal.

After an hour’s rest and a good supper, they approached the hotel clerk, Leonard saying:

“I believe that Colonel Conrad is a resident of this place?”

“Yes, sir, he is,” replied the clerk.

“Can you inform me where he lives?”

“He lives on his place—Elm Grove—about a mile out of the village.”

“In what direction is Elm Grove?”

“Straight north, on this street—Main street it is called.”

“Thank you.”

And the cousins stepped aside.

“I wonder what they can want of Colonel Conrad?” mused the clerk, staring after them.

After discussing the matter, Carlos and Leonard determined not to visit their uncle until the next morning. So, after spending an hour in rambling about town, and by the shore of the bay, they returned to the hotel and retired at an early hour.

The next morning they set out for Colonel Conrad’s residence. The walk was dusty at first, but soon merged into a pleasant avenue, shaded on either side by ancient and noble trees. Then there was a gentle ascent, a slope downward, and a short distance farther, situated on a rise of ground, was Elm Grove, the residence of Colonel Conrad.

The heart of Carlos beat nervously, his step was hurried, and his motions were quick. Not so with Leonard. He was cool and composed, and, as the two passed through the open gate, and up the broad gravel walk, he said:

“Come, now pick up courage. Think of your father, be a man, and defend him from insult, whoever it comes from.”

The words had their desired effect. A look of resolution came into Carlos’ face, which Leonard regarded with satisfaction.

They ascended the steps and rang the door-bell.

A servant appeared.

“Is Colonel Conrad at home?” asked Carlos.

“I think he is,” replied the servant. “Shall I take your names?”

They handed him their cards. Carlos’ was edged with black. Soon the servant returned, and said that Colonel Conrad would see them.

They were ushered through a wide hall, on the left side of which was the room where Colonel Conrad awaited them.

The servant bowed them in.

The room was not a large one, but it was fitted up with elegance and taste. On one side was a row of shelves, on which were ranged books of all sizes and colors.

It was the colonel’s library, and a choice one it was, too, valuable principally for the age and rarity of some of the volumes.

There was a fire-place, a writing-table, a closed desk, heavy, rich, and antique in pattern, a huge clock, reaching from the floor to the ceiling, a smaller case of book-shelves near it, a couch, and a few chairs.

All this was taken in at a glance, as was also the figure of the proprietor of the mansion, seated in an easy-chair, with an open book lying on the table beside him.

Never were two persons more surprised than were the cousins at the appearance of Colonel Conrad. They had expected to see in their uncle a large, frowzy, ferocious-looking monster in human form, with a face expressive of malice, and that peculiar expression that always belongs to lips given to invective and denunciation.

Instead, there sat before them a man not above the medium size, with hair thickly tinged with gray, and a careworn, studious, thoughtful face. His eyes were blue, and, in contrast with his appearance otherwise, were bright as those of a youth of twenty. His brow was wrinkled irregularly, suggesting inward conflict and mental anxiety.

He sat and looked at his nephews steadily without speaking. Carlos gazed earnestly and apprehensively into his face, while Leonard stood in an easy attitude, apparently not in the least discomfited.

At length the uncle bent his gaze more particularly on Carlos. It was impossible to tell the thoughts that occupied his mind. Finally he said:

“You’re his son?”

“I am your brother’s son,” replied Carlos.

“I suppose it is unnecessary to ask what that means?” said Colonel Conrad, holding up the card edged with black.

“You can readily imagine,” said Carlos, with difficulty controlling his emotion.

The old man bowed his head for an instant, and then looking up again, said, impatiently:

“Well, well, why don’t you be seated? What are you standing up for? There are plenty of chairs.”

The cousins smiled, and acted on the hint thus conveyed.

“I’m a wonderfully forgiving man,” began Colonel Conrad; “if I were not, I wouldn’t so much as suffer your presence in sight of my house.” He was addressing himself to Carlos. “You know the old saying is that the sins of the fathers shall be visited on the children, and I ought to visit the sins of your father on you; for you know how he deeply wronged me, or at least you ought to know it, for if he didn’t confess it on his dying bed I should have but little hope for his future――”

“Colonel Conrad,” interrupted Carlos, endeavoring to control himself so as to appear calm, “you must not talk in that way. I’ll not hear it—no, not even from you. Your dead brother was a good man, and I, his son, will not hear his name traduced.”

“Y-o-u’-l-l not h-e-a-r his name tr-a-d-u-c-e-d!” repeated Colonel Conrad, in a prolonged, contemptuous tone, staring at Carlos with his piercing eyes. “I’d like to know what you are going to do about it?”

“I’ll defend him, sir, with my right arm,” said Carlos, rising to his feet. “I’ll call out the first man who dares to slander him. He was a good and true man, and I am here to prove it.”

“You had better sit down, young man,” said the colonel. “I suppose you have come here begging, but you’ll not gain anything by such behavior, I can tell you.”

“I am no beggar,” retorted Carlos, angrily, “and I will accept none of your money. But I have an errand to do, and after it is performed, I will leave you. It is a message from my father.”

“Well, Carlos,” said his uncle, suddenly assuming a nonchalant manner, “I see you have pluck, and I like you for it. But too much pluck is not always a good thing. I have had too much of it in my day, so has your father, the vil—but no, I’ll not call him names now; let him rest in peace.”

After a pause and a moment’s dreamy silence, he resumed:

“I have seen much sorrow in my time, boys, and have gone through some hard experiences. There was that quarrel with my brother—we were both hasty, and have not seen each other since. There was my wife—bless her memory!—who died many years ago, leaving me no children. Yes, I have passed through some sad experiences, and all I have to do in my old age is to sit still and think about them. I tinker a little with one thing and another—bother my head over machinery and philosophy—and that is about all I have to relieve the tedium of my life. But no, there’s Florence—she’s a good girl.”

The last words he spoke rather to himself than to his listeners.

“You have a nephew living in Dalton, have you not?” said Leonard, who had as yet taken no part in the conversation.

“A nephew? Oh, yes—Geoffrey Haywood, I suppose you mean. He is a very good man—very pious and very honest. He has met with great success in his business. Yes, Geoffrey is my best friend.”

He glanced up, as he spoke, in a slightly defiant manner, as if he expected to be contradicted; but seeing no such purpose on the part of his auditors, he ceased speaking, and drummed nervously on the table.

“Well, Colonel Conrad,” said Leonard, “Carlos has come here on an errand, and he wishes, though he dreads, to open the subject. It is from your dead brother, Anthony. Carlos knows of the enmity that existed between you and him, but he hopes and I hope that you will hear him through.”

The old man shook his head.

“No good can come of any talk about my dead brother,” he said, sadly; “but he may speak. I will hear what he has to say, for if his father left with him a message, it is his duty to deliver it.”

“Thank you for those words, uncle,” said Carlos, “for now I can go on and tell the story untrammeled. It is a tale of deep wrong, which should bring curses on the perpetrator. The quarrel between you and my father was the work of a villain, whose heart must have been black and rotten—whose sordid desire for wealth must have made him forget all that was noble and manly within him.”

Carlos then began at a period dating years back, giving the details of a plot that had separated Anthony and William Conrad, filling them with hate and venom toward each other. There was one who had caused it all—who had studied his plans well, and carried them out with fiendish precision; and who was now reaping the harvest of his mischief by living near Colonel Conrad, enjoying his friendship and—his gold.

“Need I mention the name of the villain?” asked Carlos. “Is not one, and only one, person brought to your mind, and that Geoffrey Haywood? Stop! do not interrupt me now. I must finish, and then I will go or stay, as you bid me. My father learned all the facts a year ago. He wrote to you, but the letter was returned unopened――”

“I never received it,” said Colonel Conrad, huskily.

“Ah! that is some more of Haywood’s work. My father’s health was poor, and he never left Europe after writing the letter. But a few weeks ago, on his dying bed, he told me about it, and charged me to come to you and inform you how you had both been wronged. He gave me this package to deliver to you, which he says contains convincing proofs. He died reconciled to you in his heart, and wished you to forgive him while he yet lived on this earth. Take the package and examine it impartially, for the memory of the love which you once cherished for your brother.”

Carlos laid the package down and ceased speaking. He had performed his duty.

Colonel Conrad’s head was bowed, and he appeared to be in deep thought. A hard, impenetrable look came across his features, and he said, in a perfectly calm voice:

“Carlos, your story is a strange one. If true, it is indeed a terrible record of wrong. You have done your duty, and I cherish no ill-will toward you. But I am lost and perplexed. Don’t you think it would stagger any man? I must think. You must leave me for the rest of the day—or rather I must leave you, for you will, both of you, be my guests. I must shut myself up. I will read the papers contained in the package, for that will be no more than an act of simple justice.”

“Thank you, my uncle,” said Carlos. “But I shall not consent to share your hospitality at present. As yet, you are my father’s enemy, and may continue to be so. We will remain at a hotel until you have investigated the matter and rendered a decision.”

“Yes,” said Leonard, “Carlos is right. For the present our abiding-place shall be the hotel.”

Colonel Conrad was not in a condition to dispute their decision or urge them to stay. His mind seemed to be under a cloud, and he made no reply to their remarks.

He did not rise, nor speak, but simply bowed, as they bade him good-day and took their departure.

CHAPTER II.
GEOFFREY HAYWOOD.

No. 32 Main street was the most elegant store in Dalton. Silks and laces, arranged in perfect order and taste, graced its windows; the counters bore a new and polished look, and everything about it betokened unwearying care and constant watchfulness on the part of its proprietor. The clerks had a subdued look, and moved about in an automaton-like manner, like horses thoroughly broken in, or trained dogs going through with their parts. When their master passed through the store, their submissive expression was augmented, if possible; and if his keen eye detected nothing to disapprove, they shot glances of mutual congratulation at each other.

Geoffrey Haywood was not called a hard employer, nor an illiberal man, but those under him well knew that every cent they received was well and dearly earned. Nothing remiss was ever overlooked—no neglect of duty forgotten. When pay-day came, every inattention and inadvertence was found faithfully recorded against the delinquent.

Mr. Haywood himself was not bad-looking. With an erect, well-proportioned form, a luxuriant black beard and mustache always neatly combed and brushed, a fair complexion and black eyes and hair, he was called a handsome man. He had a fine set of teeth, which glistened brightly through his beard when he opened his mouth to smile. We say when he opened his mouth to smile, yet he seldom smiled. When occasion seemed to call for a look of pleasure, he would part his lips and show his teeth, but no other feature of his face altered its lines; his eyes shone no brighter—there were no crows’ feet at the corners; the embryo smile was nipped in the bud, it vanished into space, it diffused itself behind the glossy beard, and buried itself in the unfathomable depths of the glistening eyes. This movement of the mouth, this attempt at a smile, answered many purposes. It terrified delinquent debtors; it took all the starch out of a clerk whom it was desirable to awe; it sent beggars away abashed at their own audacity; it even said to the minister, “Keep on in your humble efforts, and you may possibly win my approval some day or other.”

On the day that Carlos Conrad and Leonard Lester arrived in town, Geoffrey Haywood chanced to be looking from the door of his store across the street at the hotel just as the hack drove up. He saw at once that the cousins were strangers, and that they were rather distinguished-looking.

Consequently he put on his hat and walked slowly over to the hotel, at his even, cat-like pace. No unnecessary noise did he ever make; his boots never creaked, and his cane never thumped the sidewalk or floor.

He saw on the young men’s trunk the initials “L. L.,” and “C. C.,” and read on the hotel register the names, “Carlos Conrad” and “Leonard Lester.”

The only evidence of surprise which he gave was a half-whistle, which he suppressed almost as soon as it escaped him. He immediately returned to his store and shut himself up in his private office. There he sat down and reflected as follows:

“What can this mean? Carlos is the son of old Anthony, and the colonel hates him worse than death. It can’t be that they’ve become reconciled. That would be impossible. The game was played too well and has gone on smoothly too long for that. But what can his son be doing here? and his cousin with him, too!”

Mr. Haywood’s manner, now that he was unobserved, lost something of its calm and unruffled exterior. He got up and paced the room, evidently much disturbed in mind.

“By Heaven!” he thought, “I must find out the object of this visit. There is too much at stake to be off guard a moment. If the old man should find out the part I took in his quarrel with his brother, I would in all likelihood be disturbed in my present snug berth. That cannot be the object of Carlos, though. The colonel will never see him. He will not speak to him when he finds out that he is Anthony’s son. Ha, ha! my young boy, if you have come here expecting to win favor from Colonel Conrad, you are most grandly mistaken. I can give you that information without your taking the trouble to walk out to his house. I’ll watch you.”

The next day he observed, of course, that the two cousins called at Elm Grove, and it was with a feeling of almost terror that he noticed that they did not return for more than two hours. So disturbed with conjectures and suspicions was he that he resolved to call on Colonel Conrad at once, to satisfy the burning curiosity that tortured him.

Accordingly, in the afternoon, he set out for Elm Grove, not hurrying in the least, although so tumultuous were the feelings that raged within his breast that he would have run at the top of his speed had he acted on his natural impulse. But to act on impulse was not part of Geoffrey Haywood’s life. His policy was to be always calm, self-possessed, and unapproachable, except so far as he chose to be approached. Consequently he walked with his usual stately gait, and when he presented himself at the door of Colonel Conrad’s mansion, his manner betrayed naught but complacency and a kind of obtrusive quietness.

To the servant who answered his ring, he said:

“Ah, Barker, good afternoon. Is your master in?”

Barker said he would see, and in a few moments returned with the intelligence that his master was indisposed, and could see no one.

“Go and tell him that it’s I, Barker,” said Haywood, with some loftiness.

Barker departed again, and again returned.

“He sent me out of his room and locked the door, sir, and said as how not to disturb him no more.”

“What—ahem—are you sure you understood him aright, Barker?”

“Yes, sir, sure,” said Barker, smiling, as he thought of the very emphatic manner in which the speech had been given, which he had repeated in a somewhat modified form to Haywood.

“Is Miss Florence in?” asked the merchant.

“No, sir, she left early this morning for a visit to the Cummingses.”

Haywood stood and reflected a moment. Then he said to Barker, who had turned to depart:

“Well—ah—Barker, wait a moment. Did two young men visit your master this morning?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Could you tell me their names?”

“Well, not knowing ’em, I couldn’t.”

“Did he see them?”

“Yes, sir, they were in his room with him more’n an hour.”

“Ah! You don’t know what their business was, of course? That is, you didn’t happen to overhear any of their conversation?”

“No, sir, only at first there was some pretty loud words passed between them, and afterward there was a good deal of talking in an ordinary tone.”

“Yes. Well it’s nothing in particular to me. I thought possibly they might be a couple of friends of mine whom I expect to visit me. And, by the way, Barker, you needn’t say anything about what I’ve been asking you. Here’s a dollar. I’ve been intending to make you a present for a long time.”

Barker stared in astonishment, for it was the first instance of liberality he had ever witnessed on the part of Mr. Haywood. He stood speechless while that august personage moved slowly down the path and into the street.

“A little tight!” was the laconic comment as he pocketed the dollar.

Haywood walked to his store, and entered in silent meditation, almost forgetting the stereotyped glance which he was wont to cast around at his clerks, seeming to say to them:

“I suspect you—every one of you. It’s useless for you to attempt to evade my scrutiny. It would be worse than folly for you to try to deceive me.”

This was with no appearance of inquisitiveness, but with a calm assertion of omniscience into their every thought and action as connected with his business.

No one ever knew how long he remained in his private office that night—how he pondered and sat in a brown study for hour after hour. If his rascality were to be exposed now—if Colonel Conrad should cast him off—what would become of him? Years before he had risked reputation, honor, everything, to get on the right side of his uncle, and become a partaker of the benefits of his wealth. He had succeeded. Anthony and William Conrad were taught to hate each other, and Haywood made the latter believe that he was his best friend.

William Conrad had been a colonel in the Mexican war, and during his military career had made acquaintances who subsequently induced him to invest a large portion of his means in gold mines. The investment was a profitable one, and brought him a large annual income.

And now, Haywood, who had acquired wealth and position through the aid of Colonel Conrad, was greatly disturbed at the visit of Leonard and Carlos. It suggested to his mind complete disgrace and utter ruin.

Besides, his uncle’s refusal did not add to his comfort. All in all, he was in a terribly perplexed and apprehensive state of mind. He determined to call again at Elm Grove the next morning, and, accordingly, on the following morning presented himself at the door.

“Oh, good-morning, Miss Florence. Is my uncle in?”

“Yes, Mr. Haywood, he is in, but I doubt whether he is disengaged at present. He has been very busy yesterday and to-day.”

“Indeed! But I think he will see me. I wish to talk with him for a moment on a matter of business.”

“I will ask him,” said the girl, “although he has given me strict orders not to be disturbed. Will you walk into the parlor in the meantime?”

He signified his assent, and she led the way. He stopped on the threshold for an instant in surprise, as he saw two young men in the room.

“Mr. Haywood,” said Florence, “permit me to introduce you to Mr. Carlos Conrad. This is Mr. Lester. Please excuse me for a moment.”

And she gracefully retired from the room, leaving the gentlemen to make the acquaintance of and entertain each other.

It was an awkward meeting. Haywood, for once in his life, was lost for something to say. Carlos eyed him steadily, and betrayed agitation. Leonard endeavored to open a conversation.

“We are on a visit to Dalton,” he said, “and called this morning to see our uncle, but he is indisposed, and we are forced to forego the pleasure of an interview with him.”

“Ah!” was Mr. Haywood’s sole comment.

“Yes, but we have had the pleasure of spending a few moments with the very lovely girl who just left us. I judge that you are acquainted with her. May I ask whether she is a relative of Colonel Conrad?”

“She is an adopted daughter of Colonel Conrad, who, as you doubtless know, never had any children. Her name is Florence Darley.”

“She has a beautiful face,” said Leonard.

“Yes,” said Haywood, showing three of his teeth, “everybody admires her beauty.”

At this moment the object of their conversation returned. She said:

“Colonel Conrad will see you for a moment, Mr. Haywood.”

Haywood rose from his seat, cast a barely perceptible look of triumph at the two young men, and left the parlor. He proceeded directly to his uncle’s room, and knocked. He was bade to enter.

He opened the door, expecting to see Colonel Conrad stretched out on a couch, with his dressing-gown on, a bottle of medicine by his side, and other indications of illness. But instead, there was the old man seated upright in his chair, with papers and writing material before him, staring at his visitor with an irritated expression, and looking the very reverse of weak.

“Ahem! Uncle Conrad,” began Haywood, “I called yester to see you, but――”

“Yes, I know you did,” replied the colonel, curtly. “You say you wish to see me on a matter of business. What is it?”

“Yes, it was a small matter, and not of so very much consequence. Yesterday, when you sent word that you were ill, I was quite troubled about you. So I thought I would step up this morning――”

“Oh, then you haven’t any particular business with me. I’m perfectly well now, if that is all you want; never was in better health.”

Haywood’s thick beard concealed the flush of vexation that arose to his face. It was something new for him to meet with such a reception. But he had for a long time exercised a certain control over his uncle, and he could not give it up without a struggle. So he did not take the hint that his presence was no longer desired, but still lingered, and said:

“Two nephews of yours are in town. I was surprised at your receiving the son of――”

“What is it to you, sir?” asked the old man, in wrath. “My brother is dead. Our love or hate can no longer affect him. And if I choose to see his son, I suppose it is my right, is it not?”

“Oh, certainly. And your brother is dead, is he? Dear me, how sudden! Well, it quite overcomes me. Ahem! Very sad that he should have departed without making restitution. But I was going to ask you if you could accommodate with a thousand dollars this morning.”

“No, nor a thousand cents. But stay—I expect a dividend to-morrow or next day from California, and then I may let you have it. Good-morning.”

This was delivered in a very emphatic tone, and left no pretext for hesitation. So, with outward serenity but inward vexation, Haywood left the room. He did not enter the parlor again, being in no mood to converse with those who had caused him so much disturbance of mind. He passed silently through the hall, a little faster than his usual pace, and was soon on his way back to the store.

No one but himself knew the terrible agony of suspense and fear that agitated his darkened soul.

CHAPTER III.
“SEVEN O’CLOCK.”

Carlos Conrad and Leonard Lester remained for a few moments after Haywood’s departure in conversation with Florence Darley. As their remarks were commonplace, we will take this opportunity to give a brief sketch of the young lady.

She was an orphan whom Colonel Conrad had adopted ten years before the opening of our story. He had educated her, lavished on her all the tender love and care of a heart that had no other object on which to bestow its affections, and made her all that a daughter could be to him. She had paid him by tender devotion and a deep regard.

In person she was a beautiful girl. She was neither tall nor short, but her form was one of rare symmetry in its proportions, being rather slim, but round and full in development. The principal attraction of her face was not the regularity of its features, but rather the soul which looked out of the beaming eyes, and the atmosphere of light which seemed to be cast around her. Every one felt the gentle influence of her presence, and her manner was charming, oftentimes even unto fascination.

Carlos Conrad felt this, and he gazed at her in such a spell as he had never known before, even when associated with the dark Spanish beauties among whom he had been thrown. He could scarcely utter a word, so deep were the feelings stirred within him as he gazed on the lovely Florence.

Leonard noticed this, and a half smile played about the corners of his mouth, while Florence must have observed it, for a slight blush rose to her cheeks.

But the young men did not linger long. They felt that their presence beneath that roof was out of place for the present—that they should forego intruding on their uncle’s hospitality until the issue of their visit of the preceding day was made known.

So after a short time they rose and announced their intention of departing, bidding Florence Darley good-day. They left the house and made their way toward the village. Carlos was taciturn, and spoke to his cousin only in monosyllables. His mind seemed to remain at Elm Grove, even though his footsteps carried him from it.

“So soon, eh?” laughed Leonard, gazing around into his face.

“What do you mean?” asked Carlos, starting.

“Why, you haven’t seen her half an hour yet.”

“Pshaw!” exclaimed Carlos.

He made no further reply, nor could his cousin induce him to enter into conversation during their entire walk to the hotel. Little did Leonard care for this. He whistled merrily, and walked along in undisturbed spirits.

When they arrived at the hotel he asked the clerk if there were no sources of amusement in Dalton—it was insufferably dull.

“Well,” replied the clerk, “you can play billiards, or you can hire a horse or buggy and drive to Rocky Beach, some four miles off, where there’s splendid fishing.”

“Just the thing!” exclaimed Leonard. “I’ll go off and make the arrangements at once.” He turned around to speak to Carlos, but he had disappeared. “I won’t wait for him,” thought Leonard, “he’ll be ready enough to go after I have made arrangements.”

And straightway he proceeded to a livery stable to engage a horse.

Carlos, meantime, had strolled down the street, and stepped into a news-room. Here he picked up a daily paper, and read an announcement of a concert by a celebrated artiste, to take place in a neighboring town that evening.

He was a passionate lover of music, and had studied the art himself. Here was an opportunity he had long wished for, and he determined to embrace it.

Briefly, then, Leonard Lester set off in one direction, on a fishing excursion, and Carlos Conrad in another, to hear the celebrated Madame P―― sing.

Now, if both could have foreseen what was to take place within the next twenty-four hours, they would probably have materially changed their course; for a great tragedy was about to be enacted—the whole village was to be thrilled through and through with excitement.

The road which Carlos took was the same which led to Elm Grove; so that, in making his journey, he was obliged to pass the residence of his uncle.

Carlos drove swiftly along until he came near Elm Grove, when he brought his horse to a walk. He noticed an express-wagon in front of the gate, and two men carrying a small but heavy box in between them. He looked curiously at this, and the driver of the wagon, who remained on his seat, holding the horse said:

“Prob’ly you don’t know what’s in that box, bein’ a stranger in town?”

“No,” answered Carlos; “I certainly do not know what it contains.”

“Ha, ha! Thought so. Well, I’ll tell you. It’s gold.”

“Gold!”

“Yes. Colonel Conrad owns a mine out West, and about three times a year they send him a box full of gold. You saw, didn’t you, how strong the box was ironed together?”

“Yes, I noticed it.”

“There’s about thirty thousand dollars in it, I’m told.”

“Indeed!” laughed Carlos. “That’s more than one man deserves, I should think.”

And he whipped up his horse to a brisk trot, as he had by this time passed the expressman, and could only talk to him by dint of shouting.

We will pass by the visit of Carlos to Knoxtown, which was his destination, the concert, his enthusiastic admiration of the singer, and the general excitement of applause.

At a late hour in the night he set out on his return. It was starlight, and the air was sultry. He gave himself up to deep thought. What to conclude in regard to his uncle he knew not. He had been agreeably surprised at the reception he had received, for he had expected a storm of reproaches and immediate dismissal.

However, the fact that his uncle had since refused to see him, and at the same time had admitted Haywood, their common enemy, into his own private room, filled him with misgiving. Had he told Haywood the story, and shown the documents to him, so as to give him a chance to explain it all away? If the artful intriguer and mischief-maker were thus early to be allowed the opportunity to justify his conduct, and speciously smooth over his wrong-doing, then indeed had Carlos’ journey been in vain. Thus he thought, and his reflections made him gloomy as he sped on the road to Dalton.

It was past twelve o’clock when he came in sight of his uncle’s residence. It was but natural that he should drive more slowly, and look at the house and grounds.

He approached from the north side. Everything was quiet and gloomy. The air was still and clear, with not a breath of wind stirring. Silence reigned, broken only by the stepping of the horse, and the creaking of the wheels on the ground.

As he passed the house, and looked back at the south side, Carlos gave an involuntary start at seeing one room brilliantly lighted. This was so unexpected, and seemed so out of keeping with the general solitude, that he pulled up his horse and stopped.

He turned around in his seat, and regarded intently the window from which came the light. A careful scrutiny and calculation enabled him to conclude that the room must be his uncle’s study. It was on the ground floor, and, as near as he could judge, in that portion of the house to which he and Leonard had been conducted on their first interview with Colonel Conrad.

What could he be doing at that late hour? Surely, all the rest of the household were abed; and if Colonel Conrad were indisposed, it was, to say the least, curious that he should be occupied reading or studying at that hour. Perhaps he was so ill as to be unable to leave the room or summon assistance.

Suddenly Carlos discovered a dark form hovering stealthily in the shrubbery near the window. This sight decided him. He leaped from the buggy, tied his horse to a stump on the side of the road, and proceeded cautiously toward his uncle’s house.

Slowly he went, climbing over the fence, and making as little noise as possible. He avoided the gravel paths, but kept on the green lawn, which was velvet-like in its softness.

He arrived by the clump of rose-bushes, and thought he heard a rustling among them. He stopped and listened, holding his breath that no sound might escape his ear. Nothing was discernible to break the silence, however, and he resumed his way toward the house.

Finally he stood on the greensward, about a rod from the window he sought. The light was shining brightly still. But another circumstance increased the surprise of Carlos. The window was a long one, extending to the floor, and protected on the outside by blinds.

The blinds were open, and the lower sash of the window was raised.

He again stopped and listened, but still could hear no sound. He crept slowly up to the window and looked in.

There sat Colonel Conrad by the table, his head bowed over on it, motionless, and apparently asleep. The lamp stood beside him, burning brightly.

Carlos looked earnestly in at the figure of his uncle, debating what step to take next. Should he speak or depart, silently as he had come, leaving him to awake at his leisure?

But even as he looked something sent a choking, sickening sensation through him. He gasped for breath, and nearly fainted away, as he saw on the floor beside his uncle a dark-red pool.

It lay there, a glistening, horrible, fascinating puddle. Carlos stood rooted to the spot, for the moment thrown into a dumb, helpless lethargy. But the spell passed from him, and he suddenly roused himself into action.

He sprang into the room, approached his uncle, and touched his shoulder. The figure moved not. Carlos shivered from head to foot. Then he looked about him furtively. He stepped around to the other side of the motionless form, and saw in the neck a bloody wound, as if from a single vigorous deep thrust of a dagger. All this was so sudden and so awful that he could not realize its horror for the time being.

HE STEPPED AROUND TO THE OTHER SIDE OF THE MOTIONLESS FORM.

Again he walked around to the other side of the table. The face of the dead body was bent over, out of sight; one arm was extended out straight, and the other was bent and the fingers clutched tightly together. Carlos could see that within this hand was a fragment of white paper. He seized hold of the fingers, not yet cold and stiff, and unclasped them. The paper was crumpled and wrinkled from the tightness with which it had been grasped. Carlos straightened it out, pulled it smooth, and examined it. It was irregular in shape, with two edges smooth and the other rough and jagged, as if it had been torn from a sheet. On it were two words, in the colonel’s handwriting. The paper and the writing were as follows:

On the table was an envelope, addressed as follows:

Carlos merely glanced at the envelope, and then his gaze immediately returned to the piece of paper he held in his hand.

“Seven o’clock,” he repeated, and uttered the words over and over again in a low, husky voice. “Good Heaven! how horrible!”

But in the midst of it all he was calm enough to reflect.

“This paper,” he thought, “is a fragment of something my uncle was writing. Where is the other part?”

And he looked on the table and on the floor. His search was fruitless.

But again the pool of blood met his eye, and again the sickly, deathly feeling passed over him.

“Murdered!” he exclaimed, “in the night! Ah, who could have done it?”

At that instant he heard a sound without—it was unmistakable this time—and then he suddenly realized his position. What if he were discovered there at that hour, alone with that dead body, which had so recently been living, acting, moving? There could be but one conclusion. He would be accused of being a murderer.

Horrified at the thought, he leaped from the window, only to be met by the stalwart figure of a man, large in stature, and threatening in aspect, bearing in his hand a long, gleaming knife. He had on a black mask, and was advancing slowly, his hand raised as if to strike at an instant’s warning.

Carlos stopped in terror, regarding the mysterious figure in silence, and awaiting its onslaught.

A conflict seemed inevitable, and, gazing for an instant heavenward, he prayed for strength. Then, with sudden resolve, he stood erect, and braced his nerves for whatever might follow.

CHAPTER IV.
A FIGHT AND A FLIGHT.

Carlos and the stranger paused, regarding each other with the quick calculation of antagonists measuring their opponents’ strength.

“You killed my uncle,” said Carlos, in a low tone.

“Your uncle! No—you killed him!”

“I?”

“Yes; you’re the only one that’s been here to-night. Nobody has seen me in or near Dalton.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s lucky that you did happen along here, for I think I can fasten the deed on you. Stop! Don’t move nor speak aloud.”

Carlos had started to leave the spot, but the long knife was presented at his breast in a manner that threatened instant death if he stirred.

“Great Heaven! who are you and why did you kill him?”

“Silence!” was the reply, given in a fierce whisper, and accompanied by a terrible oath. “Don’t repeat that. I say you killed him. And here’s the evidence of it.”

He wiped the dagger, which was still bloody, on Carlos’ coat and vest, leaving great red stains.

“What is that for?” asked Carlos.

“You’ll find out when the spots are discovered. They’ll be pretty bad evidence against you. Ha! that makes you wince. But there is one thing more. I have been watching you, and I want that piece of paper you took from the old man’s hand. Fork it over.”

“What do you want of it?” asked Carlos.

“It belongs to this letter, and the letter is useless without it,” said the man, drawing a white paper partially from his pocket. “Come, give it up, and we will both leave this place quietly.”

But Carlos, seeing that the villain was off his guard for an instant, darted forward with the quickness of lightning and dealt him a powerful blow between the eyes.

The effect might have been serious had not the man been protected by his mask. As it was, it blinded him for a moment, and caused him to drop his dagger.

Carlos stooped to pick it up, but his antagonist recovered quicker than he had expected. He felt a blow on the side of the head that sent him reeling for a distance of two or three yards, and then he fell to the ground. The man was after him, but he was on his feet in an instant, and the two closed.

The man was large, and possessed great muscular strength. Carlos though smaller in stature, had well-developed muscles, and was, moreover, lithe and active. His antagonist soon discovered this, and found that his work was not so easy as he had anticipated.

They struggled and rolled over on the grass, each striving to obtain an advantage over the other. They seemed to be equally matched. But Carlos soon saw that in endurance he would fail. He felt his strength departing from him while the ruffian seemed to be fresh and unwearied. He must end the fight soon, or be beaten.

These thoughts passed rapidly through his mind, and at that instant he saw his opportunity. He suddenly ceased his efforts, and relaxed his struggles, throwing his antagonist off guard for a moment. Then he doubled up quickly, bringing his knees to his breast, and letting his heels fly out violently against his adversary’s stomach.

This mode of proceeding was entirely unexpected. The villain rolled over and uttered a deep grunt.

Carlos was free. He sprang to his feet and fled. He was instantly pursued, however, and if he had not been fleet of foot, would have been overtaken. He ran to the fence, cleared it with a bound, and then went directly to his horse and buggy.

He was almost to the carriage, the ruffian in hot pursuit. He saw that he would not have time to untie the horse, and so, running, he took out his pocket knife and opened the blade. When he came up to the horse he cut the halter, leaving it dangling to the stump.

Then he sprang into the buggy, applied the whip vigorously, and drove rapidly down the road.

Near by was a clump of trees, in the shade of which he saw a horse standing, saddled. Wondering at this, he still drove on, but looked back.

When on the brow of a little hillock he saw his pursuer stop and untie the horse.

“Ha!” thought Carlos, “he is coming after me on horseback. His horse may be fleeter than mine, and in that case he’ll surely overtake me. Ah, here’s a chance to circumvent him!”

He had come to a narrow street branching off from the main road, and into this he turned. As he was about a quarter of a mile ahead, and it was rapidly growing cloudy, he could neither be seen nor heard.

He urged his horse to a quicker rate of speed, and flew along the road blindly, recklessly. At first he passed farm dwellings frequently, and in one or two of them dim lights were burning. Dogs ran out to the gates and barked as he sped by, alarmed at the unusual noise. Again and again he lashed his horse, until the beast was covered with foam.

It now began to grow dark rapidly. Clouds shut out the stars from view, and thunder rumbled in the heavens, mingled with flashes of lightning. Then the rain began to fall in large drops.

Carlos was in a state bordering on delirium. The shock of coming so unexpectedly on the murdered body of his uncle would have been too much for the nerves of a much stronger man than he. The threat of the murderer of fastening the crime on him had filled him with apprehension. Then came the struggle, the pursuit, and the escape; all these following one another, produced on him a terrible state of excitement.

Not until he had driven four or five miles did he once halt or slacken his speed, or reflect that he was beyond the reach of his pursuer. By that time the rain was falling in torrents, loud peals of thunder rent the air, and vivid flashes of lightning came in quick succession.

The rain falling on his heated brow had the effect of cooling his excitement somewhat, and he began to reflect. He stopped urging his horse, and the poor beast dropped into a walk, enjoying the shower falling on his steaming flanks.

Carlos endeavored to look around him, but it was pitch-dark. Where was he? How far from Dalton? How near any human habitation? He knew not. Then he thought:

“Why this flight? I am guilty of nothing. My pursuer is off my track. I should be pursuing him, not he me. Where has he gone? Why did he kill my uncle?” Carlos shuddered as he thought of the body leaning over the table, and the pool of blood on the floor. “I must quickly return to Dalton, or in truth I may be suspected. The villain wiped his dagger on my coat, but I apprehend the rain has washed it all off. Besides, I could have no motive, and nobody saw me near the house. I must arouse the officers, and the murderer must be found.”

Alas! that these thoughts had come so late!

He then stopped the horse and began to consider the best mode of proceeding. He was in a lonely, unknown road, and finally decided to let the horse take his own course. So, dropping the lines, he commanded him to go forward.

The animal obeyed, stepping slowly and cautiously, his feet splashing and sinking deep in the mud at every step, and drawing out with difficulty.

The rain now was falling with less violence, and the thunder and lightning were not so frequent. Carlos was wet through to the skin, and the water ran from each side of his horse in little streams. Both animal and man were chilled and shivering. They plodded on slowly through the darkness, which was so dense as to seem almost like a material substance. Carlos gave himself up to a gloomy despondency, for, although innocent, he had a foreboding that the events of the night would bring evil and misfortune to him.

Suddenly the horse altered his course and turned quickly to the right. As he proceeded, the hub of one of the buggy wheels came in contact with some object—not with such force, however, as to stop the vehicle; and in a moment Carlos no longer felt the rain beating down upon him, but heard it over him, striking some intervening object. They were under a shelter. The horse had turned into a farm-yard and walked under a shed. He stood still, evidently determined to postpone the remainder of his journey until an improvement in the weather should take place.

This was a new and vexatious phase of affairs, and Carlos was confronted with the prospect of remaining in his strange quarters until daybreak.

He had not, up to this moment, heard a sniffing, smelling noise, which came from a large watch-dog, who had been walking around the buggy silently and regarding the new arrival with suspicion. The darkness had prevented him from seeing and the rain from hearing the animal. But now, as he was about to step from the buggy to tie the horse and make things secure for the night, a low growling arrested him. He stopped and listened, and knew that a large dog was in close proximity.

He leaped to the ground notwithstanding, and instantly the growls deepened and a shaggy body sprang against his breast. The dog had aimed for his throat, but seized his coat-collar instead.

Carlos did not lose his presence of mind, but seized the brute suddenly around the lower jaw, holding it with a vise-like grip. There was all the energy of a life-struggle in his grasp, and so tightly was his jaw held that the dog could not bring his teeth together. He was a large, heavy animal, and he bore Carlos to the ground. There they lay, and struggled and floundered, the dog uttering howls of rage, but Carlos never once relinquished his grasp.

The noise aroused the inmates of the house, which was near by. Soon a voice was heard:

“Tige! Tige! what’s the matter out there?”

It was a man who spoke.

“Help! for God’s sake!” cried Carlos.

“Who are you?” asked the voice.

“Call the dog off!” cried Carlos. “My strength is nearly gone!”

The man advanced, carrying a lantern, and peering cautiously ahead of him. He seemed in no hurry to relieve Carlos from his unpleasant position, but looked around as if to assure himself that no one else was about. Having become satisfied on this point, he exclaimed:

“There, Tige, get off. Get off, I say!” giving him a savage kick in the side.

Carlos let go his hold, and the dog, giving a short yelp, ran under the buggy, and seated himself on his haunches, glaring out at them with hungry eyes.

Carlos sank back on the ground and fainted.

“Well, who be you, anyhow?” asked the man.

Receiving no reply, he bent over the prostrate body, and, seeing that it was unconscious, he said:

“I’ll call Kit. Here—go into the house, you hound!”

The dog slunk on ahead of his master, peering backward, first one side, and then the other, with wicked eyes. On arriving at the door, the man roared:

“Kit! Oh, here you are. I should have thought the infernal noise would ha’ ’woke you.”

“It did,” responded a female voice. “What is the matter?”

“A young chap’s out here on the ground that has had a tussle with Tige. He’s gone clear away, and we’ll have to bring him in, I s’pose?”

“Oh, yes! It’s a dreadful night. You carry him in, and I will get some lights and make a place for him.”

Carlos was soon deposited on a couch, with a rough man staring at him, and a young girl, not so rough, endeavoring to restore him.

The man was tall and dark, with a shaggy beard covering nearly his whole face, and heavy eyebrows, overhanging a pair of deep-set, small, restless-looking eyes. He was large as well as tall, and his build betokened great strength. His position was not erect, but his gait was slouching, his look sullen, and his manner that of one at odds with all the world.

The daughter was also large of frame, but she did not share the devil-may-care look of her father. To be sure there was danger in those black eyes when her nature was once aroused, but there was the woman in them—womanly care, womanly softness, womanly passion.

As she bent over the form of Carlos, she overflowed with pity, and used gentle means to restore him.

And when her efforts were rewarded with success she stared at him eagerly, with a loud beating heart, and tears just ready to fall. Then for the first time her hand trembled and her steadiness of nerve forsook her.

Carlos slowly opened his eyes, pressed his hands to his forehead for a moment, and then looked his thanks at the being whose hands were deftly making him comfortable. Beneath his gaze she trembled violently and blushed a deep red. Her face was half averted, and she could find neither words nor voice to express her joy.

Her father saw that Carlos was returning to consciousness, and, going to a chair on the opposite side of the room, said, gruffly, as he sat down:

“He’ll do well enough now.”

At that Carlos sprang up suddenly, saying:

“Yes, I’m all right, and I must go. How far is it to Dalton?”

“Oh, sir,” said the girl, finding her voice, “you must not go to-night. You can’t.”

“Yes, I must,” said Carlos. “Can you tell me how far it is to Dalton?”

“A matter o’ four mile,” replied the man.

“Yes, it’s four miles, and it’s a bad road, with ever so many turns,” said the girl.

Carlos stepped to the door and looked out. It had nearly stopped raining, but the darkness was intense, and the water could be heard rushing in torrents in the ditch beside the road.

“If I only knew the way,” he said, straining his eyes in the vain endeavor to discern surrounding objects; “if I only knew the way, I would not hesitate a moment.”

“If you don’t know the way,” said the girl, “you couldn’t possibly find it. No, it wouldn’t do for you to try. You will have to stay with us until daylight.”

This seemed to be the only alternative, and Carlos reluctantly submitted. A fire was built for him to dry his clothes by, and the room was abandoned to his sole occupancy.

He was agitated, and bewailed the necessity of inaction.

“To remain away all night will make them suspect me,” he thought.

But he was exhausted, and, lying down on the couch, he sank into a troubled sleep. His dreams were disturbing, and he flung his arms and talked wildly as he slept.

Not till morning dawned and the sun was up did he awake. He sprang from the couch, and it took him some moments to recover full consciousness of his situation. Then with a groan he commenced dressing, and was soon in a presentable condition.

The father and daughter were already up, and in the next room had a breakfast prepared, although it was not yet six o’clock.

“We thought you ought to have something to eat before setting out,” said the girl, greeting him with a smile.

“I thank you very much,” replied Carlos. “I will take a cup of coffee, and then must be off.”

During the meal he inquired the names of his host and hostess. The man was Jake Heath, and the girl was his daughter Kate.

“Thank you,” said Carlos. “I will remember you, and repay you some time, if I ever have an opportunity.”

He shrank from offering money, as he instinctively felt that it would offend Kate. So, after again and again expressing his gratitude, he took leave of the two, shaking hands with them heartily.

Kate stood and watched him, a new light coming into her eyes, and a sigh escaping her, coming from the profoundest depths of her nature. The seeds of a hopeless passion had been planted in her heart.

Carlos’ thoughts were different. As he turned toward Dalton he was filled with terrible though vague apprehensions. Although he drove rapidly, he approached the village with fear and trembling, and felt that he was rushing into the jaws of death. And even at the early hour at which he entered the town, he saw that there was an unusual stir. The few that were out, instead of going quietly about their usual business, were talking with one another in excited tones, with sober looks and blanched faces.

Well did he know the terrible nature of their half-whispered words and low-spoken discussions.

CHAPTER V.
THE WRONG MAN.

The masked stranger tore through the shrubbery in mad pursuit after Carlos, uttering the most fearful imprecations.

He strained every nerve to increase his speed, and groaned in desperation as he saw Carlos jump into his buggy and drive off. He ran on to the spot where his horse was stationed, and, once mounted, there was a chance that he might overtake the object of his pursuit.

But Carlos drove rapidly, and, by the time the assassin was mounted, was out of sight.

The man applied the spurs and whip, and his horse galloped along swiftly, making the dirt and stones fly far behind him.

On they flew, swifter and swifter. Like an arrow they shot by the road where Carlos had turned. It was well that the latter adopted this ruse, or he would inevitably have been overtaken, for his pursuer’s horse was a fleet one.

Soon the rider began to grow uneasy.

“I should have come up with him by this time,” he thought. “There’s no horse in the Dalton livery-stable that mine ought not to have run down before this.”

He strained his eyes to look ahead, but the gathering clouds prevented him from discerning objects at any distance. Then he halted and listened. A faint rumbling of wheels greeted his ear, but it was not sufficiently distinct for him to determine from what direction it came. He concluded that it must be toward the village, and again lashed his horse and urged him ahead.

HE STRAINED HIS EYES TO LOOK AHEAD, BUT COULD NOT DISCERN OBJECTS AT ANY DISTANCE.

As he entered the streets of Dalton he began to feel a misgiving that he had been outwitted. But not a single chance must be cast aside, and he neither turned nor slackened his pace. Down the main thoroughfare, and around the corner of a street which led to the livery-stable, he proceeded, and there he saw a horse trotting briskly along, drawing a buggy containing a single occupant.

“Ha! my man,” he thought, “you’re too sure! You thought you were so far ahead that I couldn’t come up with you, but I’ll show you in a moment your mistake!”

Speaking a word to his horse, he dashed on with renewed speed, and was soon but a rod or two behind the buggy. He thought it strange that his approach was apparently not noticed, that there was no attempt to distance him, or avoid him in any way. He whom he supposed to be Carlos Conrad simply looked around once, and then drove on, neither slackening nor increasing his speed.

“Ah, I have it,” thought the pursuer. “He doesn’t know I have a horse. He didn’t see him under the shade of the trees. He thinks I am a mile off, and that some innocent cove is following him. I’ll tackle him now.”

Acting promptly on this theory, he galloped up to the side of the buggy supposed to contain Carlos.

The clouds by this time were quite thick, and rendered everything indistinct to the vision. The pursuer hailed his man:

“Hallo, stranger, hold on!”

The stranger looked around, and said:

“What do you want?”

His apparent unconcern startled the murderer, who, with a sudden impulse, leaped from his horse’s back into the buggy. The action was so quick as to meet with no repulse. The lines were jerked from the driver’s hands, his neck was encircled with a strong arm, and he was quickly chocked into submissiveness. The horse was reined in and stood still. The murderer’s horse, a well-trained animal, also halted and stood motionless.

“Now,” said the assailant, “if you’ll give up that piece of paper, I’ll let you go.”

“What do you mean?” gasped the victim, whose throat was firmly held.

“No fooling,” was the reply, given in an angry tone. “Just hand it over, or it will be the worse for you.”

“Hand what over?”

“The paper.”

“What paper?”

“You know as well as I,” was the reply, accompanied with a curse. “I saw you take it out of his hand.”

“I do not understand you.”

And the victim struggled to free himself. It was in vain. He was held in a vise-like grip.

“Are you not Colonel Conrad’s nephew?” asked the assailant, beginning to cherish doubts as to having hold of the right man.

“Yes, I am Colonel Conrad’s nephew,” was the reply.

“Then do as I wish, or you’ll be murdered, too.”

“I murdered, too! Please explain yourself. And I’ll thank you to give me a clear idea of what you want. If it is my watch, take it. I am helpless; and to have my throat in the embrace of your arm is far from comfortable. You can have my pocket-book, too, although there is precious little in it. At all events, I wish you would transact your business, whatever it is, and then release me.”

Further words were cut short by a blow on the head from a small bag of shot, and Leonard Lester sank back on the seat of the buggy unconscious. For it was he. He had started to return from his fishing excursion at Rocky Beach past midnight, and had arrived in Dalton just in time to fall in with the villain who was in pursuit of Carlos, and to be mistaken for his cousin.

When he first noticed the horseman approaching, he thought it rather strange that he should be out at such an hour, and, of course, did not suspect his object. And when he accosted him, and leaped into the buggy, and made the strange demand for that “piece of paper,” of course Leonard was bewildered. He dared not struggle violently, for the ruffian had him in such a manner that he could, by a contraction of his powerful arm, have easily broken or dislocated his neck. Consequently he was powerless to resist.

On the other hand, the murderer of Colonel Conrad did not dare risk a prolonged struggle in the public street, even at that late hour, to obtain the fragment of paper he so coveted. There was too much danger of making a noise and rousing the dwellers in the neighborhood.

So he adopted the expedient of rendering Leonard insensible for the time being.

By this time the rain-storm had come up. The thunder began to roar and the lightning flashed through the sky.

The ruffian bound Leonard’s hands, and then, lifting him up and placing him astride of his horse, he joined his feet by a cord, drawing it firmly and tying it securely. All this was effected with much trouble, as Leonard was helpless, and was by no means a light weight to handle.

His captor mounted behind him, and, placing his arms around him, held him in position, at the same time grasping the bridle with his hands.

“Now get up, Bill,” he said, “and take us home in short order.”

And he brought his heels violently against the sides of his horse. The animal sprang forward with a snort, and dashed through the streets of the town, amid the driving rain and deafening thunder. The horse and buggy used by Leonard were left behind to take care of themselves as best they might.

On drove the strange couple, one bewildered and confounded by his situation, and the other destined to be scarcely less so, for what would be his emotions on discovering that his prisoner was not the man he had pursued from the grounds of Colonel Conrad?

After a time Leonard returned to consciousness, the jolting ride and the drenching rain arousing his nerves into action. He attempted to struggle, but soon found that the effort was futile. He could move neither his hands nor his feet, and, as he only maintained an upright position by the aid of his companion, he conceived the idea that it would be policy to remain quiet.

On recovering from the effects of the blow he had received, he had immediately comprehended his situation, and was aware that he was being carried rapidly out of town for some purpose—though what he could not imagine.

“Where am I?” he asked; “and who are you?”

“Ah, you’re awake, awake, are you?” was the reply. “You’ll find out who I am soon enough. I’ll take you to a place where you’ll come to terms, I’ll be bound. If you had been reasonable, and given me what I wanted, you might have been abed and asleep by this time. Now I’m afraid it will go a little hard with you.”

“Oh, you’re still harping on that, are you?” said Leonard. “Well, I’ll give you all the pieces of paper I’ve got, if you will leave me one ten-dollar bill for present necessities.”

“Too late now; you ought to have made that offer when I first came up with you. You must go with me now, and I’m thinking you won’t come back in a hurry either.”

“Why? What do you mean?” asked Leonard, in some alarm.

“Oh, nothing, only it will be necessary to take you to a place that you probably never dreamt of; and if we should let you go, it might be the ruination of us.”

“If you should let me go! And don’t you mean to let me go?”

“We can tell better about that pretty soon. By the lightning, how it does pour down! Get up, Bill!”

For as much as half an hour longer they went on their lonely road, now through thick woods, now by open fields. At last the murmur of the sea was faintly heard. They were approaching the shore of the ocean.

Leonard kept a sharp lookout.

Their course was now over rough places and through jagged paths. Every moment the roar of the sea grew more distinct.

At length Leonard’s captor reined in the horse. He took a small instrument from his pocket, placed it to his mouth, and gave three long, shrill whistles.

After a moment’s pause, the signal was answered. Then they pushed forward again, and after riding a short distance, halted.

Leonard could just discern in the darkness a high mass of rocks near him, while the washing of the waves on the shore could be heard close at hand.

“Now,” said his captor, “I’m going to take you down from the horse, and you’ll have to walk a spell. But I warn you that there’ll be no use in your trying to escape—you can’t do it. So look sharp and mind your footing, and keep close to me.”

He took a knife and cut the cords that bound Leonard, for they were so swelled with the rain that it was impossible to untie them.

Leonard leaped to the ground, and stretched his limbs, for they were cramped and painful.

“Now walk ahead of me,” was the command, and the two proceeded forward, Leonard’s mind being active and on the alert for some means of escape from his strange custody.

They were walking parallel with the edge of the water, some rods distant from it.

Suddenly, Leonard turned abruptly to the right and fled. He rushed directly toward the murmuring waves, and stumbled across a small skiff.

A yell of warning followed him, but he leaped into the boat, seized the oars, and rowed rapidly from the shore.

The man reached the water’s edge just too late. With an exclamation of baffled rage, he fired two pistol shots.

Leonard rowed vigorously, and soon put quite a distance between himself and the shore. He hoped, in the darkness, to confuse and outwit his pursuer.

But all at once he heard a suspicious sound, and paused to listen.

It was the sound of oars.

The strokes were quick and strong, and were made by more than one pair of arms. They came from more than one direction, too.

The conviction flashed upon Leonard’s mind that other boats were at hand, and that he was pursued. He threw all his energy into his work, and rowed rapidly. Even as he did so, he was conscious that the odds were against him, but his spirits did not sink, nor did his efforts abate. Although the bow of the little skiff cut the waves gallantly, and shot a stream of seething foam out either side, she was rapidly gained upon. Soon Leonard could hear the strokes of the pursuing oars even while his own were in motion, and they gradually but surely grew more distinct.

Even when it became a certainty that he must be overtaken, he calmly awaited the course of events, not without fear, but still cool and self-possessed.

CHAPTER VI.
UNDERGROUND.

Leonard had scarcely left the shore two rods behind him when his pursuer reached the point where he had leaped into the boat.

Pausing a moment and retracing his steps, he ran to the base of a high cliff of rocks, and again blew his whistle.

“Ratter! Beattie! Hawkins! Out here, quick! There’s work to do.”

“Hi! Snags, what is it?” responded a voice apparently coming from the depths of the rock.

“I had a prisoner and he has flown. He is in a boat now, rowing for dear life.”

“In a boat! How in thunder did you come to let him get a boat? Who is he, anyhow?”

“Do not ask any questions, but be after him as quick as you can. He must not escape!”

“Well, I’ll call the boys.”

“Confound it, you should not have to call them. Why didn’t you get ready for action when you heard my first whistle?”

“Didn’t suppose there was going to be any trouble of this kind. You ought to have watched him more careful――”

“Well, well. Never mind that now. He is pulling away fast, and every moment is precious.”

“Yes, we’re coming. Can’t you tell a fellow what kind of a job it is, Snags?”

“No, not till I see Roake. I don’t know much about it myself yet. Only it’s life or death to get that chap that’s leaving us so fast.”

By this time four men had emerged from an aperture in the rocks, and were hastening to the shore.

“Take two boats, branch out, head him in—be sure that you catch him!” shouted Snags, and before he had fairly ceased speaking, the pursuers were pulling from the shore.

They rowed rapidly, and with a certainty and confidence that betokened an intimate knowledge of the locality.

Snags now turned toward the perpendicular ascent of rock and entered the aperture from which the men had emerged. He stepped into what was apparently a small fissure in the rocks, overhung by a projecting crag.

He proceeded for some distance through a dark passage, and then emerged into a large apartment, dimly lighted by a high, swinging lamp.

It was a cave, the walls of which on all sides were of dark-colored rock, rough and uneven, with moisture oozing out here and there. The ceiling was high, and from it was suspended by a wire the lamp, which cast a ghostly and uncertain glimmer about.

Going directly across the apartment, he came to an opening which branched off in the form of a long, narrow hall. This hall he traversed for some distance, and finally halted before an iron door, over which swung a small lamp.

He knocked. Receiving no answer, he knocked again, louder.

A volley of oaths greeted his ear, uttered in an angry tone.

Waiting until the storm had subsided, he said:

“Roake, let me in. It is I—Snags. Open the door.”

“What the duse is the matter?” uttered the voice, somewhat more mildly, but still with vexation in the tone.

“I’ll tell you when I’m alone with you.”

A rattling at the latch was now heard, and the iron door swung open heavily. It disclosed an apartment fifteen or twenty feet square, which, like the rooms through which Snags had already passed, was feebly illuminated.

On one side was a bed, and there were tables, chairs, a couch, and a cupboard, in different parts of the room. Everything bore an untidy, disorderly look.

As Snags entered, Roake said:

“I suppose everything worked all right—didn’t it?”

Instead of replying, Snags said, cautiously:

“I suppose the ‘Boss’ isn’t around, is he?”

“No, of course not. Why?”

“Nothing, only I’m afraid he wouldn’t be over and above pleased with what I’ve had to do to-night.”

“What have you had to do?” said the other, sharply.

“Well, you see,” said Snags, drawing a long breath, “I got up to the grove about twelve o’clock, and went to the window mentioned. There was a light in the room, and there sat the colonel, writing. I could just see this through a corner of the curtain, which was turned up a little. He wrote more’n an hour, and I out there waiting for him to get through. But he didn’t get through, and I was revolving in my mind a change of tactics, when he got up.

“He went to the other side of the room, where I couldn’t see him, and was gone quite a few minutes. Then he came back to the table and sat down, and I’m blamed if he didn’t go to writing again. Says I to myself, Snags, this ain’t a going to do. It’ll be daylight before you do your work, and if you’re seen in Dalton things may work wrong. I thought, too, that he might be writing on the very document that was wanted. So I made up my mind to crawl in behind him and see what I could see. I moved along to the other window, so as to be directly behind him, and pulled open the wooden shutters. The sash was raised, and so was the curtain, part way, so that all I had to do was to crawl in pretty quiet.

“Well, I got inside, and stood up and looked over his shoulder. Good Lord! you can’t guess what I saw on the table. A jolly old heap of gold coin, and there it is, too!”

Snags reached down into the depths of a huge pocket, and drew out several handfuls of eagles and half eagles. He threw them down on the table, and the eyes of both the men sparkled.

The face of Roake expressed a greedy joy, but he said in an impatient tone:

“Well, what next? What did you do then? How did you get the gold?”

“I was going to say,” resumed Snags, “that just as I was feasting my optics on the shiners, the old man noticed my shadow, and looked up. He saw me standing there, and I think you’ll own it was rather a ticklish place. I hadn’t but one thing to do. You know yourself that I ain’t very fond of it, and confound it, it wasn’t my fault—it couldn’t be helped—I had to stick him――”

“You fool, you! Did you――”

“Yes, needn’t say the word, I did it, but upon my word I didn’t intend to let the life out of him. I only meant to quiet him for a few moments, while I got the booty.”

Snags hesitated as if at a loss how to proceed further. He glanced furtively at his companion, and evidently feared his displeasure. But the other only said:

“Well, what then? You got the booty, that’s one good thing. Did you get anything else?”

“No, and I’ll tell you why. The minute I run it into him, I heard a carriage coming along the road, and so I grabbed the gold and jumped out of the window. I hid in the bushes, and presently a young cuss come stealing into the yard, looking about as if he thought things wasn’t all right. I watched him, and he went into the house, right where the old man was leaning his head on the table, and the blood on the floor by his side. He seemed mighty scared at the looks of things, and took from the old man’s hand a scrap of paper he was clutching even when dead. I crept close up to the window, so as to see well, when the young chap come out. I held up this joker,” and Snags drew the long knife from his breast and laid it on the table, “and told him to wait a minute, I wanted to see him. I told him he must give up that paper he had taken from the colonel’s hand, but he vowed he wouldn’t. He called the old man his uncle, and asked me what I killed him for.

“But I couldn’t stop to waste no words with him, and so we got into a tussle. By gum! he was a wiry chap, if he was little; and he got away from me, too. He ran into the road, jumped into his buggy, and drove like mad into the town. But I had Bill all saddled, under the trees, and I got on him as quick as I could, and went after him. Thunder! how he did go! But I caught him just as he was going up toward the livery-stable, and had to knock him in the head; for it wouldn’t do, you know, to raise a muss, and make a noise right in the village.

“I put him on the horse in front of me, and streaked it for this spot. When we’d rode as far as we could, I took him down and made him walk; and—would you believe it?—though I followed him up close, he gave me the slip again, and ran like split down the shore, jumped in a skiff, and rowed off.”

“The devil he did,” said Roake. “You’ve made a pretty mess of it, all around. You ain’t so sharp as you used to be. And so the fellow has escaped, has he?”

“I hope not,” said Snags. “Rattler and the others are out with two boats after him, and as he didn’t get much of a start I think they’ll catch him. It’ll be mighty serious business if they don’t.”

“How’s that?”

“He’ll bring officers here, and they’ll burst up the whole nest of us.”

“That would be a bad job. And you can have your cursed blundering to thank for it. Just think of it; to kill a man when it was not in the game, and then to let a prisoner escape from you so easily.”

“Don’t blow, Roake. I couldn’t help it. There is one thing we can do; if our man is not caught we can leave this place, and take a journey that leaves no trail.”

“I hate to do that.”

“So do I. But self-preservation, and so forth, you know.”

Both men were silent for a short time, when Snags said:

“I’m mighty hungry, Roake, and dry as a fish. A man must eat and drink after such a job as I’ve been through.”

“You’ll find what you want in the cupboard there,” said Roake.

He lit a pipe, and smoked furiously, muttering:

“I don’t know what the boss will say.”

Snags proceeded to eat with a voracity that attested a good appetite, and a mind untroubled, for the time, by the bloody scene in which he had so recently been the chief actor.

The men conversed no more together, but each occupied himself with his own thoughts, and anxiously awaited the appearance of Leonard Lester, who at that moment had nearly abandoned all hope of eluding the four men who were pursuing him with their boats.

CHAPTER VII.
IN STRANGE QUARTERS.

Snags, when his appetite was in a measure appeased, grew impatient. He was anxious lest Leonard Lester should make good his escape, and felt a sort of responsibility concerning the securing of the captive. More than that, he apprehended that his carelessness would bring him into discredit among his comrades, should Leonard not be retaken.

And still further, there was something he had not chosen to tell Roake, namely, the contents of the paper he had torn from Colonel Conrad’s hand. He had read it hastily before the arrival of Carlos on the scene, and it fell just short of conveying some very desirable information. That information, he was sure, could be supplied by the missing fragment, and this he was eager to obtain. But he decided that Roake must know nothing of all this, at least for the present.

Growing more and more anxious concerning the recapture of his escaped prisoner, Snags at length left the apartment of Roake, and made his way through the rocky passages to the beach again.

Here he listened for the sound of returning boats. For some moments he waited, and at last his heart rose in glee as he heard the splashing of oars.

“They would not return so soon unless they had succeeded,” he reasoned.

And he was right.

The boats soon came ashore, and Leonard Lester was in the hands of the ruffians.

“Ha!” exclaimed Snags. “Here you are. You see we know our business. You might as well give in first as last.”

“I always give in when I am obliged to,” replied Leonard; “never otherwise. And now I’d like to know among what sort of a crew I have fallen, and what the whole thing means?”

“Oh, it won’t be long before you’ll have all the information you want, and more too. Now come with me. Step along.”

Leonard hesitated, and looked around him—the light of the lantern held by Snags enabling him to take a dim view of his surroundings.

“One, two, three, four, five,” he counted. “If there were not more than three of you, I think I could see what my muscle is good for. But five are too many. Yes, I’ll go. Be on your guard, though, for I warn you I’ll not be a tractable prisoner.”

“Yes, you’ve taught us that,” laughed Snags; “we sha’n’t give you too much leeway.”

Leonard was conducted into the rocky cave, and through the passage past Roake’s door. Then a sudden turn to the right brought them to three descending steps, after which there was a rocky ascending passage some forty feet in length.

Having traversed this, they came to a wider opening, in an obscure corner of which a concealed door was opened. Through this Leonard was led, and found himself in a large apartment of irregular shape, whose walls, ceiling, and floor were of rock. The place was moist, chilly, and gloomy.

“Well, how will this room suit you?” asked Snags.

“I don’t suppose it makes any difference whether it suits me or not,” replied Leonard. “You seem to have the game all in your own hands.”

“Yes, I should say we had. And if you’ve made up your mind to that, it’s all the better for you. Now, boys, this ’ere chap’s my prisoner, and I’d like to see him alone for a few minutes. S’pose you leave us, and keep within calling distance.”

In obedience to this suggestion, Snags’ comrades withdrew, closing the heavy door of the apartment behind them.

Snags drew a revolver from his pocket, set his lantern on the floor, and addressed Leonard. The two were some five yards apart.

“In the first place,” said Snags, “don’t move from your tracks; if you do, I’ll shoot you dead. You’re a wiry chap, and I don’t want the trouble of another tussle with you. In the next place, answer all the questions I ask you, prompt and true. Will you?”

“I probably will,” said Leonard; “though I don’t know of any subject upon which I can give information that will be likely to interest you.”

“We’ll see presently. To begin with, Where’s that piece of paper?”

“What piece of paper?”

“Curse you!” exclaimed Snags, in a fury. “Are you trying to dodge that yet? Come, tell me, before I――”

And he clutched his pistol threateningly.

“I declare to you,” said Leonard, earnestly, “that I don’t know what you mean. And that is all I could say if you held a knife to my throat.”

Snags looked at him in wonder.

“You’re a game one!” he muttered; “or else I’ve made an unaccountable blunder.”

“The latter is probably the case,” said Leonard; “for what earthly object you can have in capturing me and bringing me here, is more than I can imagine. If you’ll just tell me what you want, and then release me, I’ll be greatly obliged.”

“Well, you know, after he was killed――”

“Who?”

“Who! Why, Colonel Conrad, of course.”

“Colonel Conrad killed! When? Where?”

“Oh, but now this is going too far. Do you honestly mean to say that you’re not the man who had a tussle with me, right under the window of his room, where he sat dead?”

“I mean to say that I never saw you until you attacked me in Dalton, and that all your allusions since the attack have been mysterious. This I will declare on my oath, if necessary.”

“Well, you don’t look nor act as if you were lying, and so I’ll go over the whole ground. Between twelve and one o’clock this morning Colonel Conrad was murdered――”

“This is terrible! Who did it?”

“That’s neither here not there,” said Snags, uneasily. “The matter will be looked into, doubtless, and somebody will swing for it. But just listen a moment. When the blow was struck he was holding in his hand a paper which he had just written. That paper was taken from him, but he held one corner so tight that a piece was torn off and left in his grip. The party that did the deed speedily found out that the paper was good for nothing without the piece that was torn off, for there was a word, or some words, on it that must have furnished a very valuable piece of information. While he was hiding in the bushes near the house, another man came along, and peeped into the room where the dead man sat. He took from his hand the missing fragment of paper, and read it. Then he put it in his pocket, and was going off with it, when the first party stopped him and demanded of him to give it up. He refused, and then they clinched and had a rough-and-tumble fight of it. The second man was quick and wiry, and got away. He ran like the wind, jumped into the buggy by the road-side, and drove off like mad, the first man after him on horseback. But I—that is, he missed him, some way, and on arriving in the village, captured, as it seems, the wrong man.”

“Ah,” exclaimed Leonard, “I am the man who was captured, and you—you are the one who murdered my uncle!”

“Your uncle! So he is your uncle, then. The other one said he was his uncle!”

“True—it must have been Carlos. We are cousins. Colonel Conrad is our uncle.”

“Was your uncle, you mean. He’s nobody’s uncle now; he’s dead.”

“Yes, so you said before. How did it come about? Why did you do it?”

“Oh, never mind that. I don’t know but I’ve told you too much now. There’s one thing, though. You’ll never get out of here to be a witness against me.”

“What!” exclaimed Leonard, in some alarm, “you don’t mean to say that――”

“I mean to say that you’ll stay here as long as my name is Snags, or until I get away from this infernal crew, and am in some quarter of the world where I can’t be found.”

“Then I am to be a prisoner, to shield you? Suppose I make a promise not to reveal anything that could harm you?”

“I don’t think you would keep such a promise. You wouldn’t let your cousin be hanged for my sake, would you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” replied Snags, “that I have a sort of an idea that the thing will look bad against him. There’ll be blood stains on his clothes, which I put there when we were struggling—I had the bloody dagger, you know—and it isn’t likely that he could get home without somebody seeing him come from the direction of Colonel Conrad’s house. I may be wrong, but people like to fasten such crimes on somebody, you know, without being particular whether the evidence is positive or not. So, to shield your cousin, you’d be very likely to peach on me.”

Leonard bowed his head in dismay. Snags was clearly right. No promise could be made that would bring such a disaster on Carlos. He stood in silent reflection for a few moments, and then said:

“This piece of paper that you took comes very near conveying some information, you say, that would be complete if the fragment my cousin has could be obtained. What is that information?”

“You are asking too much now. I can’t tell you; or rather, I won’t.”

“Of what nature is it?”

Snags shook his head and refused to answer.

“Another question,” said Leonard. “If you could obtain it, would my cousin and myself be insured from harm?”

“I don’t know,” replied Snags, slowly. “In fact,” he added, “I don’t know much about the thing yet. I haven’t had time to think, you see. But I will say one thing. There was no plot or intention to kill your uncle. It came quite accidental, but it had to be done.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“Well, never mind. But now I’ve got one thing to ask of you. You must own that I’ve been very frank with you, and now I want you to make a promise. The man that is at the head of this gang now is one Captain Roake; but there’s a boss that’s over us all. I don’t want Captain Roake to know anything about this paper. I prefer to tell the boss about it with my own mouth. So you keep mum. When Roake comes to see you, which he will, don’t let on that you know anything. Just say that you’re the wrong man, which is true, and pretend to be ignorant of what I mean when speaking of the paper. I’ll explain to Roake in my own way. It’ll be better for you and all of us to do as I say. Roake has a temper of his own, and is apt to tear around considerable when riled. Will you do as I wish?”

Leonard hesitated.

“Because,” continued Snags, “I’m next in command to Roake, and shall have you in charge. And if you defy me I sha’n’t scruple at emptying this into you.” He extended his pistol.

“I’ll promise this,” replied Leonard, “not to say anything to Roake without first consulting you.”

“All right,” said Snags. “That’s satisfactory. I must own that I rather like you, and should hate to put an end to you. But at the call of duty I shouldn’t let my own feelings interfere.”

And he grinned at his own wit.

“Now I guess I’ll leave you. When the boss comes around, which may be to-morrow, and may not be in a month, you’ll know more of what’s going to be done with you. Until then I’m as ignorant as yourself.”

He turned to go.

“Wait,” said Leonard. “Would any sum of money be an inducement to you to get me out of here?”

“I am afraid not,” replied Snags. “Money wouldn’t amount to much if I should happen to get a rope around my neck.”

After a pause the murderer withdrew.

Leonard was left to his own thoughts, which were of a very confusing character. He was ignorant of the exact locality of his place of confinement, and was at a loss to conjecture the character of his captors. That they were lawless desperadoes of some sort he did not doubt, but beyond this his thoughts took no form.

He examined the apartment in which he was confined. The walls were of solid rock, and there was apparently no means of egress except the door by which Snags had just left, and this was closed securely, presenting a resistance evidently as solid and invulnerable as the rocks themselves. There was nothing for him to do but to await further developments.

CHAPTER VIII.
THE ARREST.

Carlos drove into Dalton terribly depressed and apprehensive. In the rain-storm he had turned up the collar of his coat and buttoned it tightly, thus shielding from the rain a portion of the blood stains. He saw that these were not entirely washed off. The words of the murderer in regard to fastening the crime on him still rang in his ears.

“If I could have returned immediately,” he thought, “instead of waiting until morning, it would have been better. What will people say? They are talking about it now.”

In a misery of doubt and despondency he drove up the street.

Some one caught sight of him, and uttering an exclamation to a little knot or men, pointed at him.

Still Carlos drove on, determined to encounter whatever might come.

Five or six men rushed to the carriage, and one, seizing the horse’s head, stopped him.

“That’s the man!” exclaimed one.

“Yes, that’s one of the nephews,” said another.

“Where’s your cousin?” demanded a third.

“Yes, tell us that! Where were you both all night?”

Others ran to the spot, until there was a crowd around the carriage.

“Gentlemen,” said Carlos, “I know what you are talking about, but I am innocent――”

“Oh, yes, of course. But you were not in bed last night, as a peaceable citizen should be!”

“I went to Knoxtown to a concert――”

“Yes, he looks like a man that has been to a concert, doesn’t he?”

“Wait till I explain. I returned by the road that passes Colonel Conrad’s house, and saw a light in his window. I went to see what it meant, and horror-stricken――”

At this juncture a tall, keen-eyed man, who had not joined in the sagacious exclamations that had come from others in the crowd, stepped up and said:

“See here, young man, you are excited and agitated. But you are not on the witness stand. You are not obliged to answer any questions or make any explanations here. You can see enough to know that the people think you have murdered Colonel Conrad. My advice is that you keep silent. You will be arrested and examined, and then will be time enough to talk. It isn’t best to say too much now.”

The man seemed to be moved to compassion at his distressed face, and spoke kindly though decisively.

“Thank you, sir,” said Carlos. “I will act on your advice. Where is the officer? I am ready to give myself up.”

He leaned back in the carriage seat, folding his arms.

Some of the crowd grumbled, but the man who had spoken reminded them that the street was not a court-room, and that there was a manner provided by law for proceeding in the case.

At this juncture two policemen approached and jumped into the carriage. One of them slipped a pair of handcuffs on Carlos, and the other took the reins. They drove to the jail, where Carlos was conducted into a cell and locked up, and left alone.

The excitement under which he had labored, and which had subsided into depression, now deepened into intense gloom. That his uncle should die immediately after he had delivered the message from his father, and before the result was made known, was a sufficiently deplorable event. The manner in which he had met his death was still more terrible. But that Carlos himself should be accused, with apparently good reason, of being the murderer, seemed to be the culmination of misfortune. He gave way to the burden that was cast upon him, and for hours his mind was in a hopelessly torpid state.

He made no reply to the question as to whether he desired counsel, and so dead did he seem to everything passing around him, that the jailer deemed it best to call in a physician.

Dr. Davison was summoned. He was the tall, keen-eyed man that had offered the timely counsel to Carlos when he was besieged by the crowd.

When he entered the cell the prisoner was apparently unaware of his presence.

The physician felt of his pulse, looked at his face critically, and examined the eyes that refused to direct their glance at him.

“He is in a kind of stupor now,” he said. “His trouble has overcome him. I will come again in an hour.”

Toward noon he returned, and gave the prisoner something stimulating. Carlos looked up; a flash of intelligence passed across his face.

“Ah,” he said, “you are the gentleman that gave me advice this morning. What are you doing here now?”

“I am a physician,” replied Dr. Davison. “In that capacity I am your friend. How do you feel?”

“I scarcely know. My head seems confused. I can hardly think.”

“But it will be necessary for you to think. You are now ill. You have some fever, and are discouraged. But, with the help of my medicine and your own resolution, you must be aroused. You are resting under a grave charge. It is not for me to say whether you are guilty or innocent――”

“IT IS NOT FOR ME TO SAY WHETHER YOU ARE GUILTY OR INNOCENT.”

“Before God, I am innocent!” exclaimed Carlos. “I can explain――”

“Yes; but you must not explain now. Do not say anything to me. I don’t want to have to repeat words in court that may damage you. You must employ a lawyer, and a good one. Pardon me, but I feel an interest in you. You don’t look like a ruffian.”

“Thank you. Those few words encourage me. I know the evidence that is against me, and it is strong. But it is surely impossible for me to be convicted, when I am innocent. Such a wrong cannot take place.”

“Any wrong may take place,” said the doctor, quietly, “if no effort is made to stay it. But I have no right to talk to you. My duty relates only to your health. You will be all right if you will follow my directions. You will probably employ a lawyer, and, as the examination will take place this afternoon, you had better have a consultation as soon as you feel able to endure it. Take one of these powders every half-hour. Good-day.”

“Good-day,” said Carlos. “I am greatly obliged to you.”

After Doctor Davison was gone, he meditated for some time upon the course he should take. He finally sent for the jailer, and inquired the names of the legal profession of Dalton.

“Well,” said the jailer, “there’s Squire Bailey; he’s an old one, and been pretty lucky; there’s McDonald, who is just busy all the time with civil suits, though I don’t think he’s had much to do with criminal cases; and there’s Royalton, who, though a young man, has served one term as district-attorney. He, of course, has had some experience in prosecuting, and might know better how to meet the case on that account. He is death on badgering a witness and can make a jury think almost anything he has a mind to.”

“I suppose he stands well in the community?”

“Oh, bless you, yes. One of the leaders of society; goes to church regularly; and just now very popular on account of taking sides against a railroad company that’s trying to cram a pretty big dose down the people’s throats.”

“Well,” said Carlos, “I think I’ll retain him, if possible. Will you be so kind as to send for him?”

“Certainly; can I do anything to make you comfortable?”

“No, thank you. I would like to have Mr. Royalton come as soon as possible.”

In less than half an hour the lawyer was conducted into the presence of Carlos. The two were left alone.

Mr. Royalton was rather tall, of erect stature, and commanding presence. A dark mustache and flowing side-whiskers graced a face of intelligence and decision. His eyes were dauntless and searching in their expression; and his whole countenance and general air indicated a man of energy and deliberate promptness, so to speak, in pursuing any undertaking in which he might be engaged.

He bowed courteously to Carlos. The latter spoke at once:

“My full name,” he said, “is Carlos Conrad. And yours――”

The lawyer handed him a printed card, which read as follows:

“CHAS. H. ROYALTON,

ATTORNEY AND COUNSELOR AT LAW,

Dalton.”

“I am here under a terrible charge,” said Carlos.

“Yes,” said Mr. Royalton. “Do you wish to retain me?”

“Certainly, if you will consent to act in my behalf. As a preliminary, permit me to advance this.”

He extended a hundred-dollar bill, which Mr. Royalton accepted, with a bow.

“I have a bank account in New York of three thousand dollars, on which I can draw in case of necessity,” said Carlos.

“Very good,” said Mr. Royalton. “And now you must state to me, without reserve, all circumstances connected with this affair. Whether you are committed for trial or not, we must make as good a show as possible at the examination. Let me have your perfect confidence.”

Carlos then related to Mr. Royalton the arrival of himself and Leonard in Dalton, and told every circumstance of their stay up to the fatal evening. Of the occurrences associated with the murder he gave a detailed account. The lawyer listened attentively, and made occasional notes on an envelope he took from his pocket. His countenance did not change during the entire recital, and at its close Carlos could not discern his thoughts concerning the aspect of the case. He meditated for a moment, and then asked:

“What was the nature of the misunderstanding between your uncle and your father?”

“It was a family matter,” replied Carlos, “in which Geoffrey Haywood was, as I have said, the prime mischief-maker.”

“Have you any evidence of this?”

“None but that contained in the accounts I left with my uncle.”

“That is unfortunate. Haywood stands well in Dalton.”

“I do not think there will be any necessity of bringing it up,” said Carlos. “It has no bearing on the case. I would prefer that it be not mentioned.”

“Why?”

“First, because it is strictly of a private nature, and, now that the brothers are both dead, is of no concern to any one. My only errand was to convince my uncle that he had no cause for enmity against my father. Whether I succeeded in this I do not know, and probably never shall. Second, my unsupported word would probably go for little against that of Haywood. He would probably make the old enmity operate against me. If the matter is alluded to at all, the house of the late Colonel Conrad ought to be searched, and the documents found and exhibited in full.”

“You may be right,” said Mr. Royalton. “We will let that point drop, since you desire it. Where is your cousin, Leonard Lester?”

“I do not know. I supposed that he would return from his fishing excursion last evening, but from what some one in the crowd said this morning, I infer that he did not.”

“He ought to be found. His testimony may be wanted.”

“On what point? He knew nothing of the murder.”

“The question might arise as to the character of the interview with your uncle—whether there was any quarrel or misunderstanding.”

“There was no quarrel, unless――”

“Unless what?”

“He at first attempted to slander my father, and I used some high words, perhaps. But it soon passed over.”

“Humph! We will hope that nobody was within hearing distance!”

Carlos stared a moment, and then a shade passed over his face. He saw the force of the lawyer’s remark.

“I have been thinking of one thing,” he at length said, “and that is what the murderer could have wanted of the slip of paper I took from my uncle’s hand. It contained only the words, ‘seven o’clock,’ which certainly have no meaning in themselves.”

“Have you it here now?”

“Yes, here it is.”

The lawyer took it and examined it.

“It is a torn fragment,” he said.

“Yes,” replied Carlos, “and I judge from the envelope lying on the table that my uncle must have been writing. He was, perhaps, holding an unfinished letter in his hand and looking it over. The murderer jerked it hastily, and tore it, leaving this piece in his victim’s grasp. Now whether it contains the finishing words of some information conveyed in the larger part, is more than I know. But that is the only theory by which I can account for the villain’s anxiety to obtain it.”

The lawyer considered for a moment. Finally he said:

“I will think about it. This point may be worthy of special attention. But say nothing about this, or any other feature of the case, to any living person. Keep your mouth resolutely closed against all ears but mine.”

Carlos promised to observe this caution.

“And now,” said Mr. Royalton, “listen. First, for fear that my words may discourage you, let me declare my belief in your innocence, and assure you that not an effort shall be left unmade in your behalf. But the case has a bad look. Colonel Conrad received thirty thousand dollars in gold, yesterday, and that cannot be found. Leonard Lester is missing, and people have jumped at the conclusion that he is your accomplice, and that his fishing excursion was a ruse, and that he has made off with the gold to some point where you intend to join him.”

“Good Heaven!” ejaculated Carlos. “You do not believe this?”

“Certainly not. But you see again the importance of your cousin being here.”

“Yes. I am at a loss to think what can have delayed his return.”

“We will hope that he will appear in due time. And now you must put yourself entirely in my hands. You see what a coloring circumstantial evidence can give an affair. Your own consciousness of innocence will go for naught against it. Everything depends on shrewd management and careful working. I must now leave you and study over my plans. As for yourself, be ready at the examination to follow whatever course I may indicate. I will now say to you, confidentially, that I believe this murder was committed with some other object than that of robbery—that there is some dark unknown purpose at the bottom of it. If you ask me why, I must decline to tell. Perhaps I could not reply in terms sufficiently definite to be satisfactory and convincing to you.”

“I leave everything to you,” said Carlos.

“That is right. Good-day.”

“Good-day.”

After the lawyer was gone, and the stimulus of mental occupation no longer remained, Carlos began to feel ill again. A languor seized him, followed by a chill, which was in turn succeeded by a paroxysm of fever. Doctor Davison was again summoned, and on the strength of his report of the prisoner’s condition, the examination was postponed to the following day.

CHAPTER IX.
GEOFFREY HAYWOOD’S MOVEMENTS.

One circumstance occurred on the morning of the murder that might have appeared strange had the excitement that prevailed permitted any one’s attention to be directed to it.

It was the presence of Mr. Geoffrey Haywood in the street at an unwontedly early hour. About five o’clock he might have been seen standing on the sidewalk in front of his store, looking up and down the street. He was not his usual composed self. He appeared expectant and anxious. He turned to and fro impatiently, and occasionally paced the sidewalk in evident agitation. What was he waiting for?

His manifestations of anxiety were instantly suppressed as he saw a man approaching him.

The man was walking rapidly, and was evidently in extreme agitation. He came from the direction of Elm Grove. It was Barker, the servant of Colonel Conrad.

Mr. Haywood gave no sign of recognition. But a spasm of apprehension passed over his face, followed instantly, however, by a look of resolution. He continued his pacing to and fro.

Barker hurried up to him.

“Oh, Mr. Haywood――” he began.

“Ah, good-morning, Barker. I felt unwell during the night, and thought a morning walk might do me good. What brings you down town at such an early hour?”

“Oh, sir, something terrible has happened at Elm Grove!”

“You astonish me. What is it? Is somebody ill?”

“Much worse than that. Colonel Conrad has been murdered.”

“What!”

Mr. Haywood’s astonishment was genuine. His face blanched with horror.

“We found him dead in his study, with an awful cut in his neck.”

“Barker, you terrify me. Tell me all about it. How did it happen?”

“No one knows how it happened, sir. It was done in the dead of night. Miss Florence is fairly wild, and the two women-servants are nearly frightened to death. I called in Tom to stay with them, while I ran down town. It’s lucky, sir, that I happened to meet you.”

“Well, well, it is awful. I am nearly overcome. Find some officers, quick, and I will go up to the house.”

“Yes, sir. I think you’d better go there as quick as you can. I’ll find the officers, and will go to the hotel and rouse the two young men—his nephews—who came to see him yesterday.”

“No, no, do not—but I don’t know—yes, you may call them. And do not lose any time.”

Barker and Haywood separated, each walking as fast as his footsteps could carry him.

Haywood found the household at Elm Grove plunged in woe. Florence Darley was hovering about the fatal room, alternately half entering and recoiling again. When she beheld Haywood she pointed to where the body of Colonel Conrad reclined, and then sank into a chair and covered her face with her hands, giving way to violent weeping.

Haywood spoke some words of sympathy in a low tone, and hastily entered the study of the late master of Elm Grove. The corpse still sat in the chair, leaning over the table. No one had disturbed it. Haywood took careful note of its position and surroundings, and then called Tom, the stable-keeper whom Barker had mentioned, bidding him also observe closely the situation of things. The two together then lifted the body and placed it on a couch, and, obtaining a sheet, covered it. They were careful not to change the position of any article of furniture.

They then left the room, closing the door after them, and went into the hall where Florence still remained.

Haywood was composed and cool, and had assumed his usual unruffled manner. Tom was silent, though his breath came short and tremulously, and his rough face exhibited grief. He stood ready to render any service that might be required.

“Miss Florence,” said Haywood, “this is truly terrible. But we must be calm. It is scarcely possible that we will not discover the perpetrator of this deed. Officers will be here soon, and they will decide upon the proper course of investigation. I entreat you not to give way to your feelings. This violent sobbing will injure you, and perhaps interfere with your being of some service. I will remain here until the officers arrive.”

He walked through the hall, and out on the piazza, where he took a seat on a rustic chair. He sat perfectly still, and seemed to be lost in meditation. So absorbed was he that he did not notice the approach of Tom, who also came out and stood near him. When, at length, on looking around, he discovered him, he gave a start, and his brow ruffled into a scowl. But he repressed a rising exclamation, and rose and walked to the other end of the piazza.

In a few moments Barker arrived, accompanied by two officers and a coroner. The coroner was Doctor Davison, the physician who, later in the day, paid the professional visit to Carlos.

Haywood rose to meet him.

“Your arrival is welcome, gentlemen,” he said, “though on such sad business. Where are the two young men, Barker?”

“They couldn’t be found, sir. They left town yesterday, and have not returned.”

“Did you go to the hotel?”

“Yes—they have not been seen there.”

Haywood mused, but kept his thoughts to himself.

“What sort of young men were they?” asked one of the officers.

“They were strangers to me,” replied Haywood. “I believe they claimed to be nephews of Colonel Conrad.”

“Well it looks mighty queer. A horse and carriage that one of them hired yesterday was found standing by the door of the livery-stable this morning.”

“Indeed! How did you ascertain that?”

“I passed by the stable coming up, and the hired man told me.”

“Um-m—doesn’t that look suspicious?”

“How?”

“Oh, never mind. I don’t wish to bring any accusation against them, but a thought happened to pass through my mind.”

He looked at the officer significantly, and then turned away suddenly, as if dismissing the matter.

But the shadow of a hint was not without its effect. The officer nodded his head knowingly.

“I now propose,” said Haywood, “that you three gentlemen remain here and take charge of the premises, and, with the aid of Barker and Tom, look around and see if any evidence or clew can be discovered. I will go down town. Tom, can you let me have a horse and buggy from the barn? I am not feeling well this morning.”

The stable-keeper assented, and Mr. Haywood, as soon as the conveyance was ready, drove in the direction of the village.

On arriving in the business streets, he met the express driver, with his horse and wagon, on his way to the depot to catch the early train. Others were also moving about, for the news had spread rapidly. Through the hotel it had gone like wild-fire; and in numerous residences, servants, up and about their morning duties, had heard the intelligence and communicated it to the inmates. Consequently, there were perhaps fifty people up and on the alert, all in a state of excitement, and inquiring eagerly for the particulars of the tragedy.

The express driver stopped and accosted Haywood, who also reined in his horse. A knot of men instantly gathered around them.

In reply to an avalanche of questions, Mr. Haywood replied to the crowd in general:

“Yes, it is true. Colonel Conrad was murdered last night. His dead body was found this morning. That is all there is of it at present. Nothing whatever is known as to how or by whom the deed was committed.”

“Is any of his gold missing?” asked the express driver.

“No investigation or search has been made yet.”

“I delivered one of those boxes yesterday.”

“A box of gold?”

“Yes; said to contain thirty thousand dollars.”

“Ah!” said Haywood. “Perhaps some one saw you deliver it, and was tempted to commit burglary.”

“I don’t know of but one person that took particular notice of my delivering it, and that was one of the young men who arrived in town two or three days ago, and have been stopping at the hotel. He was riding by the house at the time, and we exchanged a few words about it.”

“What was said?”

“Oh, nothing in particular. He remarked, as he drove on, that it was too much good fortune for one man, or some such words.”

“Then he knew that the box contained gold?”

“Oh, yes; I told him. The colonel, you know, made no secret of receiving such packages.”

Mr. Haywood knit his brow, and said, as if speaking half to himself:

“That is another singular circumstance.”

“What?” asked some one in the crowd.

“Why, it seems that this young man knew of the presence of the gold in the house, and he cannot be found this morning. His companion (they claimed to be cousins) is also missing, and a horse and buggy that he hired yesterday were found before daylight this morning standing in front of the livery-stable.”

“Ha!” exclaimed one. “It would be well to watch for these young men, and make them give an account of their movements.”

This sentiment found instant echo in the crowd, and was immediately taken up as the burden of their discussions.

Geoffrey Haywood’s solemn expression of countenance gave way, for a mere instant, to a look of satisfaction. But he said, with a sigh:

“Well, gentlemen, I must be moving on. I have enough on my hands this morning. The affair must be probed to the bottom.”

As he drove away, one of the listeners said:

“It’s lucky that the Conrads have such a man as Haywood for their friend. He’ll sift the thing.”

Mr. Haywood’s prowess, and his ability to carry through whatever he undertook, were themes of remark and admiration by numbers of his fellow-citizens.

After leaving the crowd he turned from the main thoroughfare to a street on the left, then to the left again, and finally to the right. He was now on the same street through which Carlos had taken his mad ride in the storm. Looking cautiously around, he muttered to himself:

“Things have taken an unexpectedly fortunate turn. If this crime can be fastened on these two rascally cousins, it will be a most effectual mode of getting them out of my way.”

Then he urged his horse along rapidly, and, after more turns in the road, brought up at the residence of Mr. Jacob Heath—the place where Carlos had so unwillingly staid in the darkness.

Mr. Heath was engaged in some occupation in the back yard, but came around to the front as the carriage stopped. He stared at his visitor in surprise.

“Good-morning, Jake,” said Mr. Haywood.

“Good-morning,” replied the one addressed, with a look of curiosity.

Mr. Haywood, without further ceremony, asked a most singular question:

“Have you seen Snags?”

“No,” replied the other, with a start.

At this juncture Kate Heath appeared at the door.

The conversation between her father and Haywood was therefore carried on in whispers. It lasted some ten minutes.

Finally Haywood said, in a loud voice, with the evident intention that it should be heard by Kate:

“Well, get the sheep all washed as soon as you can, for we want to shear and get the wool in market before the prices drop.”

He then drove off at a furious speed.

“Did you tell him about the stranger that stopped with us during the night?” asked Kate.

“None of your business, girl! You shouldn’t ask questions that don’t concern you.”

CHAPTER X.
THE PRISONER AND HIS CAPTORS.

Leonard Lester had no means of knowing when morning arrived, save by consulting his watch. The light of day could not penetrate into that dismal place. The hours of six, seven, and eight o’clock came, and a lantern that Snags had left shed its feeble rays with dim steadiness. Leonard grew weary and impatient, but still his opportunity for meditation was uninterrupted. He chafed under his confinement, and was oppressed by the utter silence and loneliness that reigned. But he had only to wait.

He knew that Colonel Conrad had been murdered; he was conscious that the circumstances were likely to involve Carlos in some way; but of the exact form or extent of the danger that threatened his cousin, he was ignorant. He longed to be free, so as to offer him aid.

Could he have seen and foreseen all that was taking and was destined to take place, he would have blessed the stars that made him a prisoner.

About the middle of the forenoon he heard a noise at the door. It was soon opened, and a frowzy-looking man entered. He was short, thickset, with uncombed hair and beard, and blear eyes. His face was infinitely more ferocious and devilish in its expression than that of Snags. He was dressed in common, rough garments, and was armed with a pistol and a knife. The door was closed after him, and, advancing, he scrutinized the prisoner.

“Captain Jeremiah Roake, at your service,” he finally said. “Your name?”

“Leonard Lester,” replied the prisoner.

“Correct. Now we know each other. My stay must be short, for I come simply to ask you a question. What is it about this infernal piece of paper that Snags has been blowing about?”

“I don’t know,” said Leonard. “What are you talking about?”

“Snags must have asked you for it. Tell me what he said.”

“I have nothing to tell. What do you suppose I know about it? You are aware that Snags captured the wrong man when he took me. Find the right one, and seek the information of him.”

“I believe that you are lying—that you know more than you will tell.”

“I can’t help what you believe. Search me, if you wish, and see if you can find anything you want.”

Roake paused, apparently, in doubt what course to pursue. At last he said:

“Well, your cousin has been arrested. The whole town thinks him guilty of murdering Colonel Conrad. He is to be examined, and then he will probably show it.”

“Show what?”

“The paper, if he has any.”

“Very well, let him. I don’t see what harm can come to him, or what good to you, by his showing any paper he is likely to have. At all events, you will not gain anything by bothering me about it.”

Leonard was not in the slightest degree disposed to violate the promise he had given to Snags. He did not care to have Roake know that the fragment supposed to be in the possession of Carlos was of any value. But Roake’s words awoke in him a feeling of concern.

If what Snags had said was true, then indeed would the murderer have just the information he wanted in the event of Carlos making public the contents of the missing fragment.

At that instant he wondered if he could not convey a caution to Carlos in some way. But he did not betray these thoughts to Roake. Despite the fact that his brain was suddenly beset by a new train of reflection, he maintained his indifferent air.

Roake finally turned to go saying:

“If he does show it, I’ll know what there is of it. I read the papers.”

Leonard called him back.

“I should like to get a message to my cousin, in some way. I’ll give you ten dollars if you will have it delivered.”

“Ten dollars!” contemptuously. “That’s nothing to me, young man. I made a haul of a thousand last night. No, you shall send no message to him!”

Roake refused to listen to the urgent appeal that Leonard was about to make, but went from the apartment quickly and left the prisoner alone.

“This affair grows in mystery,” thought Leonard. “Where am I, and who are these ruffians to whom intelligence of the arrest of Carlos comes so quickly? There must be some secret villainy going on right under the very shadows of orderly society. I’ll find out all I can about it.”

He then reflected long and intently, striving to devise some plan of conveying a message to Carlos. That his captors could serve him in this way, if they chose, he was convinced. It was evident that they had some means of quick communication with Dalton, else how could they so soon have learned that Carlos had been taken into custody? But he was equally sure that they would not permit him to send any message that would expose or implicate themselves, or put Carlos on his guard. Still he was powerless without their aid, and must contrive some way to bribe or deceive them. The former, he felt would be impossible; the latter might be accomplished.

In the midst of his thoughts the door was again opened, and Roake thrust in a plate of food and a can of water. This done, he quickly withdrew and closed the door.

The sight of the food reminded Leonard that he was hungry, though his occupation of mind had prevented him from thinking of it before. He ate of the coarse fare, and afterward took a cigar from his pocket and lit it.

He felt refreshed and strengthened, and his mind became more clear and active. Reclining on the pile of rough bed-clothes which lay in one corner of the apartment, he smoked and pondered.

At length his countenance was illumined by a sudden thought.

“I have it!” he exclaimed.

He forthwith took a number of letters from his pocket. A few were from Europe, his business relations having led him to engage in foreign correspondence, and were written in the German language. He selected one which occupied about two pages and a half.

Then, taking a gold pen and a portable inkstand from another pocket, he composed himself to write. He reflected for some moments before beginning, for he wished to comprise as much intelligence as possible within a few words.

Having arranged his thoughts into satisfactory shape, he began. First erasing the signature of the letter, he wrote an apparent continuation, in the German language, on the lower blank half of the third page. To this he appended another signature, so that the letter looked, in its new form, like a complete whole.

“So far so good,” he murmured; “and now for a visit from Snags. It won’t do to approach Roake. Snags, if anybody, will do the small favor I shall ask.”

The day wore wearily on. There was absolutely nothing to relieve the tedium of the passing hours. Leonard alternately walked, lay down, endeavored to sleep, and examined his prison. He fumed in impotent irritation at the sense of confinement.

Not until the day was gone, and the hands of his watch indicated the hour of nine in the evening, was he disturbed again.

This time his hopes were realized. Snags was his visitor.

“Have you heard anything more from Carlos?” asked Leonard, eagerly.

Snags smiled.

“You seem mighty anxious about him,” he said.

“Of course I am. Tell me all you know.”

“Oh, I know enough. I have heard several things. Some of them might not please you, though.”

“Never mind. Go on.”

“Well,” said Snags, “he’s in jail, and will be tried to-morrow. Everybody is aroused against him, and if he’s let off the people would lynch him; at least that’s the talk among some. But it isn’t likely that he’ll be let off. Another thing, people have got it into their heads that you were his pal in the murder, which was done for burglary, and that you made off with the spoils, and that he knows where you are.”

“What consummate absurdity.”

“Oh, no. Things look that way. The evidence will show that it’s not unlikely. I don’t know but that it would be a good plan to take you out of here and drop you somewhere where you’d be sure to be caught, and then both of you would go to prison, or something worse.”

“No,” said Lester, “that wouldn’t work. I was at Rocky Beach until one o’clock in the morning. The man that attends to the boats could testify to that.”

“Rocky Beach!” exclaimed Snags, with a peculiar look of surprise. Then he added: “But the man that ’tends the boats is deaf and dumb. He’d be a nice one to testify.”

“So I observed. But he could write his testimony.”

“How do you know?”

“I suppose he can write.”

“Well, perhaps he can,” said Snags, with a furtive smile.

“But can’t he?”

“What do you suppose I know about him?” Then, changing his tone, Snags said: “But there’s no use in talking about that. I guess, after all, we will keep you here for a while. By the way, your cousin has engaged a good lawyer.”

“Who?”

“Royalton—Charles H. Royalton—a mighty sharp fellow, they say. If there is any loop-hole, he’ll pull him through. But I don’t think there is any.”

“You don’t?”

“No; the case is strong against him.”

“See here, Mr. Snags,” said Leonard, “I would like to know how you keep so well posted about matters in Dalton. I shouldn’t think you would dare show yourself there.”

“Why not? Perhaps I don’t—but never you mind. You mustn’t be too curious.”

There was a lull in the conversation.

Leonard now made up his mind that the time had come to make his appeal.

“Snags,” he said, earnestly, “I want you to do a favor for me—two favors, in fact. It is intolerably dull in here. I want something to occupy my mind. Can’t you bring me a newspaper once in a while? Bring me the papers containing accounts of the trial. I should like to read about it. I’ll pay you well.”

“I don’t know but I might do that,” replied Snags. “Yes, I will.”

“Thank you. And now another thing. My cousin is a nervous young fellow, easily discouraged, and all that. Won’t you take a message to him from me?”

Snags’ countenance instantly assumed a forbidding look.

“Not much of a message,” continued Leonard, urgently, “only a few words. You may see me write them.”

Snags hesitated.

“Nothing that can do you any harm or afford a hint as to where I am.”

“What do you want to send it for, then?”

“Only to let him know that I am alive. That might do him some good.”

“Well,” said Snags, slowly and doubtfully, “let me see what you want to write.”

Leonard drew the letters from his pocket, and, selecting one, apparently at random, tore off a piece, one side of which was blank. It is needless to say that it was the portion on which he had previously written his message in German.

“This old letter is of no use,” he said, crumpling the other half in his hand and throwing it on the floor.

Snags picked it up, and glanced at it idly. He saw it was in a language he did not understand.

“Dutch?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied Leonard. “I am, or was, connected with an importing house in New York.”

“Queer writing, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” replied Leonard.

He was apparently absorbed in preparing his message, but he was really in the utmost trepidation lest his ruse should be detected.

But Snags had no suspicions. He threw the portion of the letter on the floor again, and waited patiently.

The following was what Leonard submitted to him:

“I am a prisoner, but unharmed. I have learned of your situation, and pray that you may be safely delivered from it. Do not concern yourself about me. I am guarded closely, but treated well enough. I am helpless to serve you.

L. L.”

Snags read it carefully.

“I don’t see anything objectionable about that,” he said. He gave a cursory glance at the other side, and saw that it was covered with German characters. “Yes, I’ll deliver it, or see it delivered. Perhaps I had better put it in the post-office. I could do it secretly, and no one would know where it came from.”

“If you do that, direct it like this: ‘To Carlos Conrad, or his attorney, Charles H. Royalton.’ Then it will be sure to reach its destination.”

“Yes.”

“And do it as soon as possible.”

“I will.”

“Thanks. And now take this.”

He extended to Snags a five-dollar gold piece, which was accepted.

“Mind,” said Snags, “that you don’t say anything of this to Roake. I know it can’t hurt us any, but he’s as contrary as a mule.”

“I’ll be silent,” said Leonard.

“Here’s some more victuals,” said Snags, producing a slice of cold meat and a loaf of bread; “and something to cheer you up,” drawing from his pocket a bottle of wine.

“Thank you, Snags; you’re very kind. You will lose nothing by it.”

Snags opened the door to leave; but, before withdrawing, he turned his head and said, in a low tone:

“See here, Mr. Lester, the colonel is the first man I ever stuck, and I’m blamed if I ain’t kept awake nights thinking about it.”

In another instant he was gone.

CHAPTER XI.
THE EXAMINATION.

Geoffrey Haywood, as has been seen, had been quick to seize upon circumstances, and to take advantage of them by judiciously dropping remarks that directed the excitement against Carlos Conrad. Perhaps the circumstances themselves would have been sufficient to do this; but his well-timed though brief comments had given aid in that direction.

The examination was set down for Friday morning at ten o’clock, and long before the appointed hour the street in front of Justice Bean’s office was crowded with people eager to be witnesses of the proceedings.

About half-past nine Mr. Royalton visited Carlos in his cell.

As soon as they were left alone, the lawyer said:

“I have a letter for you.”

“A letter!”

“Yes. As it was directed to ‘Carlos Conrad,’ or his attorney, I opened it.”

Carlos regarded the speaker intently. It was evident from his manner that he had something of importance to communicate.

“The letter is from your cousin. It is very brief.”

He handed it to Carlos, who read it eagerly.

“He is a prisoner, but unharmed. He is safe, but cannot help me. Oh, where can he be?”

“That is more than I can even conjecture. There is some mystery about it. I cannot help thinking it is connected in some way with the murder.”

“How can he have found out about the murder and my arrest? He cannot be very far away.”

“It is all a riddle.”

Carlos read the few words again. He turned the paper over.

“It was written on the back of one of his old German letters. BUT HOLD! Here is something more!”

“More!”

“Yes—see! the signature is erased, and Leonard has written something in German!”

Mr. Royalton gave close attention.

Carlos translated the words into English as fast as he read them. Their sojourn in Europe had made the German language as familiar to the cousins as their own tongue.

“This is what Leonard says: ‘I have hit on a stratagem, which you will at once perceive, to give you a warning. Do not show the paper you took from Colonel Conrad’s hands. It will give the murderer information which he desires above all things to possess. Do not let the paper appear in the testimony.’”

“Well, well! This is a startling phase of affairs,” said Mr. Royalton. “It confirms my idea though, that the murderer of your cousin has a hand in the non-appearance of Leonard.”

“Yes,” replied Carlos, “but it makes the mystery more incomprehensible than ever. How dark everything looks.”

“One thing is settled,” said Mr. Royalton. “The existence of the paper must be kept secret. It is difficult to determine whether its exhibition would work for or against you at the examination. But this note makes our course plain. It shall not be shown unless future developments seem to make it desirable. It is now locked up in my private safe.”

The hour of ten had by this time nearly arrived, and the prisoner and his lawyer made preparations to attend the examination.

Two officers soon entered. One of them handcuffed his left wrist to Carlos’ right, and led him from his cell into the main hall. The other walked behind with Mr. Royalton, and in this order they marched to a carriage which was waiting outside the jail door.

A restless, noisy crowd hustled around the little procession as soon as it reached the open air. The policeman behind warned the people off, but not before a small slip of paper was thrust into Carlos’ hand by some unknown person. Carlos grasped it instinctively, and looked quickly up in surprise. No one had seen the action. He himself was ignorant of who had done it. He looked at the paper furtively. It contained only these words:

“Look for help. It will come.”

“Another message from Leonard?” he thought. And he marveled greatly.

By this time they had reached the carriage, and all stepped in.

As they were driven rapidly to the justice’s office, a noisy throng of old and young followed, some running, and many talking busily.

Having reached their destination, they proceeded up a flight of stairs to the office of Justice Bean. It was a room capable of containing not more than fifty persons, and was filled in a moment.

Watching his chance, Carlos secretly slipped the message he had received into Mr. Royalton’s hand.

All were quickly arranged in their proper positions. Pending the actual commencement of proceedings, Mr. Royalton occupied himself apparently with consulting some memoranda. But Carlos saw him read the message he had received from the unknown hand, and watched to see what effect its perusal would have upon him. It had this effect: Mr. Royalton scowled, and tore the paper into minute fragments, letting them fall on the floor.

The justice rapped on his table. Order and attention were at once secured. After going through the usual preliminaries, the examination of witnesses began.

Barker, the servant at Elm Grove, was first called, and testified as follows:

“My name is Miles Barker. I am a servant employed at Elm Grove, the residence of the late Colonel Conrad. Yesterday morning I got up about five o’clock, to build the kitchen fire, and do some other chores. I went into the garden for something, and noticed that the blinds and window of my master’s study were open. Wondering what he could be doing so early in the morning, I took a turn around that way. I looked in the window and saw him sitting in his chair with his head leaning over on the table. I thought, perhaps, he had fallen asleep there, while writing the evening before, and went close to the window. I saw some blood on the floor, and jumped in. I then found that he was dead. I roused the rest of the house, and then ran down the street to find Mr. Haywood. I found him in front of his store, and told him about it. He went up to the house, and I went to find some officers, and the two young men—the prisoner here, and his cousin. Did not find the young men, but found the officers, and went back to the house with them.”

Cross-Examined by the Prosecution.

“I first saw the prisoner on Tuesday last. He called with another young gentleman to see Colonel Conrad.”

“Did Colonel Conrad see them?”

“Yes; they went to his study. The door was shut.”

“Did you hear anything that was said?”

“No, not any words. Once, when I passed through the hall, I heard some loud talking.”

“Did it sound like a quarrel?”

“There might have been some disagreement. I should judge there was. Could not say for certain.”

“How long did the young men stay?”

“I did not take particular notice of the time. Perhaps an hour; perhaps more.”

“Did they call again?”

“Yes, next day; but the colonel was busy, and refused to see them.”

“That is sufficient.”

Cross-Examination by the Defense.

“Why did the fact that the windows and blinds were open yesterday morning excite your curiosity?”

“Because Colonel Conrad is always particular to have everything closed securely before going to bed.”

“Did you see him the night before?”

“Yes; I took a glass of water to him in his study about nine o’clock.”

“What was he doing?”

“Writing.”

“Did you see him after that?”

“No; I went to bed soon after.”

“Were you disturbed by any noise during the night?”

“No; I sleep in a room up stairs on the other side of the house.”

“After the interview with Colonel Conrad on Tuesday, did the prisoner and his cousin show any signs of excitement?”

“Not that I could see.”

“Was there anything in their actions, or in those of Colonel Conrad afterward, to lead you to think that they had quarreled?”

“No, I can’t say that there was.”

“Did any one else call on Tuesday?”

“Yes; Mr. Haywood called, but the colonel did not see him. He was very busy, and—not to speak ill of the dead—quite snappish.”

“Then he refused to see Mr. Haywood?”

“Yes; but the next day Mr. Haywood called again, and this time the colonel saw him. It was when the two young men were there. They were in the parlor, talking with Miss Florence. This was on Wednesday.”

“You know nothing that passed between Colonel Conrad and Mr. Haywood?”

“No; they were in the study, and I went out of doors, in the garden.”

“Do you know anything about the box of gold that Colonel Conrad received on Wednesday?”

“No. He had it taken into his study, and afterward went in himself and locked the door. That is the way he always does.”

“Where does Colonel Conrad keep his gold?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps in his desk. It is always locked. Sometimes he goes to the bank. Maybe he deposits it there.”

“How do you know he keeps the desk locked?”

“I have been in the study often, and have never seen it open except when he was sitting at it. Before leaving, he always shuts it and turns the key.”

Numerous other questions elicited nothing further of importance, and Barker was dismissed.

Thomas Mullen was called, and testified as follows:

“I am employed as stable-keeper at Elm Grove. I went to bed as usual Wednesday night in my room in the barn. About one o’clock in the morning I awoke, and thought I heard a noise in the yard. I thought nothing of it, as the dog made no fuss. He is a good watch-dog, and doesn’t allow any one to prowl around. Soon after I heard another noise, and got up and looked out of the window. I saw two men run across the yard and into the road. I thought they were some chaps stealing melons, or something of that sort, and, as they had a good start, I did not give chase. I thought it strange that the dog made no alarm, but concluded he must have wandered into the orchard the other side of the house. Then I heard the rattling of a buggy down the road. I did not get up, and knew nothing of the murder until Barker awoke me in the morning. He told me about it just as he has told you. We found the dog lying dead on the ground. He had been poisoned.”

George Johnson, policeman, was sworn, and testified that on the morning the murder was discovered he made an examination of the premises. He found nothing out of the way, and made but one discovery of importance. That was a strap tied to the hitching-post on the road-side. The strap had been cut, and was dangling to the post.

The livery-keeper testified that the cousins had hired horses of him on Wednesday, and that one of the horses was found, without a driver, standing by the stable door the next morning. It was the one hired by the companion of the prisoner. The horses that Carlos had borrowed, and with which he had returned on Thursday morning, showed signs of having had a hard drive. The hitching-strap was cut, and hanging to the bit.

The portion that the policeman had found tied to the post, and that which remained attached to the horse, were produced, and were found to match exactly.

This portion of the evidence told strongly against Carlos. A buzz went through the room, and there were whispers that this settled the fact of his guilt. The justice rapped for order.

Witnesses were next examined regarding the unaccountable absence of Leonard, but no light was thrown on the subject. His note, stating that he was a prisoner, was exhibited, and, after a copy of it was made, it was returned to Carlos. It only served to mystify matters more, and was rather damaging than otherwise to the prisoner’s case. Nothing could be learned as to who put it in the post-office.

Myers, the other policeman, testified that he, in company with Mr. Haywood and Florence Darley, had made a thorough examination of Colonel Conrad’s study, as well as of the whole house, and that no money could be found. In the colonel’s private desk were nothing but papers and documents of no particular value.

Florence Darley confirmed this; and also testified that during the night she had heard the sound of a buggy in the road, but had thought nothing of it.

Mr. Haywood also confirmed Myers’ statement; and testified also that, during his interviews with Colonel Conrad on Wednesday, the colonel had alluded to the two young men, expressing his opinion that they were impostors, and that he feared their errand boded no good to him.

This testimony was the subject of close cross-questioning by both the prosecuting and defending attorneys, but Mr. Haywood could say nothing more definite, nor could he be drawn into making any inconsistent replies. Having thus perjured himself, he took his seat with an air of relief.

The cashier of the bank swore that Colonel Conrad had made no deposit for more than a month past.

After all the witnesses were examined, Carlos was invited to make his statement, which he did briefly, relating everything in detail as it had occurred except the matter of the paper containing the words “seven o’clock.” This he omitted, for reasons already known.

The summing up of the attorneys was short. The counsel for the prosecution analyzed Carlos’ statement, characterizing it as absurd, and reviewed the evidence carefully, making out a strong case against the prisoner. His eloquent portrayal of the terrible crime of murdering in cold blood a well-known and respected citizen need not be reproduced.

Mr. Royalton simply said that he would omit reviewing the evidence at present. He had no hope, and scarcely any desire, to have the prisoner discharged. He expected that his client would be held to await trial at the next general term, and he believed that at that time evidence would be produced that would honorably acquit him. That evidence could not be submitted in a complete form now; more time was required to make desired investigations. His client declined to be examined, and was ready to submit to the decision of the court. But he warned the people against allowing their prejudices to get the better of their judgment—not to render a verdict, even in their secret thoughts, until a fair, full, and complete trial could be had.

“For then,” he concluded, “revelations may be made that will surprise all of us. Instead of wrath there may be sympathy, and the prisoner before you instead of receiving your condemnation, may be proved innocent, and not only innocent, but the victim of a foul conspiracy.”

Mr. Royalton’s effort was evidently a disappointment to many. A powerful appeal in behalf of the prisoner had been looked for—a speech abounding in eloquence and flights of oratory. Numerous precedents had led to this expectation. It was evident, however, to a close observer, that Mr. Royalton’s course was not inspired by discouragement, or a consciousness of weakness; yet his face was absolutely unreadable, save that there was an expression in it that told of determination, stern purpose, and a cool confidence in his resources.

The verdict of the court was that Carlos be committed to appear before the grand jury.

It was now after seven o’clock in the evening and Carlos was to be taken to Hillsdale on the night train. It must be mentioned that Dalton was not the county seat, and that the stone jail at Hillsdale was a much more secure receptacle for prisoners than the small “lock-up” at Dalton. So, in accordance with the law, he was to be immediately placed in the county jail at Hillsdale.

His own feelings had undergone no particular change. He was cast down, more by a sense of disgrace than anything else. He felt no particular terror; the blind confidence of innocence led him to believe that he would eventually be acquitted.

When he was conducted from the justice’s office to the jail again, a noisy, disorderly crowd followed; and when, two hours later, he proceeded to the railroad depot, handcuffed to the officer, another throng was in attendance. At the depot it was larger than ever, so that the officer and his prisoner had some difficulty in making their way to the waiting-room.

Here another strange and unlooked for circumstance occurred. An unseen hand was thrust quickly into the side pocket of Carlos’ coat, and instantly withdrawn. Carlos felt by the weight that something had been left in the pocket.

This time he was on his guard. He manifested no surprise, but looked deliberately and searchingly around. His scrutiny failed to discover the perpetrator of the act.

And now the brief message promising aid came to his mind with startling suggestiveness. Was a plot in progress to effect his escape? With outward coolness and with inward burning impatience, he waited and watched.

CHAPTER XII.
THE NEW YORK DETECTIVE.

The ten or fifteen minutes that elapsed before the train passed the station at Dalton, were occupied by the assemblage at the depot in talking about the murder and the prisoner.

Carlos felt himself the object of scrutiny and remark. He bore the ordeal as best he could, averting his eyes from the staring, chattering crowd.

There was one stranger present—a man rather below the medium size, with a black mustache, and wearing a light-colored business suit. In appearance he was gentlemanly and unobtrusive. Yet, notwithstanding his rather retiring manner, he managed to get into conversation with the officer who had Carlos in charge. After some introductory remarks he said:

“I am a little in your line myself.”

“Is that so? How?” asked the officer.

“I am connected with the New York detective service,” and he lifted the lapel of his vest, thus disclosing a glistening police shield underneath.

“Ah! Are you working up a case here?”

“Oh, no! I wouldn’t let my occupation be known if I was. I am off duty, and thought I would run up and take the country air for a few days.”

“Yes? Well, you’ll find Dalton a very pleasant stopping-place.”

“So I should judge. You people here have managed this case very well.”

“The murder of Colonel Conrad, you mean?”

“Yes. There is not a doubt that the prisoner is guilty. Excuse me, my dear fellow”—to Carlos—“for speaking so plainly, but I can see it in your eye. Can’t you?”—to the officer.

“Yes, indeed! I said so all along.”

Officer George Johnson was flattered at the idea of holding converse with one so high up in the business as to have reached the station of a New York detective. He began to swell with gratified vanity.

“It seems to me I’ve seen the prisoner before. You know we detectives get to be pretty familiar with faces of most of the rascals in the country?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” replied Mr. Johnson.

“I beg your pardon,” said Carlos. “You cannot be very familiar with my face. I have been in the country only a short time――”

“You keep your mouth still,” commanded the officer.

“Oh, let him talk,” said the detective, pleasantly. “It’s amusing to hear the stories these fellows will make up. But you know we take them for what they are worth.”

“Certainly,” assented Mr. Johnson, with a wise look.

“Let’s go and take something before the train comes along,” said the detective. “Just one glass, you know, for good-fellowship.”

“I’m not particular,” said the officer.

“Will you join us, gentlemen,” said the detective, turning to four or five of the bystanders.

They were willing enough, and all entered a room adjoining the depot, and stepped up to a bar.

Glasses and bottles were set on the counter.

The detective filled a glass, looked at the liquor critically, and said, suddenly:

“Isn’t this whisky?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the barkeeper.

“I ordered gin. Perhaps you will take this, Mr. Johnson, if you wish whisky?”

“Yes, my drink is whisky always. Certainly I’ll take it,” replied the officer.

He seemed to think it an honor to oblige the detective, who pushed the glass toward him and filled another for himself.

“By the way,” said the detective, before Mr. Johnson had emptied his glass, “if your prisoner is the man I think he is, he had a scar, left by a pistol-shot, on his left wrist. Would you mind my examining it, just for curiosity?”

“Certainly not,” replied Mr. Johnson. “Go ahead.”

While Officer Johnson was finishing his whisky the detective approached close to Carlos, and taking hold of his hand, rolled up the sleeve of his coat. While thus engaged he whispered to him quickly and softly:

“As soon as you are seated in the car pretend to be tired out, and make believe to go to sleep.”

Then he said, aloud, to Carlos’ custodian:

“I may be mistaken; I don’t seem to find the scar. No, this can’t be the man, but there is certainly a wonderful resemblance!”

Carlos was simply paralyzed with astonishment. Was this New York detective a friend in disguise? A flood of wondering mental questions was cut short by the whistle of the approaching train.

Hurry and bustle quickly ensued. Officer Johnson and the detective shook hands and bade each other good-by, and then, the cars having come to a halt, Carlos was conducted on board. It was an express train, and scarcely were he and the officer seated, still handcuffed together, before it was again in motion.

They were in the only ordinary passenger-coach on the train, it consisting mainly of drawing-room and sleeping cars, and being designed chiefly for the accommodation of through travelers. It stopped only once between Dalton and Hillsdale—the places were thirty-five miles apart—and that was at a small watering-station.

There were only five other passengers in the coach—a woman with a babe, an old man asleep, with his hat over his eyes, and two drunken fellows who were too stupid to attend to anything but each other’s gibberish.

Carlos obeyed the strange advice of the detective. He yawned, stretched, and sighed, and then, laying his head against the back of the seat, appeared to fall asleep. Meanwhile he put his hand in his coat pocket, and endeavored to ascertain, by feeling, what had been placed there.

There was a small bag, made of oil-silk or some similar material, inclosing some soft substance. There was a pair of iron or steel-cutting nippers, apparently of considerable strength. There was attached to the bag a slip of paper.

Carlos breathed heavily and regularly, but kept close watch of officer George Johnson. That gentleman seemed to be uneasy. One moment he would bow his head as if drowsy, and the next he would suddenly straighten up and look at his prisoner. Then he would subside into indolence again, again to rouse himself and make sure of the safety of Carlos.

“Beats the duse how sleepy I am!” he once muttered to himself.

Still Carlos feigned deep slumber.

At last Officer Johnson took a careful survey of him, examined the handcuffs cautiously, and then peered intently into his face.

Finally, either from a sense of safety, or in consequence of an uncontrollable drowsiness, he leaned his head against the casement of the car window, and went into a sound sleep.

Now was Carlos’ opportunity. With as little movement of his arm as possible, he tore the slip of paper from the bag, drew it from his pocket, and read as follows:

“In the bag is a sponge soaked in chloroform. When the officer goes to sleep, hold it to his mouth and nose. Then take the steel cutting-nippers and free yourself. Do all this when you hear the first long whistle, which will show that the train is near the watering-station. You can get off there and escape. If this plan fails, we will try another. But if you don’t get away, you will be convicted and hung, sure.

Your cousin,

L.”

“Here is deliverance!” was Carlos’ first thought.

Yet he was puzzled greatly. Although the note was signed “Your Cousin L,” the handwriting bore no resemblance to that of Leonard. And he was at a loss to conceive how Leonard, if he was a prisoner, could concoct this plan and supply him with the materials for carrying it out.

While inwardly debating, another thought struck him.

Would not an attempt to escape, whether it succeeded or failed, be regarded as an evidence of guilt? If he met the trial quietly and fearlessly, would it not go far toward convincing people of his innocence? But then he thought of the wide-spread sentiment against him, of the strong array of evidence, and of the dreary confinement in jail that must ensue before the trial.

Suddenly, while conflicting arguments were flitting through his brain, the engine pealed forth its whistle.

Now or never!

With sudden impulse he tore the oil-silk bag open. The odor of chloroform arose. Looking quickly around the car, and seeing that no observant eye was upon him, he applied the sponge to his companion’s face.

The officer gave a little convulsive twitch, but Carlos held the sponge tighter, and he was immediately quiet, and quickly lapsed into unconsciousness.

Then Carlos seized the nippers, and, with their powerful, sharp jaws, severed the chain that held his wrist to that of the officer.

He was free!

He walked quickly to one end of the car, and as he passed him, exchanged hats with the man who was asleep.

The speed of the train had by this time slackened, so that as soon as he reached the platform of the car he jumped to the ground.

The train passed slowly along, and halted at the water-tower, some twenty rods distant.

Now came a brief period of suspense. Would his flight be discovered before the train started again? The chances were against such discovery, for no passengers were likely to get on or off. He concealed himself behind a clump of bushes and waited.

Soon the whistle sounded the signal for starting. The engine began to puff, and the red lights on the rear car to recede. There was no disturbance, no alarm.

Faster and faster went the train, until it rounded a curve, and Carlos was left solitary and alone.

The handcuff was still on his wrist, with the short fragment of chain dangling to it. To possess himself of some implement by which to rid himself of this incumbrance was the next desirable step.

After reflecting a moment, he made his way cautiously toward the water-tower. On coming within a few yards of it, he stopped suddenly and fell flat on the ground. A man emerged from the door of the structure. It was the keeper.

He walked across the track, and then down by its side a short distance, coming to an old freight-car, which he entered. It was his dwelling.

Resuming his cautious walk, Carlos soon reached the tower. He pushed the door open and stepped within. Lighting a match, he looked searchingly around.

Yes, there was what he sought—a box of tools. Fumbling among them, he succeeded in finding a file. Taking possession of it, he stepped outside again, and around to the rear of the structure.

The file was a large, clumsy instrument, but by dint of twenty minutes’ industrious work, he freed himself of the handcuff. He cast it into a ditch by the side of the track, and then replaced the file where he had found it.

This done, he again walked to a safe distance from the water-tower. He stood alone in the night air, divested of the most dangerous mark of recognition.

What next?

CHAPTER XIII.
STRANGE DISCOVERIES.

On the day of the examination of Carlos, strange things happened in and near Leonard Lester’s subterranean prison.

Leonard awoke early in the morning, after a night of fitful sleep. His first thoughts were, of course, of Carlos, and of the message he had sent him. He wondered whether it would reach him in time, and, if it did, whether the important words in German would catch his attention.

There were some remnants of his previous evening’s supper remaining, and also a portion of the wine. On these he made a breakfast, and afterward walked about, impatiently awaiting whatever might ensue.

It might have been nine o’clock when the door was opened with considerable haste and noise. Snags stepped in hurriedly, threw down a newspaper and a loaf of bread, and immediately rushed out again. The door was closed with a bang, and Leonard was left alone, somewhat astonished at the hurried action of Snags, who had not spoken a word.

In a moment afterward he was startled by a new and strange noise. He had thought that any noise would be welcome in that silent place, but this was of such a peculiar and unusual character that he listened in alarm.

It was like the sound of rushing water, as if a torrent had broken loose, or a cascade suddenly sprung into existence, very near him. Yet he could see nothing.

Had some underground stream burst its confines and made its way to the rocky cavern? Was some convulsion of nature about to precipitate destruction upon him?

It was natural that such questions should cross his mind, for the noise continued, and its volume of tone in nowise diminished.

He stepped to the door of his apartment. The torrent seemed to be just outside and very near, and little streams of water ran along on the ground at his feet.

He shouted, but there was no response.

Was he to be ingulfed by the water and drowned in that dismal cave, with no one in the outside world the wiser for it?

The thought was enough to fill one with dismay. He walked from side to side of his prison, with the faint hope that there was some means of escape that had hitherto escaped his attention. His search was fruitless.

He stood still and listened again. The sound had not abated. He scanned the rocky floor. The water was not running in to any great extent, there being only two or three small trickling streams.

Perhaps there was no danger, after all. At any rate, he had no choice but to wait and see.

The sound of the torrent continued with dull monotony all day, but no harm came to Leonard. He was puzzled beyond measure.

At nightfall it ceased as suddenly as it had begun.

In a moment after Snags entered.

“What on earth has been going on out there?” cried Leonard.

“Why?” asked Snags.

“I should judge that Satan had been taking a shower-bath.”

Snags laughed.

“Oh, that’s one of the tricks of our trade. Visitors have been around to-day.”

“Visitors?”

“Yes; they come occasionally. The cave is quite a curiosity in its way, and once in a while somebody takes it into his head to explore it. That was the case to-day, and so we let the water on.”

“Let the water on?”

“Yes; the existence of this room is a secret, known only to us. There is an underground stream which empties over the rocks by the sea, and we have a sort of dam or gate by which we can turn the water over the door here. It’s a very simple arrangement, but it prevents discovery.”

“Discovery of this room, you mean? Why do you wish to keep its existence a secret?”

“Well, there’s a very good reason just now—you’re here.”

“Yes, I know; but at other times?”

“That I mustn’t tell you.”

“No? Well, it is very strange. I should think you would have to keep a pretty sharp lookout for visitors.”

“Yes, we do,” replied Snags, with a smile.

“What has become of those other fellows that were here the night you captured me? You sent them in pursuit of me when I tried to escape with the boat.”

“Oh, they’re gone. They don’t stay here much of the time. They only happened to be at hand that night. It was lucky, too.”

“Who are they, and what is their business?”

“Now you are asking too many questions again,” said Snags. “I can’t answer.”

“I presumed not. What of my cousin?”

“The examination is going on. Your note was put in the post-office early this morning.”

“Thank you again for that.”

“Oh, never mind. I don’t know whether I am sorry or glad that I did it. But no matter, it’s done.”

There was silence for a moment, and then Snags said:

“I’ve brought you another bottle of wine. I thought your nerves might need bracing up after hearing the din of that waterfall all day.”

“Thank you,” replied Leonard; “but I guess my nerves are all right. Besides, the other bottle is not empty yet.”

“Oh, isn’t it? This is a better article, though. Just try it. I’ll take the other bottle away.”

There was something peculiar in Snags’ manner. He seemed awkward and ill at ease. He alternately regarded Leonard intently and dropped his eyes to the ground.

“What’s up?” thought Leonard. “This man is playing some game, and he’s not very good at it, either. However, I must not betray any suspicion. But it is plain that he has some object here other than bringing the wine.”

He took a swallow from the bottle Snags had brought.

“Excellent!” he exclaimed. “It is better than the other.”

A look of satisfaction instantly overspread the face of Snags. He picked up the first bottle he had left, now half-emptied, and started for the door.

“Take a good drink,” he exclaimed, “it will do you good. Good-night!”

And he left precipitately, without giving Leonard a chance to speak another word.

The latter stared at the closed door, and stood for a moment in meditation.

“I wonder what Snags was driving at,” he murmured.

He took another sip of the wine and smacked his lips as if to test its flavor.

“It has a peculiar taste,” he muttered to himself. “I wonder if it’s drugged. Perhaps they want to poison me. I wonder if I have already taken enough to harm me.”

He resolved to wait and see if it produced any effect on him, first taking the precaution to pour a considerable quantity of it in a crevice in the rocky floor, so that if they should examine the bottle it would appear that he had drank freely of it.

The effect of the small portion he had taken soon manifested itself in a feeling of drowsiness which took possession of him. It was not a natural fatigue, but rather a numbness such as might have been produced by a powerful opiate.

“I don’t believe I have taken enough to cause serious results,” he reflected. “I will take a little exercise and see if I cannot work it off.”

He walked rapidly to and fro in his apartment, first taking the precaution to remove his boots so that his footsteps might not be heard.

He soon had the satisfaction of feeling wide-awake and clear-headed. Indeed he was keener and more alert than ever, for his suspicions had made him watchful and nervous.

In order to arrive at a complete solution of his captors’ plans, however, he lay down with the bottle near him, and prepared to feign deep sleep on the approach of either Snags or Roake. It was some hours before he was disturbed, and he improved the time to take occasional exercise, so as to make sure that sleep should not overtake him.

About midnight his quick ear detected a movement on the other side of the door. He immediately composed himself in a reclining position, with one arm thrown partially over his eyes.

When the door was opened he was breathing heavily.

Snags advanced stealthily into the room and scrutinized him attentively. He lifted the bottle and examined it.

The voice of Roake came in a hoarse whisper from the half-open door.

“Has he drank the wine?”

“Yes,” replied Snags, laying the bottle down again, “enough to keep him quiet till morning.”

“Good!”

Both men withdrew and soon returned, bearing a ladder. They hoisted it toward the ceiling, and with the end of it pushed aside a small trap-door, painted to represent the rocks so exactly that the closest observer would fail to detect its presence. They then planted the ladder on the floor, with its upper end projecting into the opening thus made. There was evidently an apartment above, to which access was gained in this way.

They took another look at Leonard, and, apparently satisfied that he still slept, ascended the ladder. One of them carried a small lantern. They both disappeared through the opening, and then Leonard could hear them moving about and talking in low tones.

Soon a rope was lowered, and directly afterward Snags descended. He stepped to the door and blew a peculiar whistle. A faint reply was heard from without, and Snags immediately reascended the ladder.

In a few minutes a man entered, bearing a bundle on his shoulder. It was enveloped in brown sacking, and had a compact look. There were strange-looking foreign marks on the outside. The man attached the bundle to the rope, and it was drawn above. Soon another man entered bearing another bundle, and then a third one came, similarly laden. All of the packages were disposed of as the first one had been.

Then these three men journeyed back and forth, bringing boxes, and bales, and bundles, some of which were light and easy to carry, and others of which required the united efforts of the three to handle.

Leonard was at first astonished. The proceeding was inexplicable to him. But he soon arrived at a solution of the mystery. He concluded that his captors must be smugglers. The rocky cave, its secret apartments, its proximity to the sea-shore, its retired location, were all favorable to the carrying on of the unlawful business. He was excited by the discovery, yet he remained quiet, for to expose his wakefulness would be instant death, he felt. Occasionally one of the men would step near him and scan his face, but he was always on his guard, and kept up the semblance of deep sleep.

For two hours or more the smugglers continued their labors, and at the end of this time their work seemed to be finished. They stood about, wiping the perspiration from their brows, and brought in no more packages.

“Is that all?” inquired Snags from above.

“Yes,” replied one of them.

“Is he still sleeping?”

“Sound as a log.”

“All right. Come up here, all of you.”

They ascended the ladder, and the five men above occupied themselves, as Leonard judged, in arranging in order the articles that had been hastily drawn up.

Leonard was alone, and believed to be unconscious. Here was a tempting opportunity. The door was ajar, and why could he not escape?

He resolved to make the attempt.

He rose softly, taking his boots in one hand and the wine-bottle in the other, to be used as a weapon in case his progress was opposed.

He stole silently across the room, and into the outer passage. Here he paused and listened. The voice of Roake said:

“Did you close the door?”

“No,” replied one of the men.

“You had better go down and do it.”

“All right. Wait till I get the box rolled over here.”

Leonard hastened on. The passage was dimly illumined, as before, by a lamp hanging from the ceiling. He remembered the route perfectly, and, making his way as rapidly as possible, he was soon in the open air by the sea-shore.

Here he paused for an instant in utter amazement. He recognized the place as Rocky Beach. It was here that he had come on a fishing jaunt, the day before the murder. The bright starlight revealed the place and its surroundings to him. There could be no mistake.

But he must not linger. His captors might be upon him in a moment.

Two yachts were moored near the beach with sails ready to hoist. One of them was small enough for one man to manage. A fresh breeze was blowing, and, as Leonard was an experienced yachtman, his course was decided upon immediately.

Springing into one of the boats, he pushed it from the shore and hoisted the sail. It caught the wind, and was soon cutting through the water.

He looked back. There was as yet no movement on the shore. He had a good start, and believed he could not be overtaken, even if his flight were made known at that moment.

Heading the yacht toward the open sea, he now had leisure, as it sped along rapidly, to consider his situation and to form his plans.

CHAPTER XIV.
THE CUSTOM-HOUSE DETECTIVE.

As has already been mentioned, Leonard Lester was an experienced yachtman. He had for years belonged to a boating club in New York, and the knowledge and experience he had thus gained proved of great practical value in the situation in which he found himself after escaping from the underground retreat of the supposed smugglers.

The yacht he had taken possession of proved to be of good build and excellent sailing qualities. In the course of half an hour Rocky Beach was left several miles behind, and all danger of successful pursuit was for the time being past.

Leonard now conceived the idea of making for the port of Boston. New York would have suited him better, but was too far off.

The sky was clear, the wind was fresh and steady, and no sudden storm or squall seemed likely to arise. The condition could not have been more favorable.

So, calculating his bearings as nearly as possible, he guided his craft in what he deemed the proper direction. The voyage was without noteworthy incident—in fact, it was rather monotonous. Soon after daybreak he had the satisfaction of beholding the spires of the distant city, and about ten o’clock he entered the harbor.

Before approaching the crowd of ships that lay near the wharfs and docks, he bethought himself to examine the yacht thoroughly, and see if he could discover any clew to ownership, or the movements of those who had so recently had it in their possession.

His search resulted in his finding nothing but two cards in a small locker. One of these was printed, and read as follows:

JACOB RUSH.

9 ―― Street, Jersey City.

On the other was written, in a scrawling hand: “32 Main street, Dalton.”

These he decided, with a purpose which will appear hereafter, to leave where he had found them.

Then, setting sail directly for the city, he sought a convenient place for landing.

He was accosted by no one save a man in a small boat, who proved to be a custom-house officer. The man asked him some questions, scanned the yacht closely, and then moved off again, satisfied that he was not a runner in of smuggled goods.

Leonard selected a vacant place alongside a low dock, and springing ashore, made his boat fast by a rope.

He looked around him, and saw in the long line of dingy buildings a narrow alley. Through this he made his way, and soon emerged into a busy wholesale street.

His first step was to proceed to a barber’s shop and have his mustache shaved off. Then he purchased a hat and coat of different patterns from those he had been wearing, and donned them. The garments of which he divested himself he tied in a bundle and carried in his hand.

These transactions occupied but little time; they were for the purpose of avoiding ready recognition, for he remembered Snags’ assertion that he was regarded as an accomplice in Carlos’ supposed crime, and it was possible that his appearance and dress had already been telegraphed to officers who might be on the lookout for him.

Next he found his way to the custom-house, and inquired of one of the clerks for the superintendent, or some person in authority.

The clerk silently pointed to a man seated within an inclosure of railing. The man was busily engaged with some papers, and scarcely looked up as Leonard accosted him.

“Can I have a few words with you, sir?”

“Yes,” was the reply, delivered with the air of one whose time was precious.

“I presume there is a secret detective service connected with this department?”

“Yes.”

“Can you direct me to some reliable, shrewd person engaged in that service?”

The man slowly turned a pair of dull-looking eyes full on Leonard. Yet it was evident that the owner of those dull-looking eyes was accustomed to reading character and forming prompt conclusions. He withdrew his gaze after a moment, and said:

“Second story. Inquire for Mr. Stark.”

He then turned to his work again, and was apparently oblivious of his surroundings.

Leonard proceeded as directed, and found Mr. Stark alone in a small room. The room was compact, neat, and orderly in appearance. On one side was a telegraphic apparatus, and on the other was a desk, surmounted by a case of pigeon-holes, containing letters and papers tied up in bundles. There was a couch and two chairs in the room. One window looked upon the street, and a closed door concealed an adjoining apartment.

Mr. Stark was a man small in stature and unpretending in aspect. His face was smooth, with thin lips, a firm-set mouth, and cool, gray eyes. He was dressed with neat precision.

“Mr. Stark?” inquired Leonard.

“Yes, sir.”

“You are, I believe, connected with the secret detective service.”

“I am.”

“Can I confer with you in reference to engaging your services?”

“My services are not exactly open for engagement,” said Mr. Stark, smiling. “I am in the employ of the government.”

“Pardon me,” said Leonard. “Perhaps I did not put the case as I should. There is a matter that interests the government—a smuggling case, I am convinced—but it requires to be managed with caution.”

“We are accustomed to manage things with caution,” was Mr. Stark’s reply.

“Certainly—I am aware of that—but this case is so complicated with an affair of an entirely different character—and in which I have a deep personal interest—that I must be exceedingly cautious as to whom I take in my confidence.”

“If you know anything, young man,” rejoined Mr. Stark, “about the illegal running in of any foreign goods, it is your duty to reveal such knowledge.”

“That may be,” replied Leonard; “but I have other duties, too. One of them is self-protection. Another is to look out for my friends. I must be assured of the hearty co-operation of whoever I take into my confidence, in an endeavor to solve a mystery on which hangs the life of a near and dear relative, as well as to bring to justice these supposed smugglers. The two cases cannot be separated—they must be investigated conjointly. And it may take time.”

“You speak with a good deal of self-confidence, sir. May I ask who you are?”

Leonard handed him his card, and then asked:

“Do you know the firm of Duncan & Mishler, New York?”

“Yes—an importing house. You don’t mean to say that they are the parties?”

“Bless you, no!” exclaimed Leonard. “They are as straight as a string. I am connected with that firm.”

“Let me see,” said Stark, opening a large book, consulting an index, and turning to a particular page. “Yes—Duncan & Mishler—Leonard Lester, European agent. Well, I guess, if you are connected with that firm, you can trust me. Go on with your story.”

“It must be confidential, and no steps must be taken without consulting me.”

“I agree to that.”

“And do you promise not to reveal my identity, or my presence in Boston?”

“I promise. But you are very cautious.”

“You will see that I have reason to be.”

Leonard thereupon narrated to Mr. Stark the journey of himself and Carlos to Dalton, of their visit, their interview with Colonel Conrad, his own excursion to Rocky Beach, the departure of Carlos in an opposite direction to attend a concert, the capture of himself by Snags, his subsequent experience in the cave, and his escape. He concluded by saying:

“My cousin is now doubtless in jail. The evidence would probably be sufficient to hold him for trial, whether it finally convicted him or not. Snags is the guilty man, though my evidence might not be sufficient to establish that. But he had some object other than robbery. This is proved by his anxiety in regard to the missing fragment of paper. He spoke of a ‘boss’ to whom both he and Roake were subordinate. Who this ‘boss’ is, is the mystery. He is undoubtedly the chief guilty party; for Snags and Roake are not the men to push smuggled goods on the market.”

“No, you are right there. And in regard to the murder, I agree with you in thinking that it was done for some motive that does not appear on the surface.”

“And, by the way, those cards in the locker of the yacht,” said Leonard; “do you know anything of Jacob Rush, of Jersey City?”

“No, but I will inside of twenty-four hours.”

“Thirty-two Main street, Dalton, which was written on the other card, is, as I mentioned, the address of Geoffrey Haywood’s place of business. I remember the large gilded sign very well. You don’t suppose that villain has anything to do with the smuggling business, do you?”

“I don’t know, I am sure. Every clew is worth following up. Why did you leave the cards in the boat, instead of bringing them with you?”

“For two reasons. First, I thought I would leave the yacht in your charge, and let you advertise for an owner, stating that the cards were found in the locker, and mentioning the addresses on them. Some one implicated might then appear to claim it. Second, the taking of the cards would betray the fact that interested parties had the boat in charge. For who would go to the trouble of taking them except somebody that regarded them as of special significance?”

“Well, you are partly right. I will advertise the yacht, but will say nothing about the cards. That might put the parties on their guard. We will let them think they have not been noticed. If the right person answers the advertisement, you may be sure that he will search for them when he comes to examine the boat. And I’ll have all his movements watched.”

“Perhaps,” said Leonard, “we can kill two birds with one stone—capture both the murderer and the smugglers.”

“We’ll try,” replied Mr. Stark. “And now, what do you propose to do next?”

“I want to go to New York, and see my employers, Duncan & Mishler.”

“But not as you are.”

“Why not?”

“Because, if you are regarded as an accomplice in the murder of Colonel Conrad, you may be arrested at any moment. Your description is probably in the hands of officers now.”

“True. But what is to be done?”

“I’ll disguise you. If I am not mistaken you have taken some steps in that direction already. You have had your mustache shaved off, and you are wearing strange clothes.”

“How do you know?” exclaimed Leonard, in astonishment.

“You move your upper lip nervously, as if experiencing an unusual sensation, and the coat and hat you have on are new. Besides, there is that bundle under your arm.”

“You are right,” said Leonard, “but I never would have dreamed――”

“Oh, never mind. We have to train our observing faculties. You won’t do at all, now. I’ll fix you.”

And he conducted Leonard into the room adjoining his office.

When they returned Leonard was transformed into a sanctimonious-looking individual, with gray side-whiskers and hair, a pair of silver-bowed spectacles, a long, well-worn coat, and a hat of the last season’s pattern.

“There!” said Mr. Stark, admiringly, “I’ll risk you anywhere. If anything unlooked-for happens, you are the Reverend Mr. Withers, living at No. ―― 12th street, New York. Here, take this cane and volume of commentaries. Ha! ha! you look like a natural-born missionary!”

At this moment there was a knock at the door.

“What’s wanted?” demanded Mr. Stark.

“Here’s your morning paper, sir,” came in a boy’s voice.

“Why didn’t you bring it in sooner?” asked Mr. Stark, opening the door.

“The clerks were reading it, sir.”

“Couldn’t they find anything else to do?”

Without waiting for an answer, he closed the door in the boy’s face, and then ran his eyes down the column of telegraphic reports.

Suddenly he turned to Leonard.

“You say you last heard from your cousin through Mr. Snags, on the day the examination was in progress.”

“Yes,” replied Leonard.

“Read that.”

Leonard took the paper, and, at a spot indicated by Mr. Stark’s thumb, saw among the latest dispatches the following paragraph:

“HILLSDALE, Aug. 29.—Charles Conrad, charged with the murder of Col. Wm. Conrad, of Dalton, made his escape while coming here on the cars last night in charge of a constable. He is slightly below the medium height, with blue eyes and a light mustache. A large reward is offered for his capture.”

Leonard stared at these words in dumb amazement. He read them over twice before speaking. Then he turned to Mr. Stark.

“What is to be done?” he asked.

“Nothing, by you,” replied the gentleman, quite composed, “except to give me a very particular and exact description of his personal appearance.”

Leonard having given the desired description, Mr. Stark said:

“Now leave everything to me for a short time. My chance of capturing your cousin is as good as that of any one else. I’ll send telegrams to some of my associates, and he may come to no harm. But whatever may be the result, you can do nothing. Remember that, and go on to New York. Of course you must tell Duncan & Mishler everything, and I hope they are discreet men. It might be well for you to drop around to No. ―― 12th street to-morrow morning, and, if I have occasion to communicate with you, you will find a message there for the Reverend Mr. Withers. They’ll know you. And now, good-day. I have other business on hand. I think the next train will bring you to New York about eight o’clock this evening.”

Leonard passed out of Mr. Stark’s office, went down stairs and into the street, and made his way to the railroad depot.

He took the train for New York, where he arrived in due time. Here a great surprise awaited him.

CHAPTER XV.
FREE.

What next?

That was the question with Carlos Conrad, as he stood alone by the railroad track, the cool night air blowing softly about him. The moon shone brightly, and objects on which the light fell stood out in bold distinctness, while those in the shadows were rendered doubly obscure.

He stood in irresolution. He did not know which way to turn, for with daylight would come pursuit, and probably capture.

He half regretted the step he had taken. He had no refuge to fly to, no friends to conceal him, no means of disguise. To the right and left were the long lines of railroad track, in front and behind were fields, and woods, and distant farm-houses. He felt friendless and almost hopeless.

While standing thus in gloomy reflection, he saw a bright light far down the track. It was the head-light of a locomotive just coming around the curve. It was coming from the direction of Hillsdale, and must have met the train which Carlos had so recently quitted. As it approached its speed slackened, and, moving slower and slower, it finally drew up at the tower to take in a supply of water.

Obeying a sudden impulse, Carlos ran back into a field, took a circuit around the water-tower, and came up beyond it to the track where the passenger cars stood.

The whistle sounded, the bell rang, and the train started. He sprang unobserved on the platform of one of the cars, opened the door, and walked coolly in. He took a vacant seat, pulled his hat down over his eyes and settled himself into a comfortable position.

The train was soon under headway and tearing along at the rate of forty miles an hour toward Dalton.

Carlos realized that he was incurring a great risk. He might be rushing into the very arms of pursuers; for that there would be pursuers was, of course, not to be doubted. It was even possible that the officer from whom he had escaped had discovered his loss in time to transfer himself to the returning train, the one on which Carlos was now riding. He might lay his hands on him at any moment.

Carlos was aware that he faced this possibility, as also that of there being those present at the Dalton depot who would recognize him. This latter danger, however, he considered not to be imminent, on account of the lateness of the hour.

But he was in a reckless mood, and was not dismayed by the prospect.

The conductor came through the car and touched him on the shoulder, at the same time peering into his face.

“Did I see your ticket, sir?”

“No; I have none. Can I go through on this train to New York?”

“Yes. Where did you get on?”

Carlos hesitated.

“At Hillsdale,” he said, after a pause. “I did not have time to buy a ticket. What is the fare?”

“A dollar and sixty cents to the Junction,” replied the conductor. “There you change cars.”

“Where is the Junction?”

“Thirty miles beyond Dalton.”

“Will there be any delay?”

“About five minutes.”

The fare was paid and the conductor passed on.

Carlos now ventured to look around the car. No one appeared to be taking particular notice of him. Many were asleep, a few were trying to read by the flickering light of the lamps overhead, and others were staring patiently into vacancy.

There was nothing alarming in the aspect, and now, seeing that he was not pursued, Carlos began to feel anxious and nervous again. The certainty of calamity is not nearly so disquieting as a sense of proximity, with a possibility of escape. The suspense attendant on this latter condition was soon augmented by the approach to Dalton. He had begun to feel that he might possibly reach New York unmolested, and in that city he hoped to find a safe retreat. Hope and apprehensiveness struggled for the mastery within him, and when the cars drew up at the Dalton depot the conflict was at its height. But, by a violent effort, he calmed himself and betrayed no anxiety.

An incident now occurred that filled him at first with surprise and terror, and afterward with wonderment and perplexity.

Geoffrey Haywood stepped aboard and entered the same car Carlos occupied.

The emotions of the latter may be imagined better than described. He watched the new-comer spell-bound.

But Mr. Geoffrey Haywood seemed to be occupied with affairs of his own. He dropped into the first seat that presented itself, and, looking neither to the right nor the left, buried himself in meditation.

And after the cars had started again, and were fairly under weigh, it became apparent that the presence of Carlos was in the furthest degree remote from his thoughts.

With intense relief, Carlos furtively watched his further movements.

Mr. Haywood’s journey was not a long one. He got off at the next stopping-place, still preserving his pre-occupied air. Carlos marveled greatly at his action. What could be the object of this short journey at such a time of night? He could devise no solution to the query, and so, endeavoring to dismiss the subject from his mind, he congratulated himself on the fact that his greatest danger was now past.

The journey to New York was accomplished without further incident. At the junction, where the change was made, there was the usual bustle and hurry, but no one was as yet on the track of the escaped prisoner. About seven o’clock in the morning the train reached the city.

Immediately on alighting, Carlos astonished a vociferating hackman by promptly accepting his tender of a conveyance.

“I want you to take me, as quickly as possible, to Duncan & Mishler’s, No. ―― Broadway. Start immediately, without waiting for any other passengers, and your pay shall be five dollars.”

“Yes, sir,” responded the hackman, with alacrity. He sprang to his seat, while Carlos drew back in the carriage, concealing himself as well as possible from the observation of outsiders.

In obedience to a word and a crack of the whip, the horses sprang forward, and rattled through the noisy streets at a good pace.

About half-past seven they halted before one of those palaces devoted to trade that abound in all their glory on the principal thoroughfare of the city of New York.

Duncan & Mishler were importers, as has been mentioned, and this was their wholesale store.

Carlos paid the hackman, and, walking up to a short flight of stone steps, met a porter with a feather duster in his hand. He was just about finishing his work of sweeping and dusting the store in preparation for the day’s business.

“Good-morning,” said Carlos. “I suppose Mr. Duncan is not here yet this morning.”

“No, sir,” replied the porter. “He won’t be down till nine o’clock.”

Carlos paused a moment in hesitation.

“Did you have a good trip, sir?” asked the porter.

“A good trip?” echoed Carlos, not certain of the man’s meaning.

“Yes, sir. I mean did you sell many goods?”

It immediately struck Carlos that the porter mistook him for one of the traveling agents, or “drummers” of the establishment. He resolved to humor the error.

“Oh, I had fair success,” he replied, carelessly.

“Mr. Carter came in from the West day before yesterday,” said the porter, “and said he found trade mighty dull. He started out again last night.”

“Ah,” replied Carlos, “I hope he’ll have good luck. But I wish to see Mr. Duncan particularly. I wonder if there would be any objection to my waiting in his private office. My business is very urgent.”

“I guess you can wait there, sir,” replied the porter. “You’ll find last evening’s paper on the desk.”

“Thank you,” replied Carlos.

He passed through the store, and walked up a flight of steps to an elevated portion in the rear end. Here he opened a door, and entered a small, elegantly furnished apartment, which was the private sanctum of Mr. Duncan, the senior partner of the firm.

A brief retrospect is here necessary. Carlos had arrived from Europe but three days before the visit of himself and Leonard to Dalton. He had immediately called on his cousin, to whom he announced the death of his father, and confided the errand on which he was bent. Leonard had introduced him to Mr. Duncan, who had invited the cousins to his house.

For Leonard, in his capacity of foreign agent for the firm, enjoyed not only the business confidence of, but the warm personal friendship of his employers, and Mr. Duncan, being of a genial, social nature, delighted in nothing more than extending the hospitality of his house to his friends.

Mr. Mishler, the junior partner, was perhaps equally pleasant and sociable in his way, but he was unmarried, exceedingly industrious, and was constantly occupied with certain details of the business that were intrusted to his special supervision. Carlos had only met him once or twice casually.

Consequently he waited in Mr. Duncan’s private office, feeling that that gentleman was the only acquaintance in the great city to whom he could go in the present trouble. Indeed, there was no one else to whom he would feel at liberty to apply for any service whatever.

He patiently awaited Mr. Duncan’s appearance, glancing over the newspaper to which the porter had made reference, but taking no heed of the words over which his eyes wandered.

Promptly at nine o’clock Mr. Duncan arrived. He seemed surprised to find Carlos sitting there, but after an instant’s hesitation recognized him, and with a cordial exclamation advanced toward him with extended hand.

Carlos sprang past him and closed the door, and then turned and took the proffered hand.

“I beg your pardon,” he began, and then stopped.

“How do you do! How do you do!” exclaimed Mr. Duncan.

His words and voice were cordial, though he looked sharply at Carlos, as if puzzled at his demeanor. He was a tall, portly man, with a ruddy, though fair complexion, and a clear, pleasant eye. His face was smooth, with the exception of gray side-whiskers, and he had a high, noble forehead. He stood looking at Carlos, inquiringly, and the latter began to speak hurriedly and rather incoherently.

“I am in great trouble,” he said, “and I have come to you. I scarcely know why. I thought that you might not believe—that is, that you would be willing to listen—at all events that you would shield me for a few hours, and not pronounce judgment too hastily.”

“What do you mean?” asked Mr. Duncan, in astonishment.

“Mr. Duncan,” said Carlos, suddenly stepping back a pace, and speaking slowly and distinctly, “are you aware that you have just shaken hands with one who is under accusation of murder?”

“Good heavens, no! I am not aware of that. Please explain yourself.”

“You won’t turn me off and deliver me into the hands of the officers?”

“I don’t understand you. No, of course I won’t do anything of that kind. You are a friend of Leonard Lester, and his friends are my friends. Come, sit down here.”

Mr. Duncan took a chair, and Carlos sat in another near him.

“Yes, I will tell you all. But, first, are we in danger of interruption?”

“None whatever. But wait.”

He stepped to the door and locked it, and returned to his seat again.

“There. Now out with your story. I see you are in trouble. Let me hear what it is.”

Thus commanded, Carlos gave a faithful account of the terrible experience he had passed through since the Monday on which he and Leonard had set their feet in Dalton. He omitted no important particular, and concluded by relating the unexpected means of escape that had been offered him, and his night journey to New York.

Mr. Duncan evinced considerable excitement during the recital. He rose, stared at the narrator, uttered an exclamation or two, and finally sat down, planted his hands on his knees, and drank in every word.

“Well, upon my soul, this is marvelous!” he exclaimed, vehemently, on the conclusion of the narrative. “I never heard the like.”

Carlos sat in silence. He had finished his tale, and his first anxiety was to know the reception it would meet with.

He waited to hear what Mr. Duncan would have to say after his wonderment had found vent. But that gentleman, although excitable when his surprise or sympathy was aroused, said nothing at all for some moments.

CHAPTER XVI.
A REFUGE.

“This is marvelous!” repeated Mr. Duncan, when he finally spoke again. “And now, what do you intend to do?”

“That I cannot tell. I have formed no plans whatever. I have even doubted the wisdom of my flight.”

“I don’t know about that. Perhaps you did right, perhaps not.”

“Do you doubt my innocence?”

“No, I can’t say that I do. You don’t look like a man capable of performing such a deed. And Leonard gave a very good account of you. No, I haven’t the least doubt of your innocence. But if you had stood the trial, and been acquitted, it might have been better.”

“That is what I thought,” said Carlos. “But the evidence is strong, and everybody in Dalton believes me guilty; at least everybody except the secret few who know better, and I do not expect they will come forward to criminate themselves in order to save me.”

“You believe, then, that the real murderer lives in Dalton?”

“Yes, or some one associated with him. The murder was done by parties who knew something of my uncle, and who had some secret purpose to serve—else why the anxiety to obtain that fragment of paper bearing the finishing words to something that he had written?”

“It might have been for fear it would furnish a clew to detection.”

“No—the only way in which it could be used in that way would be to match it to the larger paper from which it was torn, and that could easily be destroyed.”

“True; but it is strange. The words ‘seven o’clock’ do not amount to much. They probably have only a casual meaning.”

“Perhaps; but I must caution you not to repeat them where they will be heard. Leonard said in his note, as I told you, that they would give the murderer all the information he wanted.”

“Yes; I had forgotten that. But it is utterly inexplicable.”

“It is, indeed.”

“Let me see,” said Mr. Duncan. “Have you many acquaintances here in New York?”

“I have none at all. Most of my life has been spent across the ocean, except a few years, when I was a good deal younger than I am now; and during the three days I was here, previous to going to Dalton, I made no acquaintances, except in your own family. I do not think that I was even in the store here often enough for the clerks to know me. The porter mistook me for one of your traveling agents.”

“Did he? That circumstance may be used to advantage. We will not undeceive him. Let him think that you are a traveling agent, and he’ll tell no damaging tales.”

“Ah! you are inclined to befriend me, I see. How can I thank you?”

“Yes, I am inclined to befriend you, and, as for thanks, never mind them now. You are a stranger here, and in Dalton. These facts are fortunate. Will any one there be apt to conclude that you have come to me?”

“I think not. No one there knows enough about me to form such a conclusion.”

“Do not be too sure of that. It would be strange if something did not appear at the examination that would throw the scent this way.”

“Yes, I had forgotten about that. But I do not remember much about the testimony. I am rather stupid, I think.”

“Well, there is not much cause for immediate alarm on that score, I apprehend. It will take time for the Dalton authorities to communicate to the New York police what they know about you and your connections, and before such communication is had, I think we can find a safe hiding-place for you.”

“Where will it be?” asked Carlos.

“Oh, I don’t know yet. I believe,” musingly, “that I will consult Mishler.”

“He is your partner. Is he a safe man?”

“Safe? I should say so! And closed-mouthed as a mummy. The course I have named seems the only available one just now. And then I shall wait for Leonard to turn up. He knows how to take care of himself, and I do not doubt that he will put in an appearance soon.”

“Possibly. But he wrote that he was a prisoner, and helpless.”

“Yes, I know; but my conviction is as I have stated. It is not easy to outwit Leonard.”

The merchant’s eyes twinkled, as if experience had filled him with confidence in the pluck, shrewdness, and good judgment of his foreign agent.

“I’ll call Mishler now. You sit in the corner here and look in this ledger.” Mr. Duncan opened a large account-book and spread it on a small writing-table. “If any outsider comes in, you can pass as an accountant in my employ. Don’t look up from your work, and nobody will see your face.”

Carlos took a seat before the table, with his back toward the door, and prepared to bury himself in the columns of figures before him on an instant’s warning.

Mr. Mishler soon entered in obedience to a call from Mr. Duncan. And, as soon as the latter had briefly stated the leading facts of the case, the two great merchants were absorbed in a discussion as to the best means of secreting a fugitive from the law.

A conclusion was at length reached.

Mr. Duncan introduced Carlos to Mr. Mishler.

“You need trouble yourself to make no explanations,” said the latter; “I understand all. I am going out, and in ten minutes you will please follow me and step into a close carriage which will be standing outside.”

Carlos, at the end of the time named, proceeded as Mr. Mishler had directed, and the two were soon riding up Broadway, amid the crowd and bustle of that ever busy street.

But little was said by either gentleman. Mr. Mishler was habitually a silent man; he was thoroughly devoted to business, and seldom spoke unless he had something to say, and then his words were few and his sentences compact. He was a German, but his English pronunciation would not have betrayed the fact. Carlos had already told his story to Mr. Duncan, who in turn had imparted it to Mr. Mishler; so there was little occasion for conversation.

After a lengthy drive up Broadway, the carriage turned on a cross street, and in a short time drew up before a brown-stone front which had nothing to distinguish it from its neighbors except the number over the door.

“Some German friends of mine live here,” said Mr. Mishler. “They let rooms to single gentlemen. A musician named Werner, who has just arrived in this country, occupies an apartment in the third story. I will put you in his charge. He is trustworthy.”

“And what about the other occupants?”

“It is none of their business; but they will think you have come to see about taking piano-lessons of Mr. Werner.”

“Yes, that will do, for I am something of a musician myself.”

A servant admitted them in answer to a ring at the door-bell.

Mr. Mishler led the way to Mr. Werner’s room, and in a moment they were in the presence of the musician. He was about the same age as Carlos, and was tall, slim, and straight as an arrow. He had delicate though manly features, a pale complexion, and deep eyes, which bespoke an intense and romantic nature.

Mr. Mishler addressed him rapidly in German for a few moments, explaining briefly that Carlos had reasons for wishing to be unknown for a few days, and requesting Mr. Werner to give him the shelter of his room for a short time.

There were a few questions and answers, and then, the matter being decided, Mr. Mishler took his leave.

“I speak German,” said Carlos, addressing the musician in his own language, “probably better than you do English.”

“Ah, I am glad,” replied Mr. Werner. “I have been in this country only a month, and know very little of your tongue yet.”

“We will get along very well together.”

“Yes. Have you been speaking disrespectfully of your emperor—or president, as they call him—that they desire to imprison you?”

“Oh, no,” replied Carlos, smiling. “They do not imprison people for political offenses in the United States. Ours is what we call a free country. But I am accused of a crime of which I am innocent, and am secreting myself because it is difficult to obtain evidence that will acquit me. I hope to overcome the difficulty before long.”

“Yes? You have my sympathy. Where did you learn to speak German so well?”

“In your own country. I was there for some years, and at one time attended the music school at Stuttgart.”

“Indeed! There is where I was trained in the divine art. Will you play for me?”

And he opened the piano.

“I should much prefer to hear you. I am tired and weak from travel and anxiety. It would gratify me much if you would consent to let me be the listener.”

Mr. Werner good-naturedly complied, and played, of course, from Beethoven. It was one of those grand sonatas which are the peculiar glory of that great master. The performance was a fine one, and Carlos expressed his approval enthusiastically. Then, on further invitation, he seated himself at the piano and played a short, solemn extract from the same composer.

“You play as well as I do,” cried Mr. Werner, “or, at least, you have. But you are not in practice.”

“No,” replied Carlos.

“You shall be my pupil,” said Mr. Werner.

“Willingly,” replied Carlos. “Indeed, that must be my excuse for being here, if any inquiries are made.”

“A capital arrangement,” declared Mr. Werner.

The day was passed very pleasantly. Mr. Werner was a frugal liver, and frequently purchased his own provisions, taking his meals in his room. On this occasion a double supply was bought, which Carlos shared with him. Afterward they had a pleasant smoke and chat together.

About two o’clock Mr. Werner went out to give a lesson, for he already had two pupils, and was patiently waiting for more.

During his absence Carlos found occupation in looking over some piles of music, of which Mr. Werner had a valuable collection, embracing most of the standard compositions, as well as many quaint gems not so well known. Thus employed, the time passed rapidly.

When Mr. Werner returned they talked more, comparing their likes and dislikes in musical matters; and in the evening the same occupation was renewed, varied by playing some duets.

At length, by some casual remarks, each discovered that the other could play chess, and as this was a favorite game with both of them, they were soon absorbed in a friendly contest.

While thus engaged, a knock came at the door. Both players sprang to their feet. They had been so intent on the game that they had not heard any footsteps on the stairs.

Carlos turned pale with an apprehension that naturally rushed on his mind.

Mr. Werner quickly interpreted his expression, and his eyes flashed with excitement.

“I will see who it is,” he said.

Opening the door to the extent of a mere crack, he ejaculated a question in German.

Carlos heard a familiar voice say:

“It’s all right. I want to see the young man you have caged in here.”

“Vot you say? I no understand English mooch.”

It must be recollected that all the conversation between Carlos and Mr. Werner had been carried on in German.

The voice rejoined:

“Bring young Conrad to the door, then. He’ll understand me.”

“It is Mr. Duncan,” cried Carlos; and then he added, in German: “Let him in; he is my friend.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Werner, opening the door, “your pardon, Mein Herr.”

Mr. Duncan entered, an unaccountable expression of joy beaming from his face.

He was followed by a solemn, rather seedy-looking gentleman, with gray side-whiskers, who wore spectacles, and carried a cane. Carlos regarded him with a doubtful look.

“Allow me,” said Mr. Duncan, his eyes twinkling, “to introduce you to my friend, the Reverend Mr. Withers. Mr. Withers, this is Mr. Conrad. And this is Mr. Werner.”

CHAPTER XVII.
A GLAD MEETING.

The Reverend Mr. Withers expressed his pleasure in a hollow, sepulchral tone at meeting the gentlemen.

Carlos replied rather stiffly.

Mr. Werner contemplated the proceedings curiously, yet courteously.

Mr. Duncan seemed struggling to suppress an exhibition of merriment. In this he was not successful, for he soon burst into a fit of hearty laughter.

Then it was that the Reverend Mr. Withers went through with a most surprising performance. He seized Carlos by both shoulders, shook him violently, and exclaimed:

“Don’t you know me, old boy?”

Carlos sprang back in amazement, and gazed at the speaker as if he would look him through and through.

“Know you?” he faltered. “Your voice seems familiar.”

“Does it? I should think so. I’ll let you hear it again. Now do you know me?”

A look of intelligence and gladness gradually crept over the face of Carlos. He could not be mistaken; he was not. It was his cousin, Leonard Lester.

The reader has already recognized the disguise in which Mr. Stark, the detective in the Boston custom-house, had arrayed him.

The violent hand-shaking and extravagant ejaculations of joy which the cousins indulged in, need not be here recorded.

When the first greetings were over, Carlos hastily informed Mr. Werner who Leonard was, and explained his enthusiastic welcome of his appearance.

Mr. Werner smiled brightly, and offered a brief congratulation.

“Where did you come from, Leonard, and what are you fixed up in this ridiculous style for?” asked Carlos.

“I came from―― Where did I come from, Mr. Duncan?” appealed Leonard to his employer.

“You will have to tell the whole story to answer that question,” replied Mr. Duncan.

“I suppose I will. And though you have just heard it from my lips, I suppose I must satisfy Carlos at once.”

“Certainly.”

“But first tell me why you are rigged out so outlandishly?” cried Carlos.

“Outlandishly!” repeated Leonard, in a tone of mock reproach. “I thought I presented a highly respectable appearance. But wait. I’ll come to it in the course of my story. I will be very brief now, and give only the main points. The details I will relate when we have more time.”

It is not necessary to repeat Leonard’s story, as the reader knows it already. It will be remembered that when we left him he had made the journey from Boston to New York. We will take up the thread of his narrative at that point.

Carlos had already apologized to Mr. Werner, saying:

“You will pardon us for speaking in English; we can talk more readily and to the point. All shall be explained to you afterward.”

“I arrived in New York,” said Leonard, “about two hours ago—it is now ten o’clock, I believe. I at once proceeded to Mr. Duncan’s house, and requested to see him alone, giving my name as the Reverend Mr. Withers. It is perhaps not surprising that he failed to recognize me at first, but I soon made myself known. And, as he had already heard your story, you are prepared to believe that he gave me rather a warm reception. Well, I told my story. While I was telling it I saw he had something on his mind that he was impatient to reveal, but you may judge that I was unprepared for the first question he asked, which was ‘if I would like to see my cousin Carlos?’ ‘Of course I would,’ I replied, not dreaming what was to follow. But you know what followed. He brought me here, and here I am. It is safe to say that nothing more surprising ever happened during the whole course of my life. And now here we are, all together, with business of the most important kind before us.”

“Yes, business of the most important kind,” repeated Mr. Duncan, emphatically. And he muttered in an under-tone, half to himself: “And I’ll wager that he’ll carry it through. I said it wasn’t easy to outwit him.”

“After a good night’s rest we will proceed upon it in earnest,” continued Leonard.

“After a good night’s rest!” exclaimed Carlos, who seemed anxious to do something at once.

“Yes,” replied Leonard. “We all need it; or, at least, you and I do. And there is nothing to be done to-night.”

The wisdom of this course was apparent, and was soon admitted by all.

“I suppose you are safe enough here,” said Leonard to Carlos. “I shall go to a hotel. It will be prudent, perhaps, for you and I not to be seen together, at all events until I have consulted with Mr. Stark. What connection can you, a pupil of Mr. Werner, be supposed to have with me, the Rev. Mr. Withers?”

“Just so,” said Mr. Duncan. “You are right.”

“And,” resumed Leonard, “I should like to stop where there is a telegraph office near at hand.”

“There is a telegraph office in the United States Hotel,” said Mr. Duncan.

“Very well, I will put up there. And now good-night, Carlos. I will see you to-morrow, probably. Gute nacht, Herr Werner.”

They separated, Carlos remaining with Mr. Werner, Mr. Duncan going to his own home, and Leonard proceeding to the United States Hotel.

The next day was Sunday, but, feeling that no time must be lost, Leonard dispatched a message to Mr. Stark, early in the morning. It bore the following cautious wording:

“MR. STARK, Custom House, Boston:

“The property is found.

“(Signed)  REV. MR. WITHERS.”

He had confidence that its meaning would be understood by Mr. Stark; and he was not mistaken.

In an hour a reply came, which read as follows:

“REV. MR. WITHERS, U. S. Hotel, N. Y.:

“I will be with you to-day. Meet me at the place where I told you to call.

STARK.”

Leonard estimated that Mr. Stark would have to make some preparations before leaving Boston, and that he would reach New York in the evening, on the same train that had brought “Rev. Mr. Withers” the night before. So he was in no haste to show himself at the appointed place.

He passed most of the day in his room, reading the daily papers, and reflecting on the matters in which he was so immediately concerned.

He reviewed the situation, formed plans to suggest to Mr. Stark, and arranged his thoughts to be submitted to the detective in the most concise manner possible. He sent a note to Carlos, informing him that matters were progressing, but stating that he thought it not best to call on him during the day.

In the latter part of the afternoon he walked to No. ―― Twelfth street.

He was met at the door by a woman, who instantly smiled, and greeted him cordially.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Withers! We will be glad to see you. Please walk in.”

She was a comely woman, aged about forty years, rather portly, and had a wholesome, shrewd-looking face. She was dressed in black.

Leonard evinced some surprise at her ready recognition of him, though he remembered that Mr. Stark had predicted that he would be known.

The woman urged him not to delay going in, and as soon as he had entered the hall, she closed the door and locked it.

“Mr. Stark sent you, of course,” she said. “You are to wait in this room, and we are not to have any conversation with you until he comes. Do you wish a lunch?”

“No, thank you. That is, not at present. I will wait until Mr. Stark comes, and then we can take it together.”

“Very well. I hope you will pass the time pleasantly. There are books and papers.”

Leonard had been shown into a room adjoining the hall, and here the woman left him alone. He reflected, with wonder and admiration, on Mr. Stark’s system of arrangements, and patiently awaited the arrival of the detective.

The latter made his appearance shortly after eight o’clock. After brief greetings, a lunch was brought in, and the two were left together.

“You say you have found him,” said Mr. Stark, immediately entering on the business in hand.

“Yes; he is staying with a musician named Werner, not a great distance from here—perhaps ten minutes’ walk.”

“How did he escape?”

Leonard related briefly the adventures of Carlos.

Mr. Stark made no comment.

“What steps have you taken?” asked Leonard.

“None, except to advertise the yacht.”

“Have you much confidence that the owner will put in an appearance?”

“We must wait and see,” was the non-committal answer.

“Some measures ought to be put in operation at once.”

“Undoubtedly. Have you anything to suggest?”

“Yes,” replied Leonard, after some deliberation. “This Snags, of whom I told you, will probably take alarm at my flight and get out of the way. Besides, as I further mentioned, he and Roake are probably the tools of others whom they would not betray. So it is desirable to do something more than merely arrest them, and seize the smuggled goods—even if the former could be accomplished.”

“Go on,” said Mr. Stark, as Leonard paused.

“This deaf and dumb fellow who attends to the boats at Rocky Beach is evidently in the employ of the villains, and he is a poor ignorant devil. My idea is that they have got possession of him in some way, and impressed him with the belief that he is in a sense their property. He has a hang-dog look, like one without ambition, or at least without the knowledge that there is any possibility of changing his condition. Yet there is a discontented expression about his face, and he has a bright eye, and not a bad head.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Stark, as Leonard again paused.

“Well,” resumed Leonard, “if we could get possession of him, and cheer him up, and make him believe he is somebody, perhaps he could impart some valuable information. He must be possessed of some. And there would be no use in pumping him where he is, for I believe he stands in a sort of terror of his masters.”

“Can he talk in any way, either by the dumb signs or by writing?”

“That I don’t know.”

“The experiment may be worth trying. We will consider it. And now I have something to propose. Has your cousin plenty of nerve?”

“Yes,” replied Leonard, smiling, “when he is set on in the right way.”

“What can he do?”

“In the way of business do you mean? Not much, I am afraid. His father brought him up very indulgently. But he is a good musician.”

“Just the thing. We’ll fix him up as a young Dutchman. I believe you said he spoke the language?”

“Like a native.”

“We’ll send him to Dalton as a music teacher, and let him take observations.”

Leonard was not prepared for this novel proposition, and he considered a moment before replying.

“Do you think it would be safe?” he asked.

“Yes, if he has a respectable amount of tact. Can’t you take me to him?”

“Yes. As I said, it is only a short walk to where he is stopping.”

“Then come on.”

So Leonard and Mr. Stark started out and turned their steps in the direction of Mr. Werner’s place of abode.

CHAPTER XVIII.
GEOFFREY HAYWOOD’S SECRET JOURNEY.

Leaving Leonard Lester, Carlos Conrad, and Mr. Stark together, concocting their plans, we will turn again to Dalton and its neighborhood.

Every one believed Carlos guilty. The evidence (of which only the merest apology for a synopsis was given in the chapter devoted to that purpose) pointed to no other conclusion.

Consequently the sentiment on the subject was well-nigh unanimous, unless exception be made of the few whose sympathies were excited by the prisoner’s pale, refined face, and those who attached importance to Mr. Royalton’s closing speech, hinting at new and surprising developments.

Mr. Geoffrey Haywood, when the examination was concluded, passed through the crowd with the air of one who had done his duty, and with an expression of very becoming and impressive sadness.

He proceeded to his store, which was of course closed, and the doors and shutters of which were draped in black. He stepped within, and soon emerged, bending his footsteps in the direction of Elm Grove. He paid Florence Darby, the late Colonel Conrad’s ward, a short visit, offering words of consolation, and informing her that he had made arrangements for attendants during the night upon the remains of Colonel Conrad, which lay in state in the parlor.

He suggested that she permit him to send Tom, with a horse and buggy, to bring her friend, Mabel Cummings, to bear her company for a few days during her loneliness and sorrow. To this she assented, and then Mr. Haywood took his departure, announcing that he would call during the forenoon of the succeeding day.

It was now after eight o’clock in the evening. Mr. Haywood again proceeded to his store, and locked himself within, where he remained for some time.

He heard the train arrive and depart which was to convey Officer George Johnson and Carlos to Hillsdale. Another hour passed.

Then Mr. Haywood emerged from his store again, carrying a small satchel in his hand, and proceeded to the railroad depot.

Within ten minutes he was on board the train which was carrying Carlos from Hillsdale and on to safety. But, as has been before stated, he had no knowledge or suspicion of the presence of the escaped prisoner.

The station at which he alighted was perhaps a mile from the village which it was designed to accommodate. At that late hour there was no hangers-around present; they were only the baggageman, switch-tender, and an old woman who climbed aboard the train.

Mr. Haywood alighted at the opposite side of the track from which the depot stood, and quietly stepped beneath a shed. After the train departed again, the baggageman and switch-tender went within doors, and no living soul was in sight.

Then Mr. Haywood stepped cautiously forth, and, after a glance all around, walked briskly down a road that led in an opposite direction from the village. It was a road that was but little traveled, as was indicated by the thrifty growth of grass.

He proceeded half a mile, and then climbed a fence and made his way across a field. Another field was traversed, and then there appeared a thick clump of woods. Mr. Haywood plunged into the woods, and, with a readiness which indicated that the locality was familiar to him, made his way to an immense tree.

With surprising and undignified activity, he caught hold of a low-growing bough and swung himself up on one of the thick branches. At this elevation there was an aperture in the trunk of the tree which afforded access to a capacious cavity. Producing a small dark lantern from his pocket, and drawing the slide from the glass, Mr. Haywood proceeded to make a change in his toilet.

He divested himself of his black coat and donned a long linen duster which he took from the satchel. For his glossy “beaver” he substituted a rough-looking slouch hat. Then, after taking a brown mask from the satchel, he put therein the discarded garments, and thrust the satchel into the hollow place in the tree. The dark lantern he disposed of in a similar way. Next he tied his long whiskers back under his chin and fitted the mask over his face.

These preparations being completed, he descended to the ground. Resuming his walk, he soon emerged from the woods, and came to an open space.

He was near the sea-coast, and the sound of the wind and the waves could be distinctly heard. He walked with caution, listening and peering intently in every direction.

Soon he came to the edge of a high bluff, and began a steep, precipitous descent. This brought him to the ocean’s edge.

He now had a walk of a mile before him, and proceeded at a rapid pace, feeling secure against unwelcome meetings.

In fifteen minutes he was at Rocky Beach.

Why he should have taken this circuitous, laborious, and secret route to reach a point that was a pleasant four miles’ ride from Dalton, will duly appear.

He halted within a few rods of the rocky cavern, and blew a signal on a small, shrill whistle.

No answer came.

He blew again, and the signal remained unregarded, to his evident vexation.

The next instant he was startled by the sound of rapid footsteps. Roake and Snags came running from the cave, uttering cries of anger and alarm. They came almost upon Haywood.

“Here he is!” shouted Snags.

“What’s the matter, boys?” asked Haywood, in a low tone.

“That’s the boss, you fool,” exclaimed Roake.

Both the men stopped suddenly, uttering suppressed imprecations.

“What is the trouble?” demanded Haywood.

“Trouble enough,” replied Roake. “The bird has flown.”

“What! you don’t mean Lester?”

“Yes; that’s just who I mean. He has given us the slip.”

“How in Satan’s name did that happen?”

“Why, we had to get in the goods, and there was no place to keep him except—you know where. We gave him some wine that was fixed, and he went to sleep. But the effect passed off sooner than we expected, and while we were all up in the loft he stepped out.”

“Curse the luck! How long was it before you discovered that he was gone?”

“I don’t know. I told Ratter to go down and shut the door, but he waited some little time, being hard at work. When he did go down he yelled up the news to us, and Snags and I rushed out, leaving the others up there. But here we are talking, when we ought to be after him. I wonder which way he went.”

The three men commenced an active search in various directions. In a moment Snags exclaimed, with an oath:

“One of the boats is gone!”

All three rushed to the spot.

“Yes,” exclaimed Roake, “and it’s the Gull—the fastest one we’ve got. There’s not another yacht here that can catch it. There is no use in pursuing him.”

“It won’t do to give up that way,” replied Haywood. “He can’t have gone a great distance. Take the other boat and go after him.”

“I tell you it’s no use.”

“And I tell you nothing must be left untried. Go!”

Haywood was evidently the “boss” in earnest, for Roake instantly prepared to start.

“I’ll take the little Fleetwing,” he said, “for I can’t do anything with this unwieldly old hulk here.”

He referred to the larger yacht that stood close to the one that Leonard had taken. The Fleetwing was one of the regular boats kept at Rocky Beach for the accommodation of visitors.

Roake ran up the beach a few rods, sprang into the Fleetwing, and set sail, leaving Snags and Haywood on the shore.

Snags soon spoke.

“Boss,” said he, in a mysterious tone, “I must know who you are to-night. I must see you without that mask on, too.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Haywood.

“I mean that I’ve worked in the dark long enough. I have never seen your face, nor heard your real name. You have given all your orders to Roake, and all your confidence. He has been the favored one.”

“Well, Snags,” said Haywood, soothingly, “you know I cannot be too cautious. A secret is best kept by a few.”

“Not if those who have a right to know it are kept in the dark. However, we won’t argue that. I’ve got something to tell you. I haven’t told Roake yet. I preferred to wait and see you. Roake sent me to Elm Grove that night, by your order, not to do what I did do, but to see what was going on. I was to steal into the house, open Colonel Conrad’s private desk, and see if I could find any papers of importance—a will, for instance. I know why I was sent. It was because Roake had not the courage, and, besides, he wouldn’t know a will from a search-warrant. Is not this all true?”

“All true,” assented Haywood.

“The murder was not in the plan,” continued Snags, with a shudder. “I did it in self-defense, for the colonel saw me and turned on me. I had nothing to do but the thing I did do, and it will haunt me all my life. But never mind that. What I have to tell you is that I did find something.”

“Ah!”

Haywood was betrayed in the act of showing surprise.

“Yes, I found something that you would like to see.”

“Was it a will?”

“No, it was a letter, or part of one. But I think he had made a will—a new one.”

“Why do you think that?” asked Haywood in agitation.

“Because the letter spoke of it, among other things. It was addressed to Timothy Tibbs Dalton.”

“Yes, his lawyer. And there was an envelope directed to him on the table.”

“Was there?” said Snags. “I didn’t notice that. The letter was what I saw, and secured.”

“You took it, did you? Where is it now?”

“That is the secret that I offer in exchange for yours.”

“That of my identity—my name and face, you mean.”

“Yes.”

Haywood reflected.

“How am I to know that the letter will be of any value to me?” he asked.

“You can take my word for it, or I will repeat part of its contents to you. I have read it often enough to remember it pretty well. But first I must tell you that it is not complete. In pulling it from his hand I tore it, leaving a fragment in his grip. He was holding it and reading it over. That missing piece contains some important words, too, but probably they can be guessed at.”

“Well, well, I haven’t much time to spare. Repeat the contents of the letter, as nearly as you can remember.”

Snags thereupon whispered a few words in Haywood’s ear, to which the latter listened with great intentness. They seemed to be of vital import, judging from their effect on Haywood.

“Give me the letter!” he exclaimed. “And the fragment torn off—where is that?”

“Carlos Conrad has it.”

“Ah! Why did you not take it from him?”

“Because he was too lively for me. Roake has told you of his flight and my pursuit, and my catching the wrong man?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you see the secret of Colonel Conrad’s last message lies between Carlos Conrad and myself. Put what I know and what he knows together, and something will be revealed that you want to know. My share is for sale at the price I have named.”

“Very well. You have told Roake nothing of this?”

“No.”

“Then give me the letter.”

“The price first.”

Snags drew the letter from his pocket and held it aloft.

“My name is Geoffrey Haywood. Now look at me.”

Haywood tore away the mask and turned his face full on Snags. The light of the moon enabled the latter to take a satisfactory view of the countenance of his hitherto unknown “boss.”

He made no comment, but silently delivered the letter. Haywood, replacing the mask, put the letter carefully in his pocket, and said:

“You got all the goods in?”

“Yes.”

“Good! You had better send the men off, and set the cataract going immediately. I must be off. I have less than an hour to reach the station and catch the train that will take me in Dalton before daylight. If you wish to see me at anytime, drop a note in the post-office, mention the time and place, and sign your name Bullfinch. Good-night.”

And Haywood hastened down the beach, to retrace his steps through the fields and woods, and make his return trip to Dalton.

He was unconscious that a skulking form followed him, watching his every movement, and that when he stopped in the woods to cast off his disguise, a pair of eager eyes were fixed upon him.

He accomplished his return safely, and, as he supposed, secretly, and breathed a sigh of relief, when, after passing through the silent and deserted streets of Dalton, he locked himself within his own store.

CHAPTER XIX.
THREE INTERVIEWS.

It must be remembered that the examination of Carlos had taken place on Friday, and that on that evening followed his escape, as well as the secret visit of Geoffrey Haywood to Rocky Beach.

On Saturday morning the news of the prisoner’s flight spread like wild-fire through Dalton. Officer George Johnson was not a hero on that occasion. The time of the townspeople was divided between commenting on his inefficiency and lack of vigilance, and the probability of the recapture of Carlos. It was almost universally agreed that, since Leonard Lester had succeeded so well in obliterating all traces of his movements, Carlos had like means of making his way to parts unknown. Still all efforts were made to trace the fugitive. The surrounding country was scoured, and brief telegrams were sent to the police of the different cities.

The body of Colonel Conrad was still lying in the mansion at Elm Grove. The funeral was appointed to take place on the following day—Sunday.

During Saturday Geoffrey Haywood was full of business. This was to be expected, considering the importance of the case and the emergencies that had arisen. And what was more natural and proper than that Mr. Haywood, the nephew of Colonel Conrad, and the intimate, trusted friend of the family, should be active in all measures which the exigencies of the occasion called up? He was his usual, calm, serene self, dignified, guarded, and forbidding in manner.

During the forenoon he called on Timothy Tibbs, Esq., the lawyer to whom the envelope was addressed that had been found on Colonel Conrad’s table. Lawyer Tibbs was somewhat advanced in years, and long devotion to business had rendered his face an impenetrable array of clear-cut features. He was called a hard business man, yet one of strict integrity. He had been Colonel Conrad’s confidential attorney and counselor.

“You will pardon me,” said Haywood, “for introducing the subject of my lamented uncle’s affairs so soon after his melancholy death. But circumstances have occurred, as you know, that render immediate investigation and action necessary.”

“You refer to the escape of young Conrad?”

“I refer to the escape of the murderer. You had charge, I believe, of some of the business matters of the late Colonel Conrad.”

“I had the honor, I may say, of conducting whatever legal transactions he was engaged in.”

“Exactly. You drew up his deeds, mortgages, conveyances, and—his will.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are aware, I suppose,” said Haywood, “that on the morning of the discovery of the murder, an envelope directed to yourself was found on his table.”

“I am aware that such was the case.”

“But it contained no letter.”

“It contained no letter,” said Mr. Tibbs.

“Had he consulted you lately on any business matters of importance?”

The lawyer coughed slightly, as if he did not quite approve of the question. He replied:

“As to what you might regard as a business matter of importance I have not, perhaps, a clear idea. And the term ‘lately’ is rather an indefinite one.”

“Well, we will say within a week,” said Mr. Haywood, ignoring the first clause of Mr. Tibbs’ remark.

“I have not seen him within a week.”

“And have you had no intimation that he wished to consult you? Has he sent you no message? Has he sought no advice—or aid—in reference to making—in reference to the disposal of his property?”

The lawyer looked at Haywood sharply before replying. Then he said, slowly and distinctly:

“Colonel Conrad, the day before his death, requested the loan of a book containing forms and directions for making wills, and I sent such a book to him. I have had no word from him since.”

Haywood felt an inward thrill as he heard these words, but repressed any outward manifestation. He had obtained the information he was seeking, and proceeded at once to cover his tracks.

“You mistake what I am trying to get at, Mr. Tibbs,” he said. “I trust I am not so mercenary as to have any thought concerning his will thus early. I am thinking of the box of money he received. It cannot be found about the house, nor was it deposited in the bank, and I imagined that you might possibly know something concerning its disposal, as you have aided him in placing several of his investments.”

“I know nothing about the money,” replied Mr. Tibbs, coldly. “If I had, I should have appeared at the examination to testify in regard to it. Is it not supposed that the murderer or his accomplice made way with it?”

“Yes; such, I believe, is the supposition,” said Haywood, apologetically, “but the inquiry I have made suggested itself to my mind this morning, and—well, there certainly is no harm done. However, I will not detain you longer, Mr. Tibbs. Good-morning.”

“Good-morning,” returned the lawyer.

As Haywood left he congratulated himself on his shrewd management of the conversation; but Mr. Tibbs was not entirely blinded. He muttered to himself:

“I wonder what Haywood was driving at. His concern about the box of gold was a pretense to cover something else. Can it be the colonel’s will that he is worried about?”

And Mr. Tibbs resolved to be guarded and watchful toward Haywood.

Haywood next called on Mr. Royalton, the lawyer, who had acted in behalf of Carlos at the examination.

“So your client has escaped, Mr. Royalton,” he said, as he entered the lawyers’ office.

“I understand that he has,” was the reply, delivered with a cool bow.

“A very unwise proceeding, I should judge, if your boast yesterday amounted to anything.”

“To what boast do you refer, sir?”

“Why, to those remarks in your closing speech to the effect that the natives were to be astonished by some very startling developments that would shield the young villain from harm. But, perhaps, the escape was the grand stroke of policy you referred to.”

“If you intend that as a jest, Mr. Haywood, we will consider it a witty one, and let it pass.”

Haywood bit his lips at this rejoinder, and looked askant into Mr. Royalton’s face, which certainly did not bear an expression of warm cordiality.

“Well, Mr. Royalton,” he said, after a moment, “I have come to ask you a question. You are aware that an envelope directed to Mr. Timothy Tibbs was found on Colonel Conrad’s table, and the supposition is that it was intended to convey a letter or message of some kind. What I want to ask is, if your client made mention of discovering any such letter when he com—when the murder was committed.”

“Has it struck you, Mr. Haywood, that it is rather an absurd proceeding for a man to question a lawyer concerning his client’s admissions or actions?”

“But this is nothing that need criminate him or affect his prospects one way or the other,” said Haywood, uneasily.

“Of that you will allow me to be the judge. However, I have no objection to answering your question. Young Conrad found no letter.”

“Nor any portion of one?”

This was an incautious question. Haywood’s eagerness had led him to overstep himself. The lawyer was upon him in a moment. With a piercing glance and a sharp voice, he asked, quickly:

“Why do you say ‘portion of one?’ Mr. Haywood?”

It was only on rare occasions that Geoffrey Haywood found himself confused. This was one of them. He had made a blunder, and was for the instant alarmed. He stammered forth:

“Why, because—that is, for no particular reason; but every little clew is worth following up.”

“Clew to what?” demanded Mr. Royalton, with an offensive voice and frown which he knew well how to assume.

“Why, to his guilt, or to Colonel Conrad’s last wishes. As a friend to him and his family, you know, I am bound to take all measures to serve their interests.”

“And, sir, as my client’s attorney, I am bound to serve his interests in every proper way. I am free to say, however—overlooking your singular presumption in trying to pump me—that I believe his flight was an unwise proceeding; for I am confident that in the end we should have beaten you.”

“I don’t believe it,” retorted Haywood, angrily, rising from the chair in which he was sitting. “I will bid you good-day, Mr. Royalton.”

“Ha, ha!” chuckled the lawyer, when Haywood was gone. “Two points made; I frightened him and provoked him. My dear sir, you mustn’t leave such plain tracks, or the hounds of justice will soon be upon you.”

Haywood left Mr. Royalton’s office in no very amiable mood. But his serene demeanor, when once in the street, betrayed no disquieting emotions.

His next visit was to Elm Grove. After passing a few moments with Florence, uttering well-chosen words of consolation and condolence, he sought Barker, the servant, found him walking idly about the garden, pulling a weed now and then, or removing a stone from a choice flower-bed. He seemed downcast and forlorn.

HE PASSED A FEW MOMENTS WITH FLORENCE, UTTERING WELL-CHOSEN WORDS OF CONDOLENCE.

“Good-morning, Barker,” said Mr. Haywood, joining him in his walk. “This calamity affects you as well as the rest of us. Colonel Conrad was a man we all loved.”

“Yes, sir, that he was,” replied Barker.

“And you have been very faithful and considerate in this time of trouble, Barker.”

“Thank you, sir. I don’t know as I’ve done more than my duty.”

“To do one’s duty well is praiseworthy,” replied Mr. Haywood. “And now, Barker, I want to ask you a few questions. There is a great deal of mystery surrounding the affair, and the escape of young Conrad will, I am afraid, complicate matters still worse. I want to know if Colonel Conrad seemed to have any important business on hand shortly before his death.”

“Well, sir, I think he did. He was writing all the day before, more especially after you called. He didn’t allow any one to see him or speak to him except when he wanted some little service of me.”

“You were in his room, then? Did you see him writing?”

“Yes, sir; and perhaps I should say that once toward evening he called me and Polly, the kitchen girl, in, and made us sign something.”

“Ah!” Haywood was evidently affected by this information. He was silent for an interval before trusting his voice to speak again. “What was it that you signed?”

“That I couldn’t say, sir. I didn’t read it.”

“Are you sure it was not a receipt for wages he had paid you?”

“No, sir, it was not that. There would be no occasion for Polly’s signing such a receipt with me. And I hope you don’t think I shall be asking for any wages that have been paid once. He might never take a receipt, and I wouldn’t do that.”

“No, no, Barker, I had no such thought. Even if you were disposed to such a course, which I know you are not, I could put you beyond the necessity for it.”

“How, sir?”

“I will tell you presently. But just try to recollect something about the nature of the document you signed.”

“I can’t do that,” insisted Barker. “I tell you I didn’t read it. Polly and I, the colonel said, were to be witnesses, whatever that meant.”

“Did you notice whether the colonel had signed it?”

“Oh, yes, sir. He wrote his name right before our eyes.”

“So that you would know that it was his signature?”

“Yes, sir, that was it.”

“Well, Barker,” said Mr. Haywood, after a pause, “would you like to earn a hundred dollars easily?”

“Of course I would, sir.”

“Listen, then. You can do it by solemnly promising, in the eyes of your Maker, that you will never breathe a word to any living soul concerning that document you signed.”

“That won’t be much of a job, sir.”

“But wait; how about Polly? She must remain silent, also.”

“I think I can manage her,” said Barker, with a grin. “I caught her stealing some of the silver plate once, and since that time she has been—well, she’s sort of under my thumb. She won’t dare do anything I forbid her.”

“So much the better. Tell her not to breathe a word, and give her any reason you like.”

“I’ll see to it”, replied Barker. “Were you going to do as handsomely by her as you have promised to do by me?”

“I don’t know. It won’t be necessary now.”

“You might give me her share,” said Barker, with a leer.

“Oh, ho!” laughed Haywood. “You would be getting a double portion in that case.”

“I know it,” replied Barker; and his leer transformed itself into an impudent stare. “But isn’t it worth it to you?”

“To me?” said Haywood, uneasily, for Barker’s humble demeanor had changed to something that looked very much like a disposition to grasp at a real or fancied advantage. “I don’t know as it is to me personally.”

“Oh, sir, I am sure it is. You had better give me the two hundred dollars.”

His tone was that of a demand, rather than a suggestion. He had immediately divined that Haywood had some secret object in view, and was evidently resolved not to sell himself too cheaply.

Haywood took a look at the man, and read him.

“All right,” he replied. “The money shall be yours. Here are one hundred dollars, and I will give you the balance on Monday.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“And mind you keep the secret well.”

“As close as the lips of the dead man in the house, sir.”

“And if you ever want any little service done, Barker, come to me.”

“I will, sir,” replied Barker, grinning significantly, after Haywood’s back was turned.

The two men then separated, having completed their evil compact.

On the morrow, under the solemn Sabbath skies, they were to appear as mourners in the train that was to convey the body that lay in the stricken house to its last resting-place, one bowed in humble grief, as befitted his station, and the other in ostentatious, stately sorrow.

CHAPTER XX.
AN ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL THE REV. MR. WITHERS.

Four days after the meeting between Carlos and Leonard, the latter was seated with Mr. Stark, the detective, in his office in Boston. They were reviewing the measures that had thus far been taken, and discussing plans for future action. Leonard still retained his disguise, and we shall know him, for the present, as the Reverend Mr. Withers.

“There is no mistake about Haywood being the man who claimed the yacht?” said Stark.

“No,” replied Mr. Withers. “I recognized him from my post of observation instantly. And the man you left in charge of the boat was positive that he took the cards from the locker, and put them in his pocket.”

“Well, that is something. And he claimed that the yacht belonged to some poor devil at Rocky Beach, who makes a living by letting boats?”

“Yes. He took a very compassionate interest in his affairs, saying that, being in Boston, on a business trip, he had consented to perform the errand.”

“All this is suggestive, but not conclusive,” said Mr. Stark. “I have found out that Jacob Rush, No. 99 ―― street, Jersey City, is a wholesale dealer, in a small way, in imported goods. If there is anything wrong about him, I have failed to discover it. However, a watch shall be kept on his establishment, and, if he has any connection with Haywood, or with the smugglers, we will know it.”

“Do you hope to accomplish anything speedily?”

“No; to tell the truth, I do not. It is going to take time. This ‘Boss,’ of whom Snags spoke, will, of course, keep himself in the dark, and to discover him must be one of our main purposes.”

“With that discovery,” said Mr. Withers, “the secret of Colonel Conrad’s murder will be brought to light.”

“Undoubtedly—if we ascertain the whole truth.”

“And the meaning of the words ‘seven o’clock.’”

“Yes, if they have any meaning.”

“What shall be the first step?” inquired Mr. Withers.

“I have decided,” replied Mr. Stark, “to adopt the plan you suggested, of getting possession of the deaf mute who is employed at Rocky Beach. I will lay before you my manner of accomplishing it.”

The mode of operation described by Mr. Stark shall be made known by relating how it was carried out. The two remained in consultation for some time; and two days afterward a stranger appeared in Dalton, registering his name in the hotel as the Reverend Mr. Withers. He represented himself to be in pursuit of recreation and health.

He took pedestrian excursions about the surrounding country, and was enthusiastic in his praises of the beauties of the scenery. In his meanderings through the streets of Dalton he met Haywood a few times, who seemed the embodiment of respectability and serenity. One of his excursions on foot led him past Elm Grove; and, on inquiring at the hotel concerning the ownership of that elegant residence, he was regaled with a full account of the murder of Colonel Conrad, and the attendant circumstances.

He gave polite attention to the story, and expressed a hope that the murderer would be brought to justice.

Finally, one pleasant afternoon, he walked to Rocky Beach, remarking, on starting, that the exercise of making the journey on foot would be agreeable and beneficial to him.

On arriving at his destination, he took note of the peculiarities of the place. There was a long stretch of sandy beach, with rocks scattered about and rising from the water. A few yards back the rocks rose abruptly in high crags, forming bluffs majestic and inaccessible in appearance. He was not long in discovering the entrance to the cavern, and, approaching it, he stood for some moments regarding the dark opening in apparent curiosity and surprise. His movements were deliberate, like those of one seeking novel sights and new pleasures, and would not have betrayed, even to a close observer, the intense interest he felt in the place.

In the door of a dilapidated cottage, situated by the side of an immense pile of rocks, stood the deaf mute.

Mr. Withers approached him, and spoke to him. The mute indicated his condition by signs. Mr. Withers appeared surprised and pained.

A painted board nailed to the side of the cottage set forth the terms for boats, fishing tackle, and sailing excursions.

While Mr. Withers was explaining to the mute by signs that he desired the use of a boat, with hook, line, and bait, a man emerged from the cavern and sauntered toward the spot. Mr. Withers felt a thrill as he beheld him, but calmly awaited his approach.

It was Roake.

“I am trying to make this unfortunately afflicted person understand that I desire to try my luck at fishing,” said Mr. Withers. “I am moved with pity as I look on him, for it is painful to witness such deprivations of the natural faculties.”

“Yes, Dummy knows what you want,” said Roake. “He’ll fix you out in a minute.”

“How quick of perception he seems to be,” said Mr. Withers. “Oftentimes the absence of one faculty lends additional keenness to the others.”

“Oh, he’s smart enough around his business,” replied Roake. “He has worked for me here these five years.”

“Is this a good day for fishing?”

“Pretty fair. I guess you won’t come in without catching some.”

Roake was the personification of indolence. A wide-brimmed straw hat shaded his face, which had a sleepy, listless look. No one would have dreamed, from his appearance, or from any observable surroundings, that Rocky Beach was devoted to any other purposes than fishing and sailing.

“What is this unfortunate man’s name?” inquired Mr. Withers.

“His name is Luke Felton, but we call him ‘Dummy’ around here.”

“That would seem to me too much like mocking his infirmity,” rejoined Mr. Withers, in a solemn tone.

Everything now being in readiness, Luke Felton motioned to Mr. Withers to enter the boat. The mute followed, and took the oars.

They were soon some distance from the shore, and dropped anchor. The fishing was good, and apparently afforded great excitement and delight to the Reverend Mr. Withers.

The pleasure was prolonged until evening, when they returned to the shore. Roake was awaiting them.

“There appears to be a natural cave in the bluff yonder,” said Mr. Withers. “Is it open for exploration?”

“Yes,” replied Roake. “I can take you through it, if you wish.”

They entered the cavern. Mr. Withers was only too familiar with the place. They went over the route he had twice traversed before. There were the same tortuous passage-ways, dimly lighted by hanging lamps. Roake said:

“We keep these lamps here in the summer and early fall, when there are a good many visitors about. It saves the trouble of carrying torches.”

“A very good arrangement,” commented Mr. Withers.

They soon came to the termination of the cavern. A foaming cataract of falling water greeted their vision.

The visitor regarded it silently, and was apparently lost in admiration.

“A wonderful freak of nature,” he observed. “The water, I suppose, comes from some subterranean spring, and continues its course through that opening below our feet. Does the supply never fail and leave the rocks behind the cataract bare?”

“No,” was the reply. “It flows the year round.”

Roake betrayed no surprise or uneasiness at the question, and delivered his answer in a careless tone. Why should he feel concern? Hundreds of tourists had made the same inquiry, and received the same reply. And nothing could have been further from his thoughts than that his companion was the escaped captive, who knew the secret of the room behind the splashing waterfall.

But the eyes of the Reverend Mr. Withers were busy, and his thoughts active.

“They manage things well,” he thought. “Nothing could be more unsuspicious in appearance than this place and everything connected with it. They select favorable nights to run in their goods, and have sentinels stationed, probably, to give notice of unwelcome approaches.”

After a time they returned to the open air again, and, as he stood on the beach gazing out on the moonlit ocean, Mr. Withers expressed a desire to take a sail. The night was lovely, there was a bracing breeze, and the prospect, he declared, was enticing.

“Can you not loan me a sailing boat,” he asked, “with the mute—Luke Felton I think you said was his name—to manage it?”

An affirmative reply was given, and forthwith Mr. Withers was seated in the Fleetwing with “Dummy,” as Roake persisted in calling him.

The sail caught the wind, and the light craft darted rapidly over the blue waters. Mr. Withers made known by expressive pantomime that he was thrilled with pleasure, and Luke Felton guided the yacht with skillful hands.

The land was left half a mile behind, and still Mr. Withers was not satisfied. He indicated to his companion a circular course that would take them first past a point that projected from the shore, and then back to Rocky Beach by a circular course. The mute bowed assent, and proceeded accordingly.

Now was the time for an action determined upon by Mr. Withers. After the point was passed, he intimated a desire to try his hand at managing the yacht. This was at first opposed smilingly by Luke Felton, but his opposition was overruled.

And as soon as Mr. Withers obtained control of the sail and tiller, he ran the boat directly toward the shore. He guided it skillfully into a little cove, bordered on two sides with rocks.

Luke Felton rose to his feet in alarm, and pointed out the danger of striking on dangerous points. But Mr. Withers smiled. His pedestrian excursion about the environs of Dalton had not been made in vain. He had visited the spot and taken careful note of its peculiarities.

But Luke Felton remonstrated by an impressive gesture, and carried his objections to such a point that the Reverend Mr. Withers was obliged to display a pistol to reduce him to quietude.

He had risen to his feet, and was uttering that peculiar nondescript cry with which mutes give vent to alarm or surprise.

They were now within twenty feet of the shore. The water was not more than four feet deep. Mr. Withers discerned a carriage on the shore, and two men standing close to the water’s edge.

“All ready!” he cried.

“All ready,” was responded.

Then he suddenly gave a twist to the tiller and a pull to the rope controlling the sail, and the yacht wheeled violently around. The following instant Luke Felton felt himself precipitated forward by a violent push, and in a second he was struggling in the water. But it was not deep enough to drown him, and one of the men quickly waded out and caught him by the collar.

Mr. Withers saw this, as his yacht glided swiftly seaward. Passing safely out of the cove, he guided the boat in good style around the point and into the open sea opposite Rocky Beach.

“Now, Mr. Luke Felton,” he soliloquized, “you think you are the victim of some conspiracy, and so you are, but you are in good hands, and will be well treated. If you have any education, well and good, but if you have not, you will be taught enough to enable you to communicate what you know about this nest of villains who make Rocky Beach a place for their secret iniquities.”

He made steadily for the shore, but on arriving at a point so near that the moonlight would enable Roake to discern the yacht, he began to feign the most gross ignorance of its management. He allowed it to be driven hither and thither with the sail flapping in the breeze, the tiller at times disregarded, and was apparently in imminent danger of being capsized.

Still he controlled it, although in a bungling manner, so that its general course was toward the shore.

As he drew near Roake ran up and down the beach, shouting, wildly:

“What’s the matter?” he roared. “Curse that dummy! Has he lost his wits?”

Finally the yacht came drifting with the waves, the sail hanging loose, and grounded with a crunching sound on the gravelly bottom.

The Reverend Mr. Withers was standing in the bow, grasping the mast, his hat gone, his hair flying in the wind, and his face expressing the utmost terror. Luke Felton was not to be seen.

In answer to a loud demand for explanation, mingled with many oaths, Mr. Withers replied:

“Oh, my dear sir, the most terrible catastrophe has happened! While off the point yonder a terrific squall, or something, came up, and the boat wheeled around in a most unaccountable way. Poor Mr. Felton was struck by this projecting piece of timber—yard-arm, do you call it?—and knocked into the water.”

“The blundering hound!” ejaculated Roake. “What was he about?”

“Indeed I cannot tell, sir. He seemed to be possessed of great skill――”

“Blast his skill! Was he drowned? Couldn’t you pick him up?”

“Do not ask me that. The boat was driven along with frightful velocity, and the poor, unfortunate creature has, I fear, met his fate――”

Roake interrupted the speaker with another volley of oaths, for which he received a mild reproof.

Mr. Withers picked up his hat from the bottom of the boat and leaped ashore, with pale face and trembling limbs.

“A most dreadful experience!” he gasped; “most dreadful!”

“Well, you needn’t take on so,” said Roake, roughly, whose wrath began presently to subside. “It’s no great loss.”

“Sir?”

“It’s no great loss, I say. He was in his own way, and everybody else’s. Being a kind of good-for-nothing, and unable to do anything for himself, I dare say he’s better off where he is.”

“Poor man!” sighed Mr. Withers. “It must be nearly morning now, is it not?”

“I should judge so,” responded Roake. “You were gone a duse of a while with your mischief.”

“I can never forgive myself. But, as I can be of no service here, I will walk back to Dalton. I became chilled while sitting in the boat so long, and the exercise will arouse the circulation of my blood. Good-night, sir.”

And the Reverend Mr. Withers started toward Dalton, uttering exclamations of regret as long as he was within hearing distance of Roake.

He arrived at the hotel just as the inmates of that establishment were rising. He gave a sorrowful account of his adventure, and early in the forenoon left Dalton by rail.

At a point agreed upon, he met two men, having in charge Luke Felton, arrayed in a new suit of clothing, and on that evening the unfortunate mute of Rocky Beach was placed in an asylum for the education of the deaf and dumb.

CHAPTER XXI.
FLORENCE DARLEY.

Elm Grove was a beautiful spot, though a desolute one since the murder of its master. At least so thought Florence Darley, who had bestowed on Colonel Conrad the love of a daughter, and who had received from him a parent’s care. She was a beautiful girl—this Florence Darley, beautiful in the possession of a pair of glorious dark eyes. No other portion of her face was particularly striking—not that any of her features were what would be called plain—but in her eyes, with their capacity for expression, lay her chief attractiveness so far as mere appearance went. To say that she was amiable in disposition, high-spirited, and fascinating in manner is but simply to state the unvarnished truth. There was a charm about her presence and bearing that had, as has been stated early in this narrative, made a deep impression on Carlos Conrad. And if, in recounting his experiences after the tragedy, no mention has been made of Florence Darley, it must not be inferred that his thoughts had not often dwelt upon her.

A month passed, and the excitement in Dalton over the murder subsided in a great measure. All efforts to trace Carlos had failed, and the thoughts of the townspeople wandered to him only when some incidental circumstances called the subject up.

One afternoon in October, Florence Darley sat on the piazza of the mansion at Elm Grove, with her friend Mabel Cummings, a young lady of about her own age, and her trusted confidante.

“Florence, you ought not to allow your sorrow to keep you so housed up,” said Mabel. “You are growing pale and thin, and you will injure your health.”

“I am well,” replied Florence, “and I have no disposition to seek recreation. Colonel Conrad was all that a father could be to me, and you can never know how I miss him.”

“Yes, he was a good man, though people did call him eccentric. How strange that he should have bothered his head so over the machinery. I have heard that his workshop was a perfect curiosity.”

“He had a genius for mechanics,” said Florence, with a half smile, “and I have often sat near him by the hour as he toiled with his files, and lathes, and wheels. I used to ask him questions to make him laugh when he would get tired and out of patience with his work.”

“What did he ever make? Did he invent anything?”

“I don’t know whether he invented anything new or not. He made a very curious rat-trap, that caught six rats alive, and left them facing each other in a little circle of wire stalls. And then he got up a model of a mowing-machine and gave it to some farmer, who, I believe, had one made on a larger scale and got it patented. But the most wonderful thing was the large clock in his study. He worked for months on it, and put it up, frame and all, himself. It is fastened to the wall and cannot be moved. He put the winding of it in my charge, and I still attend to it every Saturday morning.”

“What a wonderful man he was! And good, too, I am sure, though I never could succeed in approaching him to any degree of intimacy. By the way, how generous Mr. Haywood is toward the poor young man who—did the awful deed. I saw him once, and could not help feeling sympathy for him, he was so young and kind-looking. And now that he has escaped, Mr. Haywood seems so charitable toward him.”

“How? Mr. Haywood never speaks to me of him.”

“Does he not? I heard only the other day that he did not join in the clamor for his capture, but said let him go—he might go to some strange land and lead a better life.”

“Mabel,” said Florence, earnestly, “do you know that I never believed Carlos Conrad to be guilty?”

“You did not?”

“No; I saw him twice, and twice only, after he came to Dalton—once when he called here, and the other time at the examination before Justice Bean. And I felt as you did—that there was something in his face to call up one’s sympathy. And more than that, he did not look like a villain; he had a frank, kind expression, and seemed every inch a gentleman.”

“Florence you surprise me!”

“And shock you?”

“Oh, no.”

“I am glad of that. I have often thought what a terrible experience it was for Carlos Conrad and his cousin. They came here so unexpectedly, and had that interview with their uncle (no one knows what was said or done on that occasion). Then came the awful tragedy, and their flight to parts unknown. I wonder what became of them? Are they in a strange land, without friends? Are they wandering about in disguise? Did they die from starvation or exposure during their flight? I have passed sleepless nights, asking these questions to myself, and thinking.”

“Oh, Florence, you must take your mind from these things. No good can come of your thinking of them. It is not doing justice to yourself. You are young, and have life before you.”

“True; but only seven weeks have passed yet. You must know how fresh everything is in my mind.”

“Yes, and it will always be so unless you have some diversion. Come, take a ride with me now,” exclaimed Mabel, springing up impulsively. “My phaeton is out here by the gate, and it is a lovely day.”

“Oh, Mabel, I have not ridden out since—since I put on black. I cannot.”

“But you must. I will not see you bury yourself in this way. Come!”

Florence hesitated.

“Go and get ready,” commanded Mabel.

Florence still hesitated, but soon yielded, and five minutes afterward was in the phaeton with her friend.

They started toward Dalton.

“Not through the busy streets,” exclaimed Florence.

“Yes,” persisted Mabel, “right through the streets of Dalton. Why, you will forget how the place looks; and you are not benefiting yourself nor any one else by shutting yourself up. Come, I mean to bring the roses back to those cheeks.”

Mabel handled the reins herself, and managed her spirited pony in good style.

They were shortly passing through the main business street in Dalton. Florence found her thoughts diverted, and looked about her with interest.

Suddenly her gaze became fixed and her face whitened.

“Who is that?” she exclaimed, clutching her companion’s arm.

“Where?” asked Mabel, in surprise at Florence’s tone, and flinching at the grasp on her arm.

“There—walking down the street just ahead of us. In the back he looks like—that is, he brings to my mind—Carlos Conrad!”

She spoke the name in a whisper. She was affected visibly, and trembled with agitation.

“Don’t you know who that is? But of course you don’t, having been shut up so long. It is our new music teacher, Karl Zikoff. He came to town about a week ago. There is a resemblance, looking at him from behind, but I never noticed it before. We are passing him now. Look at his face. Isn’t he funny?”

Florence stared at the face of the musician attentively. He had stubby side-whiskers and mustache, and wore spectacles. A long, loose sack-coat fluttered in the breeze as he walked, and a broad-brimmed, low-crowned black hat was set back on his head. His whole countenance was exposed, and even at that distance a scar over his right eye was visible. His eyes were bright and rolled about quickly, his movements were nervous, and he flourished his cane in an awkward manner.

“He is peculiar,” said Florence, smiling. “There is no resemblance, come to get a good view of him. You must pardon me; I was frightened.”

“Even if it were the one you thought it was, I should think there was no occasion for any one being frightened but himself. You may depend upon it Carlos Conrad will not be seen in Dalton unless he is brought here.”

“Do you know,” said Florence, thoughtfully, “that I have hoped all along that he would――”

Here she checked herself, and was silent.

“Hoped what, Florence?”

“Never mind; it was only a passing fancy, not worth uttering. Has this Mr. Zikoff many pupils?”

“Several, I believe. They say he is a magnificent player.”

“You have not heard him, then?”

“No; but he is to give a soiree to-morrow night at Delmar’s music rooms to introduce himself. I have been favored with an invitation, and shall be in attendance.”

“You can give me a report of the affair.”

“Yes; I have an idea, Florence. It is that you take lessons of Mr. Zikoff.”

“I!”

“Yes; it would be an excellent way for you to occupy your time. It would keep you from brooding your life away. You are interested in music too, and used to enjoy its study so much.”

“Yes, I know it.”

“And that would not be like going out into the world. He would come to you twice a week, and give you something to keep your hands and mind busy several hours every day.”

“I will think of it,” said Florence, musingly. Her mind seemed to be possessed of some new train of thought, for she spoke slowly, and there was an absent look on her face. She added, as if speaking to herself, “I think I should like to know Mr. Zikoff.”

“I’ll warrant that he’s jolly,” rattled Mabel, “and it must be no end of fun to listen to his jabber.”

“Jabber.”

“Yes, all Germans talk so Dutchy.”

“You would make fun of him if he should give you lessons, Mabel,” said Florence, smiling.

“I am afraid I would. Now seriously, Florence, I want you to think of this thing I have proposed. You really need something to take up your attention. I suppose the marriage will not take place for some time.”

“What marriage?” asked Florence, quickly.

“That of yourself and Mr. Haywood. Isn’t it generally understood that you are engaged to him?”

“I hope not, for it is not true. But I believe Colonel Conrad had some such thought. He held Mr. Haywood in great esteem.”

“I understood that it went farther than that—that he was particularly desirous a match should be made.”

“Perhaps he was,” replied Florence, gravely. “But I do not approve of such affairs being arranged for young people before they have had time to know their own minds.”

“Nor I; but I suppose this arrangement was satisfactory. There is not a marriageable maiden in Dalton but would be glad to have had him excepting myself.”

“And me,” said Florence, quietly.

“Is it to be broken off?” exclaimed Mabel.

“There is nothing yet to break off. I am not engaged to him, as I said before.”

“Oh, well, but――”

“And I would prefer that you should not aid in spreading the impression about. Do not couple my name with any intended marriage at present, Mabel. I have no such thought in connection with Mr. Haywood or any one else.”

“I will obey your injunction. And now will you stop or ride farther?”

The drive had taken them through several streets and by a circuitous route back to Elm Grove.

“I will get out,” replied Florence, “and accept my thanks, Mabel. I have enjoyed the ride very much.”

“I am glad! I will come again for you to-morrow.”

Florence alighted, and was proceeding up the broad path to the house. As Mabel was gathering up the reins preparatory to starting homeward, Florence turned and said:

“I was going to say, when we were down town, Mabel, that I had hoped all along that Carlos Conrad would escape.”

Having delivered this remark in a low voice, she went swiftly on up the path, and her friend, having no opportunity to reply, drove off.

CHAPTER XXII.
THE NEW MUSIC-TEACHER.

Karl Zikoff, teacher of music. This was the guise in which Carlos Conrad made his reappearance in Dalton.

In New York he had left Mr. Werner’s protection and taken up his abode at No. ―― Twelfth street. Here, under the direction of Mr. Stark’s associates, he had perfected his disguise and rehearsed his part until he was well prepared to simulate the character in which we find him.

Immediately on entering Dalton he had engaged lodgings at the hotel, and hired a teaching-room in a fashionable quarter of the village. The teaching-room was in the second story of a building adjoining Mr. Haywood’s store, and in the front window was suspended a modest sign, on which were inscribed his new name and occupation.

In New York he had purchased an old Erard piano, a small library of German books, a unique set of shelves, and a well-worn sword. These he arranged in his room in effective array, to complete the illusion of his nationality and character.

The side-whiskers which he had allowed to grow were trimmed so as to look rough and frowzy, his eyebrows had been singed off, and he nightly wore a bandage which left an impress on his forehead resembling a scar. This, he gave out, was caused by a wound he received in a duel with a fellow-student in Germany.

As his former stay in Dalton had been so short, it was not probable that any one had become sufficiently familiar with his personal appearance to penetrate his disguise. So in calm confidence he awaited the course of events, although he was always prepared to fly on an instant’s warning in case of necessity.

A few pupils came to him almost immediately, and he attended to them faithfully, giving good satisfaction.

One morning, about two weeks after his advent into Dalton, he was seated in his room, when a knock came at the door. He opened it, and Geoffrey Haywood entered.

It is not strange that Karl’s heart rose on meeting this gentleman face to face, and that he felt considerable agitation. Distressing possibilities at once rose in his mind, and he scanned the visitor’s face.

Mr. Haywood was stately and serene as usual, and said, in his smooth-toned voice:

“Mr. Zikoff, I believe?”

“Yes, sir. Vill you have one seat?”

“Thank you; I think not. I came on a short matter of business in behalf of a young lady. Miss Florence Darley, of Elm Grove, wishes you to do her the favor of calling with reference to giving her music lessons.”

These few words restored Karl’s composure, and he replied, with a profuse show of politeness:

“Ah! Mees Tarley does me great honor. I shall pe please to call on her. At vat hour vill de fraulein pe convenient?”

“Any time during the afternoon will suit her. She is always at home.”

“At Ellum Grofe, you say? Vere is dat?”

Mr. Haywood gave the requisite information regarding Florence’s residence, and Karl Zikoff said:

“I vill present myself at t’ree o’clock.”

Mr. Haywood did not linger after his business had been transacted. It was plain from his tone and his prompt departure that he had no suspicion of Karl Zikoff’s identity.

The latter felt immeasurably relieved after he had departed, and, moreover, felt a thrill of pleasure at being called on to meet Florence Darley—she who had made such an impression on him on his call at Elm Grove two months ago. This impression had not been removed. He had carried it with him, and cherished it, and wondered if they were ever to meet again. And now came the opportunity, yet with it a pang, for he was to appear before her in a false character, and never could reveal himself unless the blight which rested upon his name were removed.

At the hour named he presented himself at Elm Grove.

“Miss Vlorence Tarley, I pelieve. Herr Zikoff, at your service.”

“You are welcome, Mr. Zikoff, and I thank you for responding to my request so promptly.”

Florence was dressed in deep black, which set off to advantage the paleness of her face and the brightness of her eyes. Her sorrow had left on her countenance a grave, thoughtful look, which enhanced rather than detracted from its fascination.

Karl Zikoff averted his eyes, which he felt might express too much of the admiration that was stirred within him, and proceeded, with an effort, to play his part.

“The honor is mine,” he said, with an obsequious bow. “And about these music-lessons—you vill study the piano-forte?”

“Yes,” answered Florence.

“You have study him pefore? You already play some?”

“Oh, yes; but I am sadly deficient, I am afraid, and have much to learn.”

“Ya, dat is very possible,” replied Mr. Zikoff, elevating that portion of his anatomy where his eyebrows should have been. “Dese American teachers are very thin—shallow, do you call it?”

“I understand what you mean,” said Florence, smiling. “You will please teach me whatever I ought to know, and I will try to be a faithful pupil.”

“You are not afraid to bractice, like dese many American girls?”

“No; I have nothing else to occupy my attention. I do not go in society.”

“Oh, I see!” Mr. Zikoff glanced significantly at her black dress; and then he added, in a prolonged tone, as if the thought had suddenly dawned upon him: “O-h-h, yes! You are die fraulein who has had much affliction. Ya, ya! I have heard somet’ings. Pardon my pad English. De language is sehr schwer—very difficult.”

A shadow came over Florence’s face as the tragedy was thus recalled, but she replied pleasantly, and soon afterward the music-lesson began.

Herr Zikoff had plenty of fault to find, and commented oddly on the deficiencies of his pupil. She was amused, and awakened to a new interest; and he, in spite of the emotions that thrilled him, enacted his role to perfection, as his thorough knowledge of music enabled him to do.

When he had departed, and was in his room again, he locked the door, and buried himself in reflection.

“What is to come of all this?” he thought. “Do I love Florence Darley? Has her loveliness so soon made me a slave? I fear that it is so, for thoughts of her crowd everything else from my mind, and her picture is before me every instant. Oh, Florence, I do love you! But it must be a secret, unwhispered, unhinted at. For to play the suitor under this false name and character would be dishonorable. But if my innocence is proven, if Carlos Conrad ever stands before the world again with character unblemished, then will the homage and devotion of a human heart be laid before you.”

The days went on. The music lessons were given regularly, and all the while Karl Zikoff’s passionate adoration of his pupil grew in strength. Oftentimes, sitting by her side, he would find himself gazing into her face, so absorbed with the feelings that stirred him as to be entirely unconscious of whether the lesson were well or illy played. Then he would suddenly recollect himself, and, with a pang at the thought of the great barrier between them, offer a sharp criticism at random, and shortly afterward take his leave with an abrupt and formal “good-day.”

In the meantime, he prospered well, receiving in his new vocation a large and profitable patronage. Society opened its arms to him, and he received the homage due to true refinement and real talent. In the eyes of the world there was nothing lacking to fill him with contentment. But there were two secrets gnawing at his heart—his unconfessed love, and his real identity—that made life far from a round of pleasure, and imposed on him a burden that was at times hard to bear.

Bleak November came, and afterward the snows of December. The Christmas holidays came, and still his life went on in the same dull monotony. He had observed closely the habits of Geoffrey Haywood, and had made two visits to Rocky Beach. But he had failed to make any discoveries. Mr. Haywood’s secret was well guarded, and there was no clew or suspicious circumstances to seize upon.

Many of Herr Zikoff’s lessons were given in his music-room, on Main street, and it was here, one day, early in January, that he received another visit that filled him with forebodings.

A lesson was nearly finished, when heavy, shambling footsteps were heard slowly ascending the stairs. The door was opened a few inches, and a rough-looking face peered in. It was quickly closed again, however, and the visitor waited outside until the lesson was finished, and the pupil had departed.

Then a man of large stature and rude appearance entered, and stood for a moment in awkward silence.

Karl Zikoff instantly recognized him as Jake Heath, the man at whose house he had stopped on the night of the murder. A thrill of wonder and apprehension shot through him, but he had his outward demeanor well under control, and welcomed the visitor in courteous broken English.

“You’re the music-master, I s’pose?” said Mr. Heath.

“Yes, sir.”

“My name’s Heath, and I’ve a darter that’s taken it into her head that she wants to come to school to ye.”

“She vill study the klavier—the piano-forte?”

“Yes, that’s it. Bein’ that we live four miles out of the village, she thought she could come in twice ’t week. I think it’s all blamed nonsense myself, but her mind is so sot on it that I’ve rented an instrument for the winter. What’s yer price?”

Karl made known his terms, his mind being in a state of perplexity at this new phase of affairs, and being filled with a presentiment that it was the forerunner of some new evil. There was nothing in Jake Heath’s actions to warrant this; for, as soon as the arrangements were completed, he took his departure. But for a girl of Kate Heath’s station and surroundings to study music was a novel, and, to Karl, a suspicious circumstance.

Consequently, it was with considerable curiosity and anxiety that he awaited her first call on him. On the following day she came.

Herr Zikoff was surprised at her appearance. She was well-dressed, and there was no uncouthness in her manner. She had a strange, wild sort of beauty, and the face, at which he had only glanced casually on that terrible stormy night, now revealed a spirit and a nature of no ordinary cast.

She looked at him steadfastly and earnestly for a moment, and as she did so a slight flush and a peculiar, indefinable expression passed across her features. Karl observed this with a feeling of uneasiness, but, with the nervous, bristling manner which it was his task to assume, proceeded at once to business.

“You already know something of music?” he questioned.

“Yes,” she replied. “When in New York I studied it some.”

“Ah! you have lived in New York!” he exclaimed, in genuine surprise, and forgetting for the moment to color his speech with faulty pronunciation.

She gave him a quick glance, and replied:

“I sang for a year in one of the theaters, and then my father and I came here to live on a farm.”

“De farm must be langweilig—ferry tull—after life in de city.”

“It is; but I am used to it now, after four years’ trial. Not but that I get lonely very often, for there is nothing whatever going on, and I miss the excitement and variety of the city.”

“And so you will study music to make de time go more swiftly?”

“Yes, for that, and—other reasons.”

Again the color rose to her face, and again came the same curious expression.

It was not lost upon Karl, who, with an increasing feeling of disquietude, took out his watch, and, remarking that his time was limited, proceeded rather hurriedly with the lesson.

Kate Heath received the instruction he offered in a strangely docile, almost apathetic manner, and fairly puzzled her teacher.

After that, she was always prompt at the hour assigned her, though she never learned her tasks well. And the fault-findings and scoldings that were administered in consequence, were received with a humility that would have contradicted any surmise a physiognomist would have formed from studying the dark, passionate face.

Whatever apprehension Karl at first felt concerning her suspicion of his identity was soon dispelled by her subdued, amiable demeanor and softly modulated tone in conversation, although these characteristics were a constant study to him, inasmuch as they evinced no contrition for poorly learned lessons, and were followed by no substantial improvement.

“I don’t know what to make of her,” the musician often thought, after a formal “good-day” on his part, and a tremulous “good-by,” with a strange, half-scared look on hers.

Poor Kate Heath! She had her secret, and it was destined in time to work changes and precipitate a chain of events that were to create the wildest commotion, where outwardly all was quiet and serene.

CHAPTER XXIII.
A STRANGE REVELATION.

Week after week of the dreary winter passed, and Karl Zikoff still went through the dull routine of his life as a music-teacher. But little progress was made that he could see in the investigation that was to clear his name from the infamous stain that rested upon it.

He received occasional letters from Leonard, written in German, urging him to remain contented and hopeful, and assuring him that Mr. Stark was shrewd, discreet, and sure (although of necessity slow) in his operations. But he was kept in ignorance of what these operations were, and the absence of any visible results tended to imbue him with a feeling of despondency. The passive, inactive part he was filling, was aggravating to his restless, nervous spirit. And the new motive for making clear his innocence grew in strength every day, and made him impatient and miserable.

He had been in Dalton about five months, when one afternoon in March he made one of his accustomed professional visits to Florence Darley.

These visits always filled him with ecstasy, strangely mingled with despondency. To be near her, to talk with her, to feel the intimate confidence that naturally arose in their relations of teacher and pupil, created in him a stimulation of hope that oftentimes soared above and almost put out of sight, for the time being, his trouble. On this day, an unusual depression had been followed, when he came into her presence, by a proportional though unnatural buoyancy.

He was cheerful and fairly eloquent over the lessons, for Florence Darley was one of those responsive, appreciative pupils, who are the true teacher’s delight. The classical gems which he offered her she seized with avidity, and studied them under his direction, as such music should be studied.

He had given the last hints toward an intelligent study of the lesson under consideration, when she arose from the piano-stool and requested him to play for her, as was often the case.

He sat himself at the instrument and considered for a moment before touching the keys.

Then, with a look in his eyes that seemed to tell of forgetfulness of all present trouble, of a view into regions of light and bliss unalloyed, he began to play. Soft, mellow chords and witching harmonic changes broke on the ear, and mingled with the murmuring sound was a melody of surpassing beauty, coming to the listener like a dream or a revelation. It was a tale of intense passion, timorously yet beseechingly told.

“Exquisite!” murmured Florence, in a low voice, as the last chord died away.

“It is the Liebeslied of Henselt—‘love song’ you call it in English,” he said, turning toward her and gazing intently into her face. “Oh, Florence, it is a wonderful story, told in a marvelous language. It breathes the tale of my secret—my precious, cherished secret—that cannot be spoken in words! In music only may it be confessed—in music only may be revealed to you the――”

A sudden pallor overspread his face, a spasm of pain distorted his features, as he abruptly ceased speaking.

He bethought himself, in the midst of his wild outpourings, of the burden under which he rested, and with a twinge of pain and misery checked his flow of speech.

A moment of silence—a brief struggle—and he resumed calmly, though in a voice not entirely firm:

“Yes, it is seh huebsch—very pretty. So you like it. Vell, you shall blay it. At anoder lesson I vill give it you. Good-day, Fraulein.”

He strode rapidly from the room, and Florence, listening to his retreating footsteps, blushed vividly. For many minutes she stood by the piano just as he had left her, her head bowed in a subdued manner, and her thoughts communing with themselves in a wild tumult. One contemplating her then and there would have guessed that her heart followed Karl Zikoff—that had he thrown himself at her feet she would not have spurned him.

Karl, on reaching the hall, seized his hat and rushed into the open air. It was chilly and damp without; not cold enough to freeze, penetrating and deadening to the blood. Large, soggy snow-flakes fell, and melted as soon as they touched the wet ground. The sky was of a leaden hue, and the atmosphere forbidding and uncomfortable.

Shivering, and drawing his coat closely over his breast, Karl hastened down the road and into Dalton. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes glittered unnaturally, and on his face was an expression of reckless despair.

His rapid gait soon brought him to the stairs that led to his teaching-room. Ascending in mad haste, he entered, and closed the door behind him with a fling. Then he threw himself into a chair, pressed his hands to his head, and endeavored to collect his chaotic thoughts.

“This must not go on. Something shall be done. I will play this passive part no longer. For unless the end comes soon I shall go mad. If all is to be in vain, if justice is never to prevail, the sooner I know it, and leave Dalton, the better. To remain here, where my true name is regarded with horror, to live in continual temptation, and on the very verge of self-exposure, is unbearable. Oh, Florence, you do not know the awful barrier that separates us! I shall never offer you a false or dishonored name; and may the Father above help me to keep this resolution! Yes, I will act! I will dog Geoffrey Haywood’s footsteps; I will penetrate the secret of Rocky Beach to its innermost detail. And I will begin operations to-night!”

He arose and walked about the room. He now became conscious of a feeling of strange languor. A numbness and dull pain seized his limbs and extended to his head. He was conscious that there was an unnatural heat on his brow, and that his pulse was bounding at a rapid rate. Was he going to be ill? He contemplated this possibility with alarm, and with a rebellious feeling.

Suddenly there came a knock at the door. Karl started in surprise, but, recollecting himself, muttered:

“It is Kate Heath. She was to have taken a lesson at this time, but I had hoped something would keep her away. It would be better for her—I hope what I suspect is not true. Come in!” he called out, almost savagely.

Kate Heath entered. She gave a flitting glance at Karl, walked to the piano, and then looked at him more deliberately.

“You are not well,” she exclaimed, with a flush on her cheeks and an expression of anxious interest.

“Yes, I am,” he replied, shortly.

“Oh, but I am sure you are not. Your face is flushed and your eyes look feverish.”

“Never mind my eyes,” he replied, going to the piano and opening her book. “This is your lesson, I believe.”

She looked chagrined and hurt, but proceeded to play at this very decided hint. She secretly took notice of one thing, however. Karl’s few words were spoken in good English, unimpaired by his habitual German accent. This phenomenon had occurred once or twice before, and had not been lost upon her.

After playing a few bars, she suddenly stopped and said:

“Mr. Zikoff, I have long been wanting to tell you of something—to make a confession, and ask you whether a certain act I committed was right or wrong.”

“Miss Heath, why should you ask me to pronounce judgment on your acts?”

“Please let me tell my story,” she said, imperatively; and then, with mildness, “I have confidence in you—I value your good opinion more than—I value it very highly. It is about Carlos Conrad――”

“Who?”

Karl sprang to his feet.

“Carlos Conrad,” she repeated, with a curious smile of satisfaction, mingled with tenderness, “the young man who was suspected of murdering Colonel William Conrad. You have heard that he escaped?”

“Yes,” replied Karl, through whose brain had rushed a torrent of wild thoughts, and who had quickly and resolutely reduced himself to a state of calmness. “Yes,” he said, “but vat care I for that?”

The Teutonic twang was very decided and broad now.

“Perhaps you care nothing for it,” she replied, dreamily, “but he was innocent, I believe, and was to be pitied for all that he endured. On the night of the murder he stopped at our house. He had lost his way, and was wet and cold. He was determined to go on in the darkness; the night was very dark, for there had just been a terrible rain-storm; but we prevailed on him to stay, and made him dry and warm. How I pitied him! He looked so sad and desperate. I can never forget his face.”

Karl thought there was a tinge of significancy in the tone of this last remark, but he maintained a stolid exterior.

“He left us at daybreak,” continued Kate, “and was arrested as soon as he reached Dalton. There was strong evidence against him, but I never believed him guilty. At the examination it was decided to send him to the jail at Hillsdale to be tried in court. But they never got him to the jail.”

“I haf understand all dat,” said Karl. “De young man shump from de car window, or somet’ings?”

“No, the young man did not jump from the car window,” replied Kate, calmly. “He would be a fool to do that, when other and easier means of escape were offered him.”

“Other means!” echoed Karl, in dull wonderment at the girl’s recital.

“Yes; a New York detective――”

“Ah!” cried Karl, “I thought no one knew of that?”

“Of what? What have I told?”

“I thought,” said Karl, in confusion, “dat it vas von grand secret how de young man got avay?”

“And so it was. But the secret is in my possession. Would you like to hear about it?”

“I care not’ings for him,” said Karl, coolly.

“Consider a moment. Wouldn’t you like to hear something about that New York detective?”

“Oh, if you like to tell, I listen. Go on.”

With a furtive smile Kate proceeded:

“An officer named Johnson had Carlos Conrad in charge, and at the depot they met the New York detective. He slyly put a package in the prisoner’s pocket—why do you start so?—and afterward engaged in conversation with Johnson. After some friendly words they stepped up to the bar to drink. The detective drugged his own whisky, and then, under the pretense that he had by mistake poured out the wrong liquor, induced Johnson to change with him. So Johnson drank the drugged whisky. What is the matter?”

“Nothing,” replied Karl, who with blanched face was listening intently.

“The plan was for Officer Johnson to fall asleep on the cars, and then for Carlos Conrad to make sure of his not awakening by the application of chloroform. The chloroform was in the package that had been placed in his pocket. There was also a pair of steel cutting-nippers, with which he was to free himself, he being fastened to the officer by handcuffs. A note accompanied the package, directing him how to go to work. It is supposed that he profited by the opportunity thus offered him, for when Officer Johnson reached Hillsdale his prisoner was gone, and has never been heard of since.”

“Yes?” gasped Karl, in a cold sweat of apprehension.

His agitation did not permit him to observe the excitement under which Kate Heath was laboring. Her face was suffused with a crimson blush, and her eyes glittered brilliantly.

“Would you like to know who this detective was?” she whispered.

“Do you know?”

“Yes, I know. He is by your side now.”

“WHAT! You do not mean to say—it cannot be—it is impossible that it was you!”

“It is not impossible; it is true. It was I.”

In a wild wonder of frenzy Karl, who had risen to his feet, grasped the edge of the piano so tightly that every drop of blood was forced back from his fingers. An awful look was on his face, for he was seized with a conviction the realization of which he shrank from. In a last despairing effort to maintain his assumed character, he asked:

“Vy do you tell me of dis, young lady?”

“Because,” she said, slowly, and as if afraid to proceed. “Because”—speaking with sudden resolve, yet with plaintive humility, and at the same time covering her face with her hands and half averting her bowed head, “I love you, Carlos Conrad!”

CHAPTER XXIV.
DANGER AND MORE EXPOSURE.

The revelation filled Carlos with utter dismay. It fell upon him like a thunderbolt.

Not that the idea then dawned upon him for the first time; he had surmised the truth before. Kate Heath’s demeanor had often suggested the secret of her love for him, although it had always been modest, and had never even verged upon impropriety. But he had scouted the idea in scorn, as evincing vanity and presumption on his part. He had not allowed himself to cherish it for an instant, much less to accept it as an actual fact. And he had treated her uniformly with all the coldness possible that was consistent with common courtesy.

But here she was, confessing her secret.

He was thrown completely off his guard, and was so filled with consternation and annoyance that he betrayed no surprise at being addressed by his true name.

“Miss Heath,” he said, “this is pure madness.”

“I know it,” she said, still keeping her face concealed.

“I am surprised, shocked, overwhelmed by what you have said.”

“I do not wonder at it,” she murmured. “You have a right to be shocked at my boldness; but it is true—oh, so true!”

“This is fearful!” muttered Carlos, moved to compassion. “I am very sorry, unutterably sorry. Let me tell you at once――”

“Do not tell me,” she moaned. “You are disgusted with my presumption; you need not say the words.”

“I must say them,” said Carlos, firmly, yet gently. “Your wild dream must be dispelled at once. It is preposterous; it is unaccountable to me.”

“Oh, Carlos Conrad――”

At this second mention of his true name he recoiled, and realized the fact that his secret was known.

“Why do you call me by that name?” he demanded.

“Do not feign surprise,” she said, turning toward him. “I have known you for weeks. I said I could never forget your face, and I never have. I tried to contrive ways of meeting you, but failed. At last I hit on the experiment of the music-lessons, and you know the result. You cannot deny your name. Yes, I know you, and love you.”

There were desperation and defiance in her air and tone.

“Well,” said Carlos, who saw that it would be useless to try to deceive her, “why did you do such a rash thing? Why did you disguise yourself as the detective, and effect my escape?”

“You have the reason in my confession,” she replied; “in my confession which you regard with such abhorrence. Ah, do not deny it. You despise me; you would send me away if you could. But did you not know that the aid must have come from some one who loved you?”

The last two words she uttered in a tone of dogged determination.

“I thought it came from my cousin,” he replied.

“Your cousin!” she repeated, scornfully. “But you were ready to accept it. You took advantage of the means offered, and escaped. You were grateful then to one whom you would spurn now. Yes, say it—say you hate me; kill me.”

“My dear girl――”

“His dear girl!” she echoed, but whether in irony or pleasure he was unable to determine.

“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I recall the words. Miss Heath, for all that you have done for me you have my sincere gratitude. For your friendly acts I am thankful; but as for the motive that prompted them, I deeply regret its existence.”

“And yet I took pleasure in what I did: The risk I incurred was nothing. I only thought of you.”

Her tone was tender and pleading.

“It pains me to talk to you as I have to,” said Carlos. “Believe me, it pains me unspeakably. I admire your courage. I wonder at your ingenuity in disguising yourself as the New York detective. How could you carry the part so successfully?”

“I told you once that I had had some experience on the stage.”

“True; and how did you come to abandon the profession?”

“My father got into trouble, and was helped out by Geoffrey Haywood. How they happened to meet I do not know. I think it was purely accidental. At all events, Haywood persuaded him to leave New York and live on a farm just out of Dalton. He did well by him, for father has made money unaccountably fast. We were very poor when in New York.”

“And what do you think is the secret of your father’s good fortune?”

A thought which had struck Carlos impelled him to ask this question.

“I cannot tell. He is associated with Haywood in some business that is kept in the dark. There is much that goes on in the dead of night. Strange-looking men come, father goes off, and I don’t know what all.”

“Do they ever go in the direction of Rocky Beach?”

The girl glanced at him sharply.

“I am doing wrong in talking about my father’s private affairs,” she said, coldly; “and I have made a fool of myself before you; I realize it perfectly. I am nothing to you. I served you well once, and for that you are grateful. How I hate the word!” She spoke now with suppressed vehemence. “You have seen what a friend Kate Heath can be. But remember one thing—I know you, and you may realize what it is to have me for a foe.”

Her eyes dilated and shot forth the wrath of disappointment and desperation.

Carlos was alarmed. He saw that he was in her power. She might, in her chagrin and anger, expose him.

“Kate,” he said, “do not be hasty in your words or your conclusions. You must know that your revelations have come very suddenly upon me—that my mind is in a whirl of confusion. And I believe I am not quite well to-night, as you said when you first entered.”

She looked up, as if a faint hope dawned upon her.

“Won’t you leave me now?” he entreated. “I must have time to think before I can talk any more; and it is late—almost six o’clock. I will go to my room in the hotel and call a doctor, I believe, for my head feels strangely. Go home now, and come again at your next lesson-time.”

“I MUST HAVE TIME TO THINK BEFORE I CAN TALK ANY MORE; AND IT IS LATE—ALMOST SIX O’CLOCK.”

“Remember—” she began.

“Ah, there is no need to enjoin remembrance on me. I shall not forget anything.”

He took his hat in his hand and moved toward the door.

“Well, I will go,” she said. “Good-by.”

“Good-day.”

He took the hand she offered, and then watched her as she descended the stairs.

But, instead of following her, he paused on the landing, and presently returned to his room.

“Shall I take advantage of this declaration she has made,” he thought, “and pretend to humor it? In that way I might lead her on and find out something about Haywood, for she says he has secret dealings with her father. And, besides, if I spurn her she will expose me. There was danger in her eyes when she made the threat, and she is just of that passionate nature to carry it out. But what a mean, contemptible deception it would be to profess love for her. No, I will not be guilty of it. Let the worst come before I so degrade myself. Oh, what a situation! It compels immediate action, and strengthens my determination to begin investigations without delay. I’ll no longer be a lay-figure; I’ll ACT!”

He quitted his teaching-room, and went across the street to his hotel. But he could eat no supper, the feeling of languor, pain, and feverishness increased.

In some concern he went up stairs, threw off his coat and boots, and laid himself on the bed. In two hours he felt decidedly worse, and sent a messenger for Doctor Davison. It will be remembered that this was the physician that had offered him the timely advice on the morning of his arrest, and had subsequently attended him in the jail. Carlos naturally sent for him, having had previous evidence of his skill, as well as a kindly feeling toward him.

Doctor Davison shortly arrived and examined the patient. His manner was cheerful, but an unmistakably graver look quickly came upon his face.

“You must undress and go to bed, young man,” he said.

“Vat for?” asked Carlos, resuming the German accent.

“Because you are going to be sick.”

At a look of distress and alarm from Carlos, the physician quickly added:

“Oh, you will come out right, but you must take the right means to do it. It won’t do to ignore the fact that there can be no trifling with your case.”

“Vell, I do as you say.”

After some further conversation and directions Doctor Davison departed.

Early the next morning he called and found his patient in a raging fever.

Giving vent to a low whistle, and casting on him a sharp look of concern, he quickly prepared some new medicines. Calling one of the attendants of the hotel, he said:

“Give these powders every half hour, without fail. I will call again at noon.”

At noon he was again by the side of Carlos. The paroxysm had subsided, and the patient looked at him with intelligent eyes.

“Wie geht’s?” said Doctor Davison. “That’s all the German I know. How do you feel?”

“Better, I think,” said Carlos.

“Yes, we’ve checked the fever for the present, but you have had a severe turn, and are weak.”

“Vat ails me?” asked Carlos.

“I can scarcely tell yet. The fever has taken an intermittent form, and will probably come on again to-night. If it isn’t attended to, it may run into typhoid.”

“I cannot afford to be sick,” muttered Carlos.

“No? Well, all of us feel that way. By the way!” exclaimed the doctor, starting as if something had suddenly caught his attention, “what has become of that scar?”

“Vat scar?”

“The scar on your forehead. It was very plain last night, but can scarcely be seen now.”

Here was another disaster. Carlos had neglected, in his sickness, to put on the bandage which he was accustomed to wear nightly for the purpose of leaving the imprint of a scar. It was part of the routine imposed upon him by Mr. Stark, and was a most important aid in concealing his identity.

A sense of what was likely to follow rushed upon him.

“It comes and goes,” he replied.

“Oh! It’s a very singular scar, to come and go! What caused it?”

“The point of a sword in a duel.”

Doctor Davison was running his hand over his patient’s forehead and inspecting the scar.

“Yes,” continued the doctor, “it’s a very singular scar. In fact, it’s no scar at all. What does this mean?”

“Doctor,” said Carlos, partly rising and resting on his elbow, and speaking solemnly, “I am about to put great trust in you. I must make a confession. You are right—it is not a scar. I never received a sword wound.”

“Then what in the world is your object――”

“Wait. I will tell you. I have been practicing a great deception. Don’t you know who I am?”

“No, I can’t say that I do, unless you are Carl Zikoff, music-teacher. But you are talking pretty good English now, I must say.”

“Yes, there is no use in trying to play my part before you. Look at me well. Have you no suspicion?”

“Your face does not look entirely unfamiliar, but upon my word I cannot place you. However, Mr. Zikoff, or whoever you are, you are talking too much. I am a fool to sit here and allow you to do it. You must be quiet.”

“No, not until I have told you all. It will be better that way, than for the whole town to find it out, and have everybody after me.”

“Wait, young man. It will be better for you to keep still. I have no curiosity on the subject. I don’t want you to excite yourself.”

“If you do not allow me to speak I shall die of excitement.”

“Well, go on, then.”

“You did me a kindness once. You attended me in a brief illness. Don’t you recollect?”

“No.”

“It was in August last.”

“August last! Let me see—that was the time Colonel Conrad was murdered.”

“Yes, but not by me! not by me! You spoke to me when a rabble was hounding me, and you came to see me in jail.”

“Good heavens!” exclaimed the doctor, springing to his feet. “You are Carlos Conrad!”

“Yes.”

“And you have been here these several months past under the name of Karl Zikoff.”

“I have. You will not betray me? At least not as long as I am lying here sick?”

“Betray you? No. That’s not my trade. My business is to cure you.”

“Thank you, thank you,” said Carlos, in a weak whisper, as he sank back on his pillow.

With the coolness which physicians must at all times be prepared to simulate, Dr. Davison said:

“Now, my dear sir, don’t let this worry you another minute. You can trust me to keep your secret, and see you through all right. But it is absolutely necessary――Hallo!”

The doctor’s words had fallen upon unheeding ears, for his patient had fainted.

Doctor Davison set about restoring him, muttering the while:

“Strange! mighty strange! What on earth could have tempted the fellow to be so rash? Confound him! he doesn’t look like a murderer. I shall not expose him, at all events. But he will be apt to rave, and betray himself. This should be guarded against, for I want to talk to him more when he is able to endure it. Let me see! I have it! I’ll telegraph for my brother, who is studying medicine at Skimmerton College. He’s an excellent nurse, and the experience will be a good one for him.”

CHAPTER XXV.
GEOFFREY HAYWOOD AT WORK—A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE.

On the same afternoon that Carlos had so nearly betrayed himself to Florence Darley by his wild outburst, and shortly after his departure, Geoffrey Haywood called at Elm Grove.

He was just in time to be invited to remain at tea, and he accepted the invitation.

He observed that Florence did not appear to be entirely calm, that her mind was agitated, but on this he made no remark.

It was not until after tea, when they were seated in the drawing-room, that he entered into serious conversation with her.

“Florence,” he said, “there are certain business affairs that must be talked over at some time, and this occasion seems to me a favorable one to open the subject.”

“Yes,” was her simple rejoinder.

“The time for the distinct settlement of some matters is near at hand, the period mentioned in the notice to creditors to put in their claims having nearly arrived. Thanks to Colonel Conrad’s admirable business management, the creditors are few, and their claims are small. The amount of property, after all settlements are made, will be about two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, besides Elm Grove. You are aware that, by the terms of the will, fifty thousand dollars are left to sundry charitable and educational institutions; the homestead here is left to you unconditionally, and that the balance is left to me in trust for my own use, with the exception of an annual income of three thousand dollars to be paid to you. But if you marry, one-half of the fortune is to be made over to you, intact and unconditionally, while the other half is mine. If you do not marry, the before-mentioned terms remain in force during your life.”

“Yes, I understand all that,” said Florence.

“You will continue to live here at Elm Grove?”

“I suppose so. The place is dear to me. About it are associated all the pleasant remembrances of my life. Yes, I shall remain here.”

“Pleasant memories do indeed cluster around it, Florence—pleasant to me, as well as to you. I loved my uncle, and shall always revere his memory. But this is not all. It is in this house that I have met and known one who has answered my ideal of all that is pure and lovely, who has won me often from busy care, and filled my soul with higher aspirations. Need I say that it is yourself, dear Florence, of whom I am speaking?”

“You compliment me undeservedly, Uncle Geoffrey,” said Florence, with a pained, confused look. It was her habit to call him uncle, though he was in fact not related to her. “Yet I ought to be gratified in having won your good opinion.”

“Good opinion!” he repeated. “It is more than that, far more. My uncle had plans which are not mentioned in his will, Florence—plans which are very near my own heart. Their fulfillment is dearer to me than all other earthly objects. The estate, you know, is divided between us, but it may be kept intact, as Colonel Conrad left it, by the carrying out of what I have alluded to. You must know what I am speaking of.”

Florence bowed her head, but made no reply.

“But do not think,” he continued, “that it is solely on account of my uncle’s wishes, or owing to any considerations concerning the property, that I press the subject, for I love you, Florence, with all the strength of my soul, and I am going to ask you to become my wife.”

“Uncle Geoffrey,” said Florence, turning to him calmly, “I esteem you, I appreciate your friendship and all your kindnesses. I am aware that the dearest friend I ever had, he who was a father to me, held you in high regard and implicit confidence. But I have not that feeling toward you that a wife should have—I do not wish to marry you.”

There were simplicity and earnestness in her tone and manner that cut keenly into the schemer’s soul. But he was as sedate and unruffled as ever, save a slight manifestation of fervor as befitted the occasion.

“I beg that you will not answer in that way, Florence,” he said. “If you cannot say yes to-night, take time to consider the matter. If your heart does not warm toward me now, at least give me time to prove my love and earnestness. I have long had an interest in you. My regard has scarcely been second to that of Colonel Conrad. Your welfare has been my desire; all my plans seem inseparably bound up in your happiness and interests.”

“Oh, I hope not, Uncle Geoffrey! We are not suited to each other. I have no love for you of the kind you mention.”

“Again I say,” he exclaimed, “do not be too abrupt. Let me cherish the hope that I may yet win you, for I have counted much on your companionship through life. As I said before, it is my dearest purpose. Besides, all considerations of policy or interest are in favor of it, and there is no doubt but that it was a wish of Colonel Conrad’s.”

“It might have been,” said Florence, meditatively, “but I do not believe he would have had me marry against my will; I am sure he would not. Would you?”

“N-n-no, Florence, but I would so guide your will that it might incline to me, and not leave me desolate. I would, by gentle persuasion, show the depth and strength of my love, and win yours in return. But I will not urge you to-night. I simply wish you to remember how I feel, and to think of me as kindly as possible.”

“I always think kindly of you,” she said, smiling.

“Yes, but no more of this to-night. I see you would prefer not to pursue the subject. I have been thinking about some plans for altering the house—that would make it more pleasant for you.”

“Altering the house?” said Florence, in surprise.

“Yes. The south parlor is small, and if the partition between it and the room on the west were taken away, it would make a fine large apartment.”

“The room on the west? Why, that was the study of Colonel Conrad!”

“Certainly—the room where he was killed. The associations connected with it are so awful, that the change would, I should think, be acceptable to you.”

He spoke slowly, and scrutinized her face as if to mark her reception of the suggestion.

“No,” she said, shaking her head, “no change in that room would be acceptable to me. I shall let it remain just as dear Colonel Conrad left it.”

“The value of the house would be greatly enhanced,” argued Haywood.

“That is no inducement,” answered Florence. “It is not my wish to have a thing disturbed. There is that wonderful clock, and that curious little set of book-shelves fastened to the wall. They are both his handiwork, and both would have to be torn away.”

“And so you cherish his memory by such trifles, do you? Well, I will not comment on your taste, neither will I press the matter. But I hope you will think it over.”

“I do not understand why you should be so urgent about it, Uncle Geoffrey. If there is any particular reason――”

“No,” he interrupted, quickly, “there is no particular reason. I am not urgent about it. I only suggested it out of regard for your own interests.”

“Thank you,” she replied, quietly.

“Now that we are talking about the room,” said Haywood, “I am reminded that I have a little writing that ought to be done this evening. Perhaps you would not object to my doing it in there.”

“Certainly not,” she exclaimed. “Occupy it as long as you wish for that purpose. You will find pen, ink, and stationery in the drawer of the table.”

“You will not mind my shutting myself up, away from you?”

“Oh, no. Mabel Cummings is to spend the night with me. She will be here soon.”

“I will excuse myself, then.”

“Very well.”

Geoffrey Haywood went into the study of the late Colonel Conrad, and, after lighting a student’s lamp that stood on the table, closed the door and locked it.

He took some paper from the drawer, dated and addressed a letter, and wrote a few lines.

Then he paused in his work, meditated for a few moments, and looked cautiously around him. Stepping to the window, he drew the curtain a little closer, and then he hung his handkerchief on the knob of the door, so that it covered the keyhole.

Having taken these precautions, he proceeded to the case of book-shelves on the east wall of the room, a few feet from the tall old clock. He removed the books one by one, making no noise in the operation, and then examined the shelves minutely.

The fixture consisted of a thick hard-wood board, sunk in the plaster, and secured to the wall in some manner which he could not determine, for neither nail nor screw-head was visible. Near the outward edges were upright projecting pieces, to which the shelves were fastened. The whole was, perhaps, four feet square, and the shelves and their supports were six or eight inches wide. All was strong and solidly built, and firmly fixed in place. He pushed it, and pulled it, and pressed it on all sides, and from many directions, but it was immovable.

He finally paused, and contemplated the shelves with more vexation on his face than any one had ever seen exhibited there. But he was alone, and there was no necessity for concealing his feelings.

“Behind the book-shelves,” he muttered, “is the place, but how to remove them is the mystery. Yet it must be done. Every risk must be avoided. The secret may be discovered by accident; the house may change hands and undergo repairs. A thousand things may happen. Oh, for the few words that lie between safety and possible ruin! I have read the paper over and over, and cannot form the slightest conception of its conclusion. But I will triumph! Yes, guard the secret as closely as you will, Carlos Conrad, I will accomplish my end in spite of you!”

He again gave himself up to a profound reverie, and then, as if having decided on a plan of action, quickly replaced the books, and unlocked the door. Having done this, he pulled a bell-knob.

Barker answered the summons.

“Bring me a glass of water, if you please, Barker,” said Haywood, looking up from his writing, which he had resumed before Barker entered.

The errand was performed, and, having set the glass of water on the table, Barker was about to withdraw.

“Wait a moment,” said Haywood. “Shut the door—turn the key—that’s it. I want to talk with you.”

Barker held himself in readiness to listen.

“You earned two hundred dollars once, Barker, very easily. And, by the way, I suppose you have kept perfectly silent regarding the event that I requested you not to mention.”

“Perfectly, sir.”

“That is well. Now I want you to serve me again, and I will pay you satisfactorily.”

“Is it a similar service, sir?”

“No, quite a different one. But it must be kept secret—in fact, more secret than the other.”

“That couldn’t be, sir.”

“All right. I think I can trust you. For reasons of my own, which you will not care to have explained, I wish to remove these book-shelves from the wall.”

“Does Miss Florence――”

“Miss Florence must know nothing of it. The shelves must be removed and replaced in such a manner as to leave no trace of their having been disturbed.”

“That might be a difficult job, sir.”

“There is no doubt of it. But that does not lessen the necessity for doing it. You can see that they are very strong and firmly put up, and it will require considerable ingenuity and labor to take them down. I want you to help me.”

“Now, sir?”

“No—to-morrow night. I will bring the requisite tools.”

“How can we work so as to be unobserved?”

“I will come at midnight—for my presence in the house must not be known—and you must let me in at the window here.”

“I don’t exactly like the job, sir.”

“Nor I. But it must be done. I will pay you another two hundred dollars for your help; and if we succeed, and the result is what I hope for, you shall have five hundred more.”

“All right, sir; you can count on me. You’re a sharp one, Mr. Haywood.”

“Never mind that. But, Barker, if you ever find life dull here, and wish for a change, let me know, and I will give you a berth where you can make plenty of money and enjoy yourself hugely.”

“I’m your man, sir.”

“At present I want you to help me here. In the future I’ll do something handsome for you. But remember the importance of the most profound secrecy.”

Barker placed his hand expressively over his mouth.

“To-morrow night, recollect, unless you get word from me that the job will have to be postponed.”

“Yes, sir.”

Barker withdrew, and Haywood soon after took his departure. Passing through the hall, he bowed to Florence Darley and Mabel Cummings, who were chatting in the drawing-room, and bade them good-night.

Then he left the house, and, walking toward Dalton in the darkness of the night, he thought, exultingly:

“In twenty-four hours from to-morrow morning all the documents will be destroyed—the letters from Anthony to William Conrad, the evidence against me, the will—all that can in any way interfere with my plans! And Florence—yes, she shall marry me; I’ll have her by some means, whether fair or foul.”

The next day he was about his business as usual, with nothing in his manner to indicate the anxiety with which he anticipated the coming night’s work.

Toward evening a note was handed him, the bearer departing as soon as he had delivered it. Haywood was in his store, and he immediately went into his private office and read the note. Its contents disturbed him strangely. He knit his brow, hesitated for a moment, and then wrote these words on a slip of paper:

“Not to-night.”

Inclosing the slip in an envelope, he dispatched a messenger to Elm Grove, with instructions to hand it to Barker.

Something had interrupted his plans.

The remaining few hours of the day he passed mostly in his private office, being evidently in too agitated a frame of mind to appear before his fellow-beings.

Late in the evening he was in the street, bent on some urgent errand. It was cold, rainy, and pitch-dark, and most people had sought the shelter of their homes. But Haywood regarded not the weather. He plunged into the gloom and the damp dreariness, indifferent as to the discomfort and exposure.

Yet he was not the only one out that night.

Doctor Davison had waited at the depot for his brother, and the two had proceeded to the hotel together, where lay Carlos Conrad on his sick-bed.

“He is a pretty sick man,” said Doctor Davison, as they ascended the stairs that led to the invalid’s room. “Step softly now, for if he is sleeping he must not be awakened.”

Treading on tiptoe, and opening the door silently, they entered the apartment where the patient had been left a few hours before under the influence of an opiate.

But as they approached the bed the physician and his brother halted in amazement. They looked at one another in mute, helpless surprise, for the bed was empty!

Carlos Conrad was gone!

CHAPTER XXVI.
A DARK NIGHT’S WORK.

Carlos Conrad had lain on his bed all the afternoon in a state of agitation which the opiates of Doctor Davison had not allayed.

Kate Heath’s declaration and semi-threat, Doctor Davison’s recognition of him, and the subsequent disaster which seemed impending, had served to render his mind active, alert, and unsusceptible to the influence of any ordinary administration of medicine.

Evening approached, and the doctor, running in for a brief call, found him sullen and uncommunicative. There was a contraction of his brow, and an odd look in his dull eyes, that were well calculated to excite apprehension.

And it was with increasing concern that Doctor Davison left him, not to call again until the arrival of his brother, who was to act the part of nurse, and who was expected on the night train.

At nine o’clock in the evening Carlos rose from his bed. On assuming a standing posture, he at first staggered with dizziness, but quickly recovered.

He was in a condition between sanity and delusion. He could not control his movements—he felt himself led on by some irresistible force, and yet he knew what he was doing, and was conscious that he was acting rashly and imprudently. He kept muttering to himself:

“Yes, it must be done to-night—to-night is the time. No more miserable delays—no more unbearable suspense. To-night I will go—to-night shall the secret of Rocky Beach be penetrated. Am I in my right mind, I wonder? I think not, and yet the way seems clear. Yes, the time for action has come, and I’ll go forth to meet the enemy.”

His madness lent him strength and cunning. He was soon dressed, and he stepped softly from his room into the passage. Through this he walked rapidly, and thence down the stairs into the lower hall.

No one was in sight. He paused and made sure of this, for he had the sense to know that he was ill, and that if any of the attendants of the hotel should observe him they might prevent his going farther, or follow him. He hastened to the outside door, and walked into the cold air. In fact, they were grateful to his heated brow, and, with refreshed, stimulated feeling, he bent his footsteps rapidly from the hotel.

Notwithstanding his half delirious condition, he had a fixed definite purpose, as was evinced by the promptness with which he proceeded in a certain direction.

His route took him away from the business streets to the outskirts of the village, and finally on a lonely country road.

The ground was a mass of mud, the rain fell steadily, the wind sighed with a sluggish, disconsolate murmur, and the air was penetrating in its dull chilliness.

Through the darkness, and the rain, and the gloom he walked steadily, stumbling now and then, but recovering himself and hastening on.

For nearly two hours he continued his lonely tramp, and then on reaching a certain point, he moved with sudden caution.

He was at Rocky Beach.

It was nearly eleven o’clock, and in the inky darkness nothing was visible more than a few steps ahead, save the ocean, which stretched away in gloomy expanse. The steadily falling rain, the rolling of the waves, and the low murmur of the wind were the only sounds heard.

Listening and peering intently, and neither hearing nor seeing anything that denoted the proximity of any living being, he groped his way forward.

Suddenly a light appeared, seeming to come out of the solid, rocky bluff. Carlos was nearer to the entrance of the cave than he had supposed. He saw that the light was carried by a man, who was instantly followed by another man, bearing another light. The two ascended an eminence, and there remained motionless for a long time, holding their lanterns.

Carlos drew a little nearer, and concealed himself behind a huge rock. Here he watched and waited. If his journey was the result of a freak of delirium, surely there was method in his madness, for he was cautious, silent, and observant. He was wet to the skin, and his garments were dripping. Perhaps there was some virtue in the “water-cure” treatment he was receiving.

A considerable time elapsed, during which he remained quiet and watchful, while the men with the lights waited patiently.

All at once the sound of some craft cutting through the water was heard, and Carlos quickly turned his eyes in the direction from which it came.

Two boats, each with a small, dim head-light, were approaching the land. They were moving slowly, with sails hoisted, and soon reached the shore.

Out of each sprang two men, carrying coils of rope, which they had made fast to large, heavy stones lying a few feet back from the water.

The two who had remained stationed with the lanterns ran forward to meet them, a few hurried words were exchanged, and forthwith ensued a scene of busy occupation.

Packages, and boxes, and bales were taken from the boats, and carried into the cavern. Three of the men occupied themselves in this way, while the fourth promenaded the beach with his lantern, evidently keeping a lookout for intruders. The other two had disappeared within the cave, probably to receive and stow away the articles brought to them.

The men worked rapidly and industriously, speaking but few words, and those in low, indistinct tones.

All this Carlos watched from his place of concealment, withdrawing his gaze only when he was obliged to crouch more closely under the shadow of the rocks when the sentinel passed him at intervals.

The work went on for two hours or more, when suddenly there was a new-comer on the scene. A tall man came from the cavern and stood idly looking on.

The heart of Carlos bounded as he beheld him, for the form and carriage were those of Geoffrey Haywood. The distance and the darkness rendered his face indistinct, and it might be added also that he wore a mask, although Carlos could not discern it. But he was certain that it was Geoffrey Haywood, and his eyes remained riveted upon him.

At length the goods that had been brought in by the boats seemed to be all disposed of. The men loitered around, wiping their brows. Then the man whom Carlos believed to be Geoffrey Haywood stepped forward and said a few words.

Carlos crept forward to get a better view of him. In his eagerness he altogether abandoned the shelter of the rock under whose friendly shelter he had remained in concealment, and, before he was fairly aware of it, he was within a rod of the knot of men.

They all turned to go into the cavern, when a startling and terrifying circumstance occurred.

A bright light suddenly burst forth from some unknown quarter above, and cast a dazzling glare over the whole scene. The rocks, the boats, the men, and even the pebbles on the beach were distinctly visible. At the same instant a rocket shot high into the air, taking a course out over the sea, and leaving a brilliant train of sparks.

The men uttered wild cries of amazement, and ran to and fro in confusion. Carlos’ surprise was equal to that of the smugglers, and he rushed forward near them.

The light above, which was evidently on the summit of the cliff, shone continuously, and with intense, steady brightness.

The three workers, the sentinel, and the man with the mask, all saw Carlos, and rushed upon him. They evidently believed that he had some hand in the startling phenomenon.

“Who are you? What do you want? How did you come here?” were questions that showered upon him in mad, furious tones.

He was seized by the shoulders and arms, and held firmly.

“I know you, Geoffrey Haywood!” he shouted, in a wild frenzy. “You arch-plotter, you thief, you smuggler!”

“Curses upon you,” ejaculated the masked man. “Oh! it’s Carlos Conrad! Hold him, men! Do not let him escape. He’s a murderer! But where, in the name of all the devils of ill-luck, did he come from?”

“You may well ask,” exclaimed Carlos, “for I have been watching you. I have been at your heels for six months. And here you are, with your gang of smugglers.”

“Hush!” hissed Haywood. “Gag him quick, somebody!”

There was a violent, brief struggle, and Carlos was temporarily deprived of his power of speech.

“I don’t know as it is unlucky at all,” said Haywood, at length, and in a calmer tone. “This is a spy, boys, and he must be taken care of. There is no time to lose, for some deviltry is up. I wonder where that infernal light comes from? Take him in one of the boats, and make for the ship with all speed. Don’t kill him. I want something of him. Stand off at sea until to-morrow, and I’ll try and communicate with you. If you can’t do any better, make for some port—New York, Norfolk, Charleston—anywhere. But be off quick. Roake and I will see to the goods.”

Haywood had delivered his directions in a hurried, excited tone, in almost ludicrous contrast with his usual sedate manner, and, with the last words, hurried into the cavern.

The four remaining men forced Carlos to accompany them to the shore and into one of the boats. Here he was bound with ropes and flung into the hold of the larger yacht.

The light from the cliff still shone with unabated brightness, casting a glimmer over the sea, and giving to the crests of the waves a scintillating brilliancy. The rain drizzled down, and the air had lost nothing of its chilliness.

The sails of the yachts were hoisted, two men having taken possession of each boat, and the four smugglers, with their prisoner, put out to sea.

After a few moments one of the men removed the gag from Carlos’ mouth, and said:

“Say, stranger, what’s the occasion of that blasted light on the bluff?”

“I haven’t the least idea,” answered Carlos.

“No gammon now.”

“I assure you I don’t know. I was as much surprised by it as you were, or else you wouldn’t have taken me prisoner.”

“It’s mighty curious anyhow,” said the man, addressing his companion rather than Carlos. “Some mischief’s afloat, and I’m afraid we’ll have to do some pretty lively dodging to keep out of the way of the beaks.”

“The boss seemed to be pretty well cut up, didn’t he?” remarked the other man.

“Yes; but he’s sharp, and I reckon he’ll put into a safe port and leave no wake behind him.”

“They can search a month at Rocky Beach and discover nothing against us. It’s a rum place for running in goods.”

“Yes; but I own I’ll feel considerably relieved when we are once aboard ship and out at sea.”

Carlos heard this and other conversation with but little interest. Strange visions began to flash before his eyes, and wild dreams flitted through his brain. The strain upon his mind had been too much, and the fever was returning with redoubled violence.

He was soon delirious again and he did not know when the yachts came alongside the dark hull of an ocean steamer after having sailed some two miles.

Neither was he conscious of being lifted up in a hammock, taken aboard the vessel, carried below, and deposited in a bunk.

When he was thus disposed of, a crowd of villainous-looking men asked eager questions, which were impatiently answered by the four who had been ashore.

The command to put out to sea was given, and the huge engines were set to working with all possible speed.

As the smugglers’ steamer got under way, the eyes of all on deck were anxiously fixed on the light that still gleamed from the summit of the bluff at Rocky Beach.

“It’s a powerful light,” said one.

“Yes. It looks like bad business for us. I’ll be glad when we’re out of sight of it.”

At that instant a flash came out of the darkness but a short distance ahead of the vessel, followed by the thundering report of a cannon.

A wild cry of alarm arose among the smugglers. They rushed hither and thither in consternation, scarcely heeding the yells of their commander to seize their arms and prepare for a struggle.

Another flash and report came, and a ball whizzed through the air over the heads of the panic-stricken crew.

The commander roared and swore.

“Keep your wits about you, you hounds! Don’t run about like a pack of frightened sheep. We never can be caught in this darkness. We can crowd on all steam, dodge about, and be out of danger before morning.”

CHAPTER XXVII.
ON THE TRACK.

We have for some time left Mr. Stark and Leonard Lester to themselves. But it must not be supposed that they had been idle during the sojourn of Carlos Conrad, alias Karl Zikoff, at Dalton.

In fact, they had been very busy.

On a certain morning, in the month of March, we behold them seated together in the private office of the detective engaged in earnest conversation.

“Everything is working well,” said Mr. Stark. “The train is almost ready to ignite that will make the biggest blow-up that has ever been witnessed in our circles for some time.”

“Yes,” replied Leonard, “Luke Felton is prepared to give his testimony. It seems that, when a mere boy, he received some elementary instruction in a deaf and dumb school, but, on account of poverty, his parents were unable to continue him there. After that he was buffeted about the world, and saw some pretty hard times. At last he fell into the clutches of Roake and Snags, who found it very convenient to have one at Rocky Beach who could hear nothing, and who could not tell what he saw. But since we kidnapped him, and sent him to the asylum, he has learned with wonderful rapidity, and can now communicate his ideas in writing.”

“And he is positive that he could recognize the so-called ‘Boss’ on meeting him face to face?”

“Yes; he has seen him frequently, in disguise, and on two occasions he followed him to a lonely spot in the woods near Rocky Beach, and saw him lay aside the mask and resume his own attire.”

“Luke Felton was not so dull as the villains thought.”

“No; his eyes and his wits were at work, though his ears were useless and his utterance fettered. He has given me in writing a minute description of the mysterious person, and it answers exactly to Haywood’s appearance. Besides there will be Jessup’s evidence.”

“Ay,” said Mr. Stark; “and you now see that I was right in keeping Jessup’s agency in the matter a secret from Carlos Conrad. Had your cousin known of his presence and mission in Dalton, he might have seriously retarded his progress. Jessup, alone and unaided, has followed Haywood up, has learned that he has some secret connection with Jake Heath, and that Jake Heath visits Rocky Beach in the night and takes away goods, concealing them in bales of wool that are shipped to Jacob Rush, of Jersey City.”

“Yes,” said Leonard, “the man whose card was found in the yacht in which I made my escape.”

“We have learned,” continued Mr. Stark, “that Rush has frequent communication with Haywood, occasionally sending him large sums of money. And further my secret agents have bought laces, and other fine goods of foreign manufacture, of Rush, at prices considerably below the market rates.”

“It now remains,” said Leonard, “to get another witness to the identity of Haywood with the ‘boss,’ so that we can descend with an avalanche of testimony that will be irresistible, and capture Snags.”

“Jessup will manage the first point, I am sure. He is now morally certain, as well as we all are, that Haywood is the man. He has seen him visit Rocky Beach repeatedly, but never yet when any goods were being run in. It is certain, from what Luke Felton declares, that Haywood is occasionally there at such times, and the one desirable thing is for Jessup to be witness of the fact with his own eyes.”

“His post of observation is a good one,” said Leonard.

“Yes, from the top of the old tree he can see everything that goes on below. No one can enter the cavern or come out of it and escape his view. The plan is this: A revenue cutter will take notice of any strange craft that hovers about Rocky Beach or the coast in its vicinity, and any discovery that is made will be telegraphed to Jessup at Dalton. He will then keep an extra watch on Haywood’s movements, noticing whether he receives any message from Roake. If any such message is delivered, Jessup will telegraph to me, and I will dispatch the revenue cutter Porter to the spot, in readiness for a chase and a fight. In the evening Jessup will repair to his post on the summit of the Rocks, and if he makes satisfactory discoveries, will give the signal for the Porter to attack the smugglers’ ship. Then there will be lively work and a big haul!”

“All this is well planned, so far as the smuggling business is concerned,” said Leonard; “but do you think it will result in the vindication of Carlos?”

“I have my own ideas on that point,” said Mr. Stark, “and they amount to positive convictions. First, when Haywood is arrested, and sees the hopelessness of his case, he will give up and admit that Snags committed the murder. Or, if he does not admit it, your own testimony of Snag’s confession to you will be sufficient. For Haywood’s character will be shown in its true light, and your own instrumentality in the exposure of the smuggling business will tell greatly in your favor. Secondly, as to Snags. It is true that he has disappeared from Rocky Beach, and that no trace of him can be found. It is highly probable that he has been transferred to the smugglers’ ship, and that when we capture the ship we will capture him. I’ll warrant then that he can be made to confess, and surrender the letter that he took from your murdered uncle’s hand.”

“Then,” said Leonard, “we will know the meaning of the word ‘seven o’clock.’ But how can Snags, if he is captured, be induced to confess.”

“By the promise of pardon,” replied the detective. “There are but few of these rogues that will not turn State’s evidence when a sufficient inducement is held out to them.”

“And poor Carlos,” said Leonard, musingly, “is in ignorance of the progress we are making. His last letter was very desponding.”

“That can’t be helped,” said Mr. Stark. “Jessup has worked to much better advantage in Dalton than if your cousin had known him. There would have been interviews and discussions between them, and perhaps exposure. For Carlos, being the mainly interested party, might have been impatient and officious. Only a detective knows how necessary deliberation and long suffering are at times. And you see the result justifies my course.”

“I see,” said Leonard.

“And now,” said Mr. Stark, “I have some important news to tell you. A suspicious-looking steamer arrived near Rocky Beach early this morning and fired three signal guns, afterward turning about and sailing slowly toward the open sea.”

“This morning!” exclaimed Leonard. “Was it the smugglers’ ship?”

“I suspect so. At any rate, I have telegraphed to Jessup, and the Porter is all ready to sail. The night is going to be dark and rainy—an excellent time for them to run in their goods. I shall expect a message from Jessup by six o’clock.”

“In regard to Haywood?”

“Yes—telling me whether he received any communication from Rocky Beach.”

“And if he does?”

“If he does, I shall hope that the time has come for which we have been waiting and hoping. I shall hope that Haywood shall have occasion to be on hand when the goods are run in, and that Jessup will see him in conference with his employees. Then a signal will be given from the cliff—a calcium light on a rocket—and the Porter will intercept the smuggler’s vessel as it turns to go. Haywood will be masked, of course, but Jessup will descend to the beach, and follow him secretly. He will see where he goes, he will see him strip himself of his disguise, he will witness the confirmation of Felton’s story, or――”

“Or what?”

“We have made a grand mistake—that’s all.”

“But do you anticipate that?”

“No; I am confident that we are on the right track.”

The conversation ceased here. There was nothing to do but to wait for the expected message from Jessup, Mr. Stark’s secret agent at Dalton.

Leonard still retained his disguise, and was known as the Rev. Mr. Withers. There were those in the service who knew that the character was an assumed one, but they had learned by experience not to be too inquisitive in regard to affairs of which Mr. Stark had the conduct, and the actual identity of the reverend gentleman was a profound secret. He came and went without attracting any undue attention or provoking any impertinent inquiries.

A little before six o’clock the message came from Jessup. It was in cipher, and, being translated, read as follows:

“Haywood has received a summons. He is closeted in his private office. Let the revenue-cutter Porter be on hand.”

“You will, of course, go with the Porter,” said Leonard, to Mr. Stark.

“Yes, and so must you. If Snags is among the prisoners I will want you to identify him, so that we may take especial care of him.”

“Hurrah!” muttered Leonard, in a suppressed tone of excitement. “Now for business! This miserable affair is almost at an end.”

“I hope so,” replied Mr. Stark. “It will all depend on Jessup’s signal.”

As the needful preparations had already been made, they started forth immediately, and within ten minutes more were on board the Porter, a stout, fast-going, well-armed steamer. And in five minutes more the vessel put to sea, bending her course nearly northward. Her destination was near a portion of the coast but little frequented by ships, there being no large harbors for the accommodation of foreign trade.

It was this fact that had enabled the smugglers to operate with comparative safety. Their goods were brought to within a mile or two of the shore, and then carried to the land in yachts, as has been seen.

The Porter steamed along leisurely at the rate of eight or nine knots an hour, and between ten or eleven o’clock halted four miles off Rocky Beach.

Every light was extinguished, to guard against the smuggling craft taking alarm.

Leonard and Mr. Stark, with others, stationed themselves on the deck to keep a lookout.

About midnight faint lights were seen moving from an easterly direction. They turned northward, and slowly glided toward the shore. Occasionally a shower of sparks would puff toward the clouds.

Standing in the drizzling rain, wrapped in thick garments, the watchers on the Porter beheld the object of their pursuit glide along in fancied security. Finally it seemed to halt.

Then came a long period of waiting. More than two hours passed, and still the vigil of the pursuers was maintained. The port-holes of the revenue-cutter were open, and the grim cannon stood ready to pour forth their missiles of destruction.

“Do you suppose that Haywood will be there to-night—that the signal will appear?” whispered Leonard.

“Be patient,” was Mr. Stark’s only reply.

Suddenly a bright light appeared in the distance, and a rocket shot into the air.

“The signal!” shouted Mr. Stark and Leonard, both in the same breath.

Orders were quickly given, and the Porter, with all steam crowded on, moved toward the light.

Soon a dim form of a vessel appeared in the gloom, and on nearing it, some noise and confusion were heard.

This was at the moment Carlos and his four captors were being taken aboard the smugglers’ ship.

Then it was that the commander of the Porter gave orders to fire.

One cannon thundered forth its bellow of wrath; another sent a ball flying toward the smugglers’ ship.

Then bright lights were suspended to the masts of the Porter, casting a glow around that made all near objects visible.

The smugglers also displayed lights, for the two vessels were in such close proximity that there was danger of a collision in the darkness.

The Porter pressed close to her adversary, and fired several shots in rapid succession. The smugglers returned the compliment, and it was evident they were determined to fight.

“This fighting is not our part of the business,” said Mr. Stark to Leonard. “We must go below. Don’t object. We will only be in the way here. The villains will soon be brought to terms.”

In the safe shelter of the cabin they listened to the conflict, and anxiously and impatiently awaited the result.

CHAPTER XXVIII.
VICTORY.

The battle was a short one. The vigorous fire of the Porter soon convinced those on board the smugglers’ ship that resistance or attempt at flight would be futile.

The signal of surrender was soon given, and the roar of the cannon ceased.

A United States officer, with a portion of the crew of the Porter, boarded the captured vessel and took formal possession.

Then the wounded and dead were attended to. Two of the smugglers had been killed and five or six injured. The injuries seemed to be slight, with the exception of those of one man, who was found lying on his face insensible.

It was Snags.

The discovery was made by Leonard and Mr. Stark, who had been transferred from the Porter to the captured vessel. They immediately caused him to be carried into a state-room, where they followed, accompanied by a surgeon. All others then withdrew, leaving the four men together.

“How badly is he injured?” asked Mr. Stark of the surgeon, who was examining Snags’ wounds.

“Very badly,” replied the surgeon. “He will not live more than a few hours.”

“Will he recover consciousness before he dies? It is important that we hold some conversation with him if such a thing is possible.”

“I think he will be conscious for a short time. Yes, he is struggling now. His chest heaves—his eyes open.”

And the surgeon administered a stimulant to Snags.

The latter looked around with a wild, vacant stare.

“Who are you all?” he asked. “Where is Roake? Where is the captain? Where—let me see—oh, yes, I remember—we were attacked, and must have been beaten. For you are all strangers. Tell me about it, somebody!”

“Your ship and the whole crew have been captured by the United States revenue-cutter Porter,” said Mr. Stark. “I am sorry you are so badly hurt, Snags, and I want to have a little talk with you before—before it is too late.”

“Before it is too late! What do you mean?”

“Can you not guess? You are seriously wounded, and the surgeon says――”

“That I must die? Don’t tell me that! I won’t die! I can’t die! I am not ready for that.”

He raised himself up on his elbow, and spoke in a tone of alarm and anguish.

“Ready or not, Snags, it may be inevitable.”

“No, no! I have too many sins to answer for.”

“Ay,” said Mr. Stark, “and now is the time for you to make what reparation lies in your power. Would you hesitate, in your last moments, to do this?”

“No. Tell me what it is. What can I do? Oh, there is one awful thing that weighs on my mind!”

Mr. Stark whispered to Leonard to remove his disguise. Leonard obeyed, tearing off his spectacles, his wig, and his gray side-whiskers. He stood by the side of Snags.

The latter regarded him with a look of amazement and horror.

“Where did you come from? Did you rise from the dead?”

“No,” replied Leonard, “I am solid flesh and bones. Feel my hand. I was your prisoner once, but now the table are turned. Since my escape from the cave at Rocky Beach I have had but one great purpose. You can imagine what it is.”

“Yes,” sighed Snags.

“You well know that it is the vindication of my Cousin Carlos from the charge of murder. You also know—do you not?—that you have nothing to gain by longer keeping the secret, the revelation of which would demonstrate his innocence.”

Snags made no reply, but lay for some moments in profound thought. At length he spoke, quite calmly.

“Who are you?” he said to Mr. Stark.

“I am a detective, engaged in the custom-house service of the United States.”

“And is it true,” turning to the surgeon, “that I have not long to live?”

“I am sorry to say, my man, that there is but little hope for you.”

There was another pause.

“I’ll confess,” Snags finally said. “Carlos Conrad shall not suffer from any silence of mine. I think I am growing weaker, and I’ll begin at once. Do you think it will improve my chances in the next world to do what I can now toward making things right?”

“Every good act has its weight with the Great Judge of us all,” said Mr. Stark.

“Will you take down what I say?”

Leonard prepared himself, with pen, ink, and paper, to make a memorandum of Snags’ statements. Then the dying man began:

“You probably don’t need to be told much about the smuggling business. You have caught us, and will find enough to satisfy you at Rocky Beach. Roake and I had charge of the place, and took care of the goods as they came in. We always selected dark nights, and one night expected an arrival, when our ‘Boss’ sent me on an errand that has brought about all this ill luck. It was last August. According to directions, I went to the house of Colonel Conrad, to make discoveries.

“I was to steal into his room, pry open his desk, and see if I could find any papers or documents that told of a quarrel with his brother, and to take particular notice if there was anything like a will—in which case I was to carry it off with me. I was to make these visits every night, until I had accomplished something, for the ‘Boss’ wanted to know, for some reason, all about Colonel Conrad’s plans and purposes.

“On the very first night I found the colonel writing. I stole in softly, to look over his shoulder. He turned and saw me, and I was taken off my guard. I drew my knife and struck at him. There was but one thrust, and it did the work—it killed him. But, before God, murder was not in the plan. My errand was just what I have stated it to be. The killing was accidental, as one might say, but let it be understood that I did it—that Carlos Conrad is innocent.”

The voice of Snags had been gradually growing weaker, and here he stopped, gasping for breath. The physician gave him a few drops of brandy, and he resumed:

“I grabbed a pile of gold coin—about a thousand dollars――”

“Only a thousand dollars?” interrupted Leonard.

“That was all. I took the money, and also snatched a letter from his hand that he had just been writing. But it tore, leaving a portion of it in his grip. Just then Carlos Conrad came, seeming to think that something wrong was going on. He jumped in at the window, and I saw him take the fragment of the letter from the old man’s hand. Meanwhile I had read the part in my possession, and wanted the rest of it. Young Conrad and I had a tussle over the matter, and finally he slipped from me and ran. He outwitted me, for when I gave chase and supposed I had caught him, I found it was you”—pointing to Leonard—“instead. You know what followed. You were a prisoner in the cave, and before I fairly discovered that you were the wrong man, I let out enough to make you know that I was the murderer. Then you escaped. It was a night when we were running in goods. You will remember it was moonlight; and the goods were some we had intended to get in on the night of the murder, when it was dark and rainy, but the work was interrupted by my arrival with my prisoner, and had been postponed. It was contrary to our usual caution to work on a moonlight night, but the ship that brought the goods from Europe was ready and impatient to sail, as it wouldn’t do for her to be seen hanging about the coast too long. After you escaped I was afraid to remain at Rocky Beach any longer, and on that very night joined this ship.”

Snags paused again from weakness.

Waiting until the administrations of the surgeon revived him, Leonard said:

“But there are two unsettled points. First, we want to know who the man is whom you have designated as ‘Boss,’ and next we want the letter that Colonel Conrad wrote.

“The ‘boss?’ Well, for a long time I didn’t know him myself. He came to Rocky Beach but seldom, and then in disguise. Most of the orders were given through Roake. He knew him. But I got the secret out of him. His name is Haywood. His home is in Dalton.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Stark; “and now about the letter.”

“Haywood has it.”

“Can you repeat its contents?”

But a pallor suddenly overspread Snags’ face. He looked around in piteous entreaty, as if it were in the power of those about him to restore his quickening breath. He gasped, clutched the air with his hands, and finally seemed to recover himself in a measure. He spoke with an effort:

“The letter told of a change of plans, of strange revelations, of important papers, and a new will. It spoke of money. It told—where—to look.” The voice grew fainter and fainter. “Of a secret recess—hidden spring—money—will――”

The words came now in hoarse whispers. The dying man struggled in agony. He made one more effort.

“The money and the will—in the wall—press—somewhere—a hidden――”

A convulsive tremor shook his frame, and his voice ceased altogether.

With solemn countenances and bowed heads, Leonard, Mr. Stark, and the surgeon stood by, and waited for the end.

It came soon. In two minutes more the spirit and the body had parted, and a form lay before them in the cold pallor of death.

Before leaving the apartment, Leonard, Mr. Stark, and the surgeon appended their signatures as witnesses to the statement of Snags, attesting that it was a true and faithful transcription of the words uttered by him.

Then the body was carefully secured in place, and covered, the room was vacated and locked, and the three who had been present at the solemn scene stepped on the deck in the open air.

The return journey to Boston was tedious, for the smugglers’ ship had been so disabled in the conflict as to necessitate its being towed by the Porter. Consequently the progress made was slow.

Near daybreak, the surgeon, who had separated from Leonard and Mr. Stark, came to them, and said:

“There is a sick man below, who does not seem to be one of the smugglers. I haven’t asked him any questions yet, but his appearance indicates that he is a prisoner, rather than one of the gang. Will you come and see him?”

Leonard and the detective followed the surgeon, and, as they entered the dimly lighted apartment, heard the groans and ravings of one in the delirium of a high fever.

They stepped to the side of the sufferer. Leonard Lester gazed at the flushed face and tossing form but a mere instant, and then, bending forward eagerly, he ejaculated, in extreme amazement:

“Great Heaven! it is Carlos!”

“What!” exclaimed Mr. Stark. “Your cousin?”

“Yes, it is my cousin, Carlos Conrad. But how, in the name of all the powers, above and below, did he come here?”

“It is indeed a mystery,” said Mr. Stark. “And he is very ill.”

“Yes, he has a raging fever. Can you tell what is the matter with him, doctor?” turning to the surgeon.

“I can tell better when we arrive in Boston, and get him on a clean bed in a good room. Meanwhile, I will do what I can for him here. But he is a sick man, there is no doubt about that.”

“You do not mean to say that he cannot live!” exclaimed Leonard.

“Oh, no. I guess it’s not as bad as that. But he will require good care. I will remain with him for awhile now, and, as there seems to be some mystery about his being here, perhaps you gentlemen would like to step around and investigate the matter.”

Mr. Stark and Leonard made inquiries of some of the captured crew, and soon learned the truth concerning Carlos’ unexpected appearance at Rocky Beach and his conveyance to the vessel. But a full explanation of the mystery—the story of his illness and mysterious disappearance from the hotel—could not be had until the arrival of the party at Dalton.

The sun had risen, and was well on its way to the zenith, when the revenue-cutter reached Boston, having in tow its prize and prisoners.

Carlos was immediately placed in suitable quarters, and a physician and a skilled nurse were employed to attend him.

Having thus left him in good hands, Leonard and Mr. Stark proceeded without delay to bring to a conclusion the business in hand.

Accompanied by a United States officer, and armed with the necessary warrants for arrest, they took the first train for Dalton.

CHAPTER XXIX.
CONCLUSION.

Geoffrey Haywood sat in his private office in Dalton. It was the day after the night of the strange and alarming proceedings at Rocky Beach. He was alone, and had been alone for some hours. He was dressed neatly, his hair was combed in its usual slick manner, and his beard was brushed smooth. But his face did not bear its wonted expression of tranquillity. It was disturbed and distorted, and anxiety was portrayed in every lineament.

No one had seen him in this condition; it was only when in entire seclusion that he allowed his feelings thus to manifest themselves. But to-day he kept himself in seclusion nearly the whole time, having no thoughts for anything but the thousand and one terrifying apprehensions that flooded his mind. He knew not what to do. A sense of impending disaster—a conviction that justice was about to overtake him—nearly crushed him. He endeavored in vain to contemplate the situation calmly, to deliberately calculate his safest and most available course. As yet, he could only sit in a state of inaction, confusion, and dread.

He took no dinner. The hour of noon passed, and at two o’clock he still remained alone and meditative.

All at once an unusual noise was heard. Heavy footsteps passed through the store below, ascended the stairs, approached the door of his apartment, sounding louder and louder, and finally halted. An imperative rap was given.

The guilty man cowered in terror, and remained for a moment perfectly still.

The rap was repeated.

Drawing a bottle from a cupboard, Haywood took a deep draught, and, by a violent effort composing himself, answered the summons. His black eyes glittered, and his form stiffened in rigid ceremony as he opened the door.

“Geoffrey Haywood, in the name of the Government of the United States I arrest you as a smuggler!”

“Sir!” said Haywood, with a lame assumption of indignation, “I do not understand you.”

“And I,” said Leonard, unable to restrain his excitement, “charge you with willfully conspiring against the life of a fellow-citizen by withholding evidence that would have acquitted him on a wrongfully preferred charge of murder!”

“Leonard Lester!” gasped Haywood.

“Yes, it is I. Look at me well, for you will soon be out of the way of looking at honest men’s faces.”

“Gentlemen, what ridiculous farce is this? What do you mean by invading my premises and using such threatening language?”

Mr. Stark here took the floor.

“Let me explain in a few words,” he said, in a quiet tone. “It will perhaps be the surest way of avoiding any unnecessary disturbance. We are here, Mr. Haywood, as has been stated, for the purpose of arresting you on the charge of secretly importing goods of foreign manufacture and evading the payment of the lawful duties thereon. Resistance or defense will be useless. Every point necessary to support the charge is covered by evidence to be brought forward by competent witnesses. The secret receptacle of the goods at Rocky Beach, and the agency through which they are disposed of in Jersey City, are known. Your own visits at Rocky Beach, in disguise; the roundabout way, across fields and through woods, which you took to get there; your dealings with Jacob Rush, are also known. Other facts are in our possession; other revelations have been made; your ship has been captured; one of your men has confessed――”

“Who,” growled Haywood, “has been so false?”

“One who knows,” said Mr. Stark, impressively, “of your agency in the murder of Colonel Conrad.”

These words staggered Haywood. He reeled and caught a chair for support. The desolation and dismay that filled his soul found vivid expression in his face.

“Do you surrender?” asked Mr. Stark.

“I surrender,” he gasped.

The officer approached him.

“One thing more,” said Mr. Stark. “The last message of Colonel Conrad, the letter he wrote to lawyer Tibbs, one end of which is torn off, is in your possession. We want it.”

“How,” said Haywood, in a daze of bewilderment, “do you know this?”

“We have the dying word of your man Snags,” replied Mr. Stark.

“Well,” said Haywood, rallying suddenly, “I pronounce it an infernal lie! If you want that paper, you must find it the best way you can.”

“Very well,” said Stark, coolly. “If you stick to that we will proceed at once. Shall we open your desk and overhaul your private papers? You have only to say the word.”

“No, no. I’ll give it to you.” Haywood was humble again. “Snags gave it to me, but I don’t see why he thought I wanted it. There’s nothing of it. It has no meaning. I wish I had burned it.”

He went to his desk, opened a private drawer, and produced the letter. Mr. Stark took it and placed it in his pocket.

“That is all at present, I believe,” said Mr. Stark. “Officer, take charge of your man.”

There was a sensation of the liveliest description in Dalton that day. Geoffrey Haywood’s store was closed, and its proprietor was in the hands of the officers of the law. The news of the arrest and the nature of the offense soon got noised about, and afforded a subject for wondering discussion by the entire community.

There was a strange meeting in Lawyer Tibbs’ office. The letter had been delivered to its rightful owner, who was, as will be recollected, “Timothy Tibbs, Esq., Att’y, Dalton.”

Mr. Stark, Leonard Lester, Mr. Royalton, and the proprietor of the office comprised the assemblage. Mr. Tibbs and Mr. Royalton had been informed of the events of the preceding six months, and knew the whole situation of affairs.

The last letter of Colonel Conrad was read by Mr. Tibbs in the presence of those assembled. It was as follows:

“Here the letter breaks off,” said Mr. Tibbs. “The corner is torn, and the next word or words are missing.”

“The next words,” said Mr. Royalton, “are ‘seven o’clock.’ Here is the missing fragment. Let us see if the two torn edges fit each other.”

“They match exactly,” said Mr. Tibbs. “See!”

All looked, and saw that it was true.

“But I confess that this is rather blind to me,” said Mr. Tibbs. “One page of the sheet is covered, but Colonel Conrad evidently intended to write more, for there is no signature.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Royalton, “and while he was reading what he had already written, he was killed, and the sheet torn from his hand.”

This view was accepted by all.

“The matter is not at all blind to me,” said Leonard. “I remember distinctly of a large clock, reaching from floor to ceiling, on the east side of the room; and I believe that a pressure on the figures indicating the hour of seven o’clock will result in opening the secret recess.”

“It may be true,” said Mr. Stark, “but it is certainly very singular.”

“Colonel Conrad was noted for his eccentricities,” said Mr. Royalton.

“Yes,” added Mr. Tibbs, “and he was a genius in mechanics. He was always cobbling up some curious contrivance. The least that we can do is to follow the instructions in this letter, and be governed by whatever results follow.”

The four gentlemen repaired to Elm Grove, and related to Florence Darley, as briefly as possible, their errand. Full explanations were not entered into, but were deferred to a subsequent period. Lawyer Tibbs simply told her of the letter and its contents, reserving until a more convenient time the tale of its long concealment and strange recovery.

A visit to the library, and a pressure on the dial of the clock at the place indicated at first, resulted in nothing. Perplexity and chagrin ensued. Suddenly Florence exclaimed:

“Let me make a suggestion, gentlemen. Suppose you wait until the hour of seven. Perhaps the time, as well as the place, is indicated by the words ‘seven o’clock.’”

The suggestion was acted upon. At seven o’clock that evening the experiment was tried again.

This time it was successful.

The clock struck seven, the pressure was made, and lo! the case of book-shelves swung slowly from the wall, revealing a compartment composed of shelves, drawers, and unique recesses.

“Success!” exclaimed Leonard, and excited exclamations of delight burst from the lips of all present.

An examination of the contents of the secret recess was next in order, and this was, by common consent, given in charge of Mr. Tibbs, he being the attorney of the estate.

But little more remains to be told.

The new will, duly signed and witnessed, left the bulk of the property, in equal divisions, to Florence Darley and Carlos Conrad. Leonard Lester also received a legacy of a few thousand dollars, and some of the servants were the recipients of small behests.

To Geoffrey Haywood, Colonel Conrad simply left his forgiveness. The documents of Carlos Conrad’s father fully demonstrated Haywood’s wickedness—the details of which need not be recounted.

The criminal and false friend received his just deserts, being tried, found guilty, and sentenced to a long term of imprisonment to expiate his crimes against the government. Roake shared a like fate, as did also a Jersey City receiver. Jake Heath had taken early alarm, and fled before there was an opportunity to arrest him. Kate, his daughter—misguided, passionate, and perhaps despairing—was subsequently recognized on the stage, having rejoined her former theatrical life.

Carlos Conrad, under good nursing, speedily recovered from his illness, and returned to Dalton to take possession of the valuable property that had become his. It may be interesting to the reader to know that he wooed and won Florence Darley; that his great love for her met with a satisfying response.

Leonard Lester resumed his old position in the importing house of Duncan & Mishler, and was soon after admitted as a partner in the business. His own savings, combined with the legacy of Colonel Conrad, enabled him to purchase an interest, while his knowledge of the business, his integrity, and his known capabilities, rendered him a valuable accession to the firm. On the return from his next trip to Europe, he brought with him, as a bride, a dark-eyed daughter of the old world, whom he had met, loved, and won.

Luke Felton, the mute, proved to be both amiable and of bright capabilities, and from a pupil he came to be a teacher in the institution where he had been so unexpectedly placed and educated.

Barker, the servant, more weak-minded than vicious, and conscience-smitten at the part he had taken in abetting the designs of Haywood, departed from Dalton, and never confessed his agency in the matter.

Mr. Stark and his associates, in the work of bringing villainy to light, were, of course, amply compensated.

And now, having seen the evil-doers and mischief-making characters of our tale brought to justice, and their designs frustrated; having seen our hero standing before the world with name unstained, and rejoicing in the smooth-running course of true love; having witnessed the dawn of prosperity on those whom untoward circumstances had afflicted with temporary disaster, we can afford to let the curtain drop.

[THE END.]

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