The Project Gutenberg eBook of Leonie, the Typewriter, by A Celebrated Author.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1892, by Norman L. Munro, in the office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington, D. C.

CHAPTER I.

The day was delicious! A warm, soft breeze, that seemed to suggest sunny Italy, or the luxurious indolence of far-off Japan, tinted the atmosphere with a golden hue.

It rested like a halo upon the head of a young man who sat beside a desk, idly twisting a pen between his fingers. It was a beautiful head! Too beautiful for a man, too strong for a woman.

From the large, velvety eyes, Italian in color and softness, but Mexican in their occasional gleams of thrilling brilliancy, to the clear complexion with the touch of crimson in the cheeks; from the dainty, curly hair that lay in tiny rings upon the broad, white brow, to the mouth, with its sweeping, silken mustache, the face was absolutely without flaw or blemish. And yet no man ever laughed at Lynde Pyne for his beauty, or would have thought of pronouncing him effeminate.

"He is one of the best fellows in existence," they told each other at the club; "and it is a confounded shame that he was cut out of his uncle's will in the manner in which he was. There was never a more honorable man than Lynde Pyne, and for all he knows by what means Luis Kingsley came in possession of the money that is rightfully his, he never says a word, but works away, early and late, with but poor reward. It is a queer world that robs an honest man to give his birthright to a scoundrel."

But Lynde Pyne was giving little thought to that as he sat dreamily twirling his pen on that golden day in June.

"If you please, Mr. Pyne," he said respectfully, though not servilely, "there is a young lady here to see you."

He returned to his idle dreaming, but was aroused again at the expiration of a moment.

"I came to see about the position you advertised, sir," a cool, refined voice said.

He arose and offered her a chair, looking at her in his own irresistible fashion.

The face was as flawless as his own. The short, curling, red-brown hair, that looked as though the sun had become entangled in a shadow, the violet eyes, the graceful sweep of the perfect chin, the exquisitely fitting gown of cheap gray tricot, all appealed to him with irresistible force.

"What machine do you operate? and what is your record for speed?" he asked, scarcely conscious that he had spoken at all.

"I use the Hammond mostly, and can write seventy words to the minute, provided they are not too long."

"Yes, sir. I am a stenographer and typewriter. My last position I lost through the death of Mr. Carl Lefevre, my employer."

"Your reputation has preceded you!" exclaimed Lynde, with one of his most entrancing smiles. "I shall be only too glad to engage you. You know the duties without my going into detail. There is only one thing that I shall require that he did not, perhaps, and that is, in addition to a typewriter, I wish you to act rather as a private secretary. You are to open all of my mail that is not marked personal, reporting the contents to me, that I may not be bothered with it. You think you can do that?"

"Perhaps not just at first, but I am so familiar now with the work of a lawyer's office that I don't think I would have much difficulty in learning."

"I know so little of business," she answered, hesitatingly. "Of course beginning with you is quite different from what it would be if you were sure that I could do your work."

"But I am sure! I should expect to pay the same that Mr. Lefevre did, with a suitable addition for the extra amount of work. I suppose that would be reasonable?"

"Very well. There is a whole raft of copying in that drawer to be done. You will find a dressing-room on that side."

Leonie Cuyler did not wait to be told a second time. With a bow in Lynde's direction, she withdrew, laying her hat and a soft lace scarf, that had been wrapped about her neck, upon a table.

She glanced carelessly into the small mirror, endeavoring to smooth down the rebellious curls that were one of her chief attractions.

For a single moment she stood gazing idly about her, a dreamy smile upon her lips, then shaking herself together with a little impatient jerk, she walked into the room where Lynde Pyne awaited her.

With almost tender care he showed her the position of his papers, explained to her what would be expected of her, then sat down, watching the graceful movements of her fingers as they flew lightly over the key-board.

He felt dizzy, as though from drinking wine, when the evening came and he saw that he must let her go.

"I am afraid I have not done a wise thing to bring Leonie Cuyler here," he muttered, "and yet what can it matter?"

There was something half bitter, wholly defiant in his mental question, and he walked from the office with anything but a pleasant expression upon his handsome face.

After her little home had been set to rights, she sat down by the single window the room contained, her arm resting upon the sill dejectedly.

An old man, aristocratic in appearance, notwithstanding the poor clothing that he wore, a man strangely white of hair and beard, bent from age and sorrow, sat near her, playing with a string that he was twining about his fingers.

"What is the matter with you to-night, my darling?" he asked, breaking a long silence. "My little one is not at all like herself! Dad is not going to lose his sunshine at this time of life, is he? I did not know that I should miss the chatter of my little magpie so much. What is the matter, Leonie?"

"Nothing, dad!" she answered dreamily. "That is, there is nothing wrong! I was only thinking. That is something unusual, I confess."

"Of a picture that I saw to-day. It was a woman's face—a woman that I think Rembrandt or Guido would have given half their lives to paint. I couldn't describe it to you, because any description would sound commonplace applied to such an original. Her name is Miss Evelyn Chandler."

When she had finished speaking she turned her eyes slowly, and allowed them to rest upon Godfrey Cuyler's face.

She was startled at the change that flashed over it. His chin dropped, his eyes set, his brow was covered suddenly with a moisture that resembled death.

"Where did you see it?" he asked hoarsely, his voice scarcely more than a whisper.

"Lynde Pyne? Impossible! And you stood by his side, looking at Evelyn Chandler's portrait?"

"No. I saw it in the drawer by accident. Her name was written beneath it. Dad, who is Miss Evelyn Chandler, and why should I not look at her portrait with Lynde Pyne beside me?"

"I cannot tell you that," he gasped. "I am pledged by an oath that I can never break. Child, child, what miserable fate was it that led you to Lynde Pyne's office?"

"Miserable fate?" she cried, rising and standing before him. "Is it a miserable fate that gives us bread to eat? Do you forget that we could not have lived more than a week longer from the savings of my little salary? Summer is coming on now, and lawyers do not want typewriters, or the positions are filled. See how often I have tried and failed. Oh, dad——"

"Hush!" he interrupted. "If we starve, you must not remain there! There is a reason stronger than either life or death. Leonie, you must listen to me!"

"Dad, I have no wish not to do so. There is but one thing—I am no longer a child, and you have no right to demand a thing of me without explanation. If there is a reason why I should not remain in Lynde Pyne's[Pg 4] office, I am ready to go, though such a course seems to indicate nothing short of starvation to me, but unless you give me the reason, for both our sakes I must decline."

"You don't know what you are saying! I know your nature, your overwhelming pride. Leonie, listen! If you refuse to hear me now, some day you will hear a secret the horror of which will kill you! My darling, what am I to say? Tell me that you will give it up?"

"I cannot!" she gasped, bowing her head upon her hands. "Oh, dad, if you asked me for the heart out of my body it would be easier for me to give you!"

With a cry that resembled that of a wild animal, Godfrey Cuyler seized the girl by the shoulder.

"Answer me, quickly!" he cried, in a choking voice—"you do not love Lynde Pyne?"

CHAPTER II.

A gentle breeze, like the soft current wafted from a fan in the hands of Heaven, played through the room in which Leonie lay sweetly sleeping.

Silently the door of her room opened, and with noiseless step the old man entered. He looked cautiously around, then thrust forward a candle that he had held outside the door until he found that she was soundly sleeping. With cat-like tread, he advanced and stood beside her, looking down with a countenance that was convulsed with anguish.

"Oh, my darling! what have I done?" he gasped. "If I had not been so blind I might have spared you all this. You love Lynde Pyne! Great God! what a hideous thing life is after all. I might have known that she would meet them all sooner or later. It is the law of the living. But what was I to do? My poor little one! where is the justice or the mercy in the curse that rests upon your life? To know the truth, with your sensitive nature, would kill you; yet how am I to keep you from finding out? Oh, God! the peace that time had brought is ended, and the bitter agony of her life has begun! If I could but bear it for her!"

He left her side after one more long look, and taking a key that he had brought with him he unlocked an old desk that the room contained. Inside the drawer that opened he pressed a spring, and took from the inner drawer a small portrait.

He looked at the pictured face, then bowed his head upon it, and the bitterest tears of his life fell from his eyes.

"Oh, Lena, Lena!" he sobbed. "Can you look down upon us now and see what your sin is to cost her? I don't want to blame you, my girl, now that you are dead, but what am I to say to her? I wonder if you can see what terrible danger threatens her, and I wonder if you know that it would kill her to know the sin that you committed, and that forever ruins and blasts her life? God forgive me! You are dead now, and perhaps in heaven, but—Lena, Lena, Lena!"

He sat for some time so, then was aroused by feeling a hand laid upon his shoulder. He glanced up, and to his dismay, saw Leonie standing there, her face white as death.

Godfrey Cuyler hesitated, his hands shaking until it was almost impossible for him to hold the portrait. He thrust it into the drawer, and locked it before she knew what he was about.

"It is no one that you know!" he cried, brokenly. "If you love me, you will not ask."

"Dad," she said, slowly, "you are keeping something from me that you have no right to keep. What is it? What has Miss Chandler to do with me? And who is that woman whose picture you have, who looks so much like the portrait in Lynde Pyne's drawer?"

"Dad," she whispered hoarsely, "there is some secret that connects my life with that of Miss Chandler and Lynde Pyne. Tell me what it is. If you do not, I shall find out for myself, and it would be so much better for me to hear it from you than from a stranger, if it is the dreadful thing that your manner leads me to fear. Dad, tell me."

"I cannot," he gasped. "You must believe me when I tell you that there is nothing! Nothing! Nothing! Oh, Leonie, Leonie, my darling, put this nonsense out of your head. If you must know the story, that is an aunt of Miss Chandler's whom I once loved."

He was pointing toward the drawer where the picture was concealed, but the girl knew as well that he was lying to her as though the full knowledge of the humiliating story had been laid bare to her.

"Dad," she exclaimed, "oh, dad, it must be worse even than I thought, when you will descend to a lie! Think again, dad. What is this hidden misery that the mere mention of Miss Chandler's name causes you such bitter suffering?"

"It is not Miss Chandler. You must not think it!" he cried, his voice indistinct from the chattering of his teeth. "I once swore an oath that concerned her—that is all. I cannot tell you, because my word is pledged. Little one, little one, you must believe me. You must trust dad always—always!"

He was trembling as though with a terrible chill, and feeling as though her heart had suddenly turned to ice, Leonie arose from her knees.

"You are exciting yourself, dad," she said gently, "and will be ill to-morrow. Go to bed, will you not?"

"Not until you have promised me that you will not go again to Lynde Pyne's office! I could never rest until you had promised that. Tell me that you will not!"

"I can't do that!" she cried, her voice sounding hollow in the stillness of the night.

"No," she answered huskily, "perhaps it is not, but even if it were, I should still say the same. Oh, dad, what is it? There can be nothing so bad as this torturing suspense! Surely you can trust me?"

"Leonie," he said, in a choking voice, "the secret I know concerns Evelyn Chandler, not yourself. You must believe me, for I speak the truth!"

He had never told a deliberate lie in his life before, and the effort cost him a greater struggle than almost any one would believe, but he controlled his countenance, and answered slowly:

She allowed her hand to fall from his shoulder, where it had rested, and sighed wearily. He had not deceived her!

"No," she replied, with a dejected shake of the head. "If the secret does not concern me, it would be a foolish thing for me to resign a position that I so sorely need. Don't ask it, dad, for there is nothing that you can say that would induce me to do it!"

"To-morrow, dad! I am tired now and—— Go, dear, won't you? And, dad, don't worry your dear old head about me! If there is trouble to be borne, we can bear it together, as we always have, but we will leave it until it comes. You know how foolish it is to endeavor to cross a bridge before you come to it! Dad, dear old dad! good-night and God bless you. Whatever may come in the future, you have been the most faithful—- There you are making a baby of me."

She placed her arms about his neck, and hid her face upon his shoulder in a vain endeavor to conceal her tears. She kissed him again, then gently pushed him into his own room, and closed the door.

For hours after he had gone she sat there by the window trying to solve the mystery that surrounded her. Her brows were knit, her fingers tightly laced, her face pale as marble.

"I have it!" she cried hoarsely. "My mother lives! She has committed some sin that dad fears to tell me, for which he will never see her again, and this Evelyn Chandler knows! Oh, mother, is it true? Is that why he never speaks your name? If it is true, dear, I know that you are innocent, and perhaps I can prove it! I will try, oh, I will try!"

There was no possibility of sleep that night, and when morning broke it found her still sitting there, forming her plans to accomplish a thing the full knowledge of which was to cause her the bitterest sorrow she had ever known.

And in the next room, separated only by a thin partition, Godfrey Cuyler was planning how he could save her.

CHAPTER III.

The speaker was an elderly man of unusually fine presence, a strong cast of countenance, and a manner that bespoke him a man born to command, a trifle dictatorial and overbearing perhaps, but just to the last degree, save where his overweening pride was concerned. He did not even glance about him, but sat down in a preoccupied way that would have told an observer how deeply he was thinking.

"Good-morning, Mr. Chandler!" Lynde exclaimed, entering the room where he sat. "Is not this charming weather?"

"Yes; but I have not come to you to talk about the weather," answered the elder man testily. "The fact is, a most infernally unpleasant thing has been going on at my house for some time, and I have borne it just as long as I can. I have come to you for your advice."

He paused and looked at Lynde, but the latter did not speak, returning the glance in interested silence.

"For some time past," he continued, "I have been missing large sums of money from my desk. I can't understand how it can be, unless some of the servants have a duplicate key; but though I have set every sort of trap, it is utterly impossible for me to catch the thief. Last night the climax was reached! I concluded that as the thief knew so well the place where I kept my money, that I would put it out of the house. Well, Pyne, it seems that the scoundrel was compelled to have money, for my wife's diamond bracelet was taken. Strangely enough there were other jewels there of much greater value, but they were left and the bracelet taken. Mrs. Chandler placed it in the casket with her own hands last night after her maid had left the room, so that we cannot think Nichette the guilty one; but who is it? I want you to advise me what to do!"

"It is a strange thing," said Pyne, musingly; "there seems to be but one course—put a detective to work on it."

"Oh, hang a detective! Do you suppose I want my whole house carried off? That would be the result if I put a detective on it. They are constitutional liars, Pyne. If one of them told me that one of the servants was guilty, I would suspect any one in the house sooner than the one he named. You must suggest something different from that, or I shall have to let them rob me in silence."

"That makes no difference. I don't believe in professional detectives, male or female."

"Pardon me, Mr. Pyne, but this gentleman has expressed a dislike only for professional detectives. If I can be of any assistance to[Pg 5] you in that way or any other, I shall be only too pleased."

The words were spoken by Leonie Cuyler, and Lynde turned and looked at her in surprise.

"I don't know; but I should like to try to find the thief for—this gentleman. I think I could succeed."

"It would be impossible to tell, sir, until I had seen the premises, and knew the story in detail."

"It will not require all my time, sir," cried Leonie, eagerly. "I could keep up with your work quite as well, except, perhaps, the private part of it; and I might get through in a few days."

Lynde's astonishment over the girl's request was infinitely greater than at Chandler's story. Still, he readily saw that she had some strong reason for making it and hesitated to deny her.

"Let her try, Pyne," exclaimed Chandler. "It can't make any difference, and if she has not succeeded in a few days she can return, and no harm done. Somehow she has inspired me with confidence. Surely, you will be willing to inconvenience yourself for a day or a week for an old friend of all these years' standing?"

"Of course, if you make a point of it, I can say nothing further," he answered, endeavoring to conceal his annoyance. "When will you want her to go?"

"I should prefer not, sir. Under those circumstances some explanation would have to be made to your wife and daughter. Pardon me, sir, but all women are more or less alike, and are liable to expose what we most wish to conceal. If it is known that you have a detective in the house, the thief will be on his guard and difficult to detect. Have you any need of an extra servant?"

"Then, sir, if you will give me the position I will endeavor to fill it satisfactorily until you can fill my place better."

"Yes, to be sure, to be sure! Can you go now? We can concoct our story as we go."

"I should prefer to follow you, sir. It might look rather suspicious if we went there together."

"Right again! You will have tracked that thief by the end of the week. If you do—well, Leonard Chandler never forgot a service yet."

Leonie colored. She was about to tell him that what she would do would not be through the hope of reward, and only checked herself in time. She bowed gravely.

Being assured that she would follow him without loss of time, Chandler left, and Pyne turned eagerly to Leonie.

"Why were you so anxious to go there?" he asked, making no endeavor to mask his curiosity.

"I beg that you will not ask me—at least, not yet," she answered, controlling her trembling by a violent effort. "There are reasons that make me desire it. If I have displeased you I am very sorry, but——"

"I beg that you will not speak like that to me, Miss Cuyler," he replied, with an impatient wave of his hand. "If you wish it, that is quite enough for me, but I do not think you realize what you are doing. I know that you are gently born and bred, whatever misfortunes may have befallen you; and you have forgotten what it is like to enter a house as a servant, and the indignities to which you will be subjected."

"It is such an absurd thing," he interrupted again; "I cannot bear to have you go there. Something tells me it will not result well. Leonie, give it up!"

In his earnestness he did not notice that he had called her by her Christian name; but she heard, and colored to the very roots of her hair.

"I can say nothing further, but my heart misgives me. If it should bring trouble to you, I——"

He turned away without completing the sentence, and with a heart that tumultuously throbbed from a variety of emotions, Leonie went into the next room and put on her hat.

The door of Leonard Chandler's library was thrown open, and Leonie Cuyler was ushered in.

"Ah!" exclaimed Chandler, laying aside his paper, and looking at her curiously through his gold-rimmed eye-glasses. "You are the young woman I engaged as house-maid, are you not?"

"Yes, sir," answered Leonie, the throbbing of her heart causing her to speak timidly.

Leonie raised her eyes to Evelyn Chandler's face. She remembered it ever after as she saw it then—cold and proud, but more beautiful than any face she had ever seen before. But as her eyes turned, after her slight bow, a curious change came over the blonde countenance, and Evelyn Chandler left the room more hastily than she usually did such things.

Alone in the hall, she allowed an expression of anxiety full play. Her hands rested above her heart, and her brows were drawn in a peculiar frown.

CHAPTER IV.

Leonie came and went with the freedom of a servant, nothing that occurred escaping her knowledge. She watched Lynde Pyne's visits to the house with a sinking of the heart that was indescribable. Not a thing out of the ordinary run of fashionable life had happened. She had discovered nothing either of the thief or Miss Chandler's mysterious connection with herself, and she was beginning to think she never would.

It was the evening of one of Mrs. Chandler's most pretentious dinner parties, at which the wealth and fashion of New York had been largely represented, and Evelyn Chandler, in a decollete gown of gray crepe and La France roses, had rarely appeared to greater advantage, her sparkling wit and brilliancy of humor making her the attraction of the evening.

From a distance Leonie looked on, her rebellious heart throbbing with something very like envy, a sentiment of which she was infinitely ashamed, but seemed unable to control. Lynde Pyne, too, was there, and a short conversation had taken place between them that had convinced her that he loved the heiress, though he was doubtful of the success of his suit. She had rarely if ever been more miserable than when she saw the last guest depart.

She was dragging herself wearily to her room when a slight noise in an adjacent hall attracted her. The subdued sound aroused her suspicions, and slipping her slippers from her feet she advanced silently toward it.

"What are you doing here again?" she heard a voice ask in a whisper, a voice so evidently Evelyn Chandler's that there was no room left for doubt.

"I have come for money!" a man replied, in a half dogged, wholly defiant sort of way.

"That is not true; and if it were you could get it easily enough, as you have done before."

"When I come in possession of a million and can afford to live on my own money."

"When you put it on a sentimental basis, my dear, you might ask if I am not very tired of living without you. In that instance I should answer, yes. I think old Moneybags would give you to me fast enough if he knew as much as you and I do. Which do you prefer, my dear?"

"How much do you want this time?" she asked, making no effort to conceal the dull anger of her tone.

"You always say so, but it invariably comes when you know it must! If you can't get the money, another diamond bracelet will do."

Leonie's start almost betrayed her presence there. Evelyn Chandler, then, the heiress and beauty, one of the rulers of New York society, was the thief whom she had come there to apprehend. The thought was horrible to her.

"Not by any means, my dear. You must learn to save more for me out of your dress money. I tell you what I will do. Give me this thousand and I will be easy on you. You can give me a stated amount, so that you can make your arrangements to have it ready at the beginning of each month, and I will make no further demands upon you. Will that do?"

"Never! If you keep this up you will make it impossible for me to do anything. I will give you two hundred, and that is the last cent."

"We-ll," grumbled the man hesitatingly, "it is a beggarly amount, considering all you have, but as I don't want to kill the goose that lays the golden egg, I suppose I must yield the point. Now get me the thousand and let me go before we are discovered."

"There is one thing I want to say to you first. Who do you suppose is here in this house?"

"She is engaged as house-maid, but there is some mystery about it that I cannot fathom."

"As sure as you live that old idiot, Godfrey Cuyler, sent her here for a purpose. If you are smart, my girl, you will get rid of her without loss of time."

"I think I can manage it for you. It is an infernally dangerous thing, and what is dangerous for you is for me. I'll think about it and write to you to-morrow. Go and get the money now."

"Yes, I do. I don't want to be hard on you. You had better be in a hurry. It is not safe for me to be in this house."

Knowing that it was worse than useless to argue the matter with him, and also knowing that he was perfectly right about his own and her insecurity, she heaved a sigh and turned away.

In the darkness her skirts touched Leonie's in passing, but she was unconscious of it, and flitted silently down the broad stairs, guiding her steps by passing her fingers along the wall.

Leonie stood for a moment nonplused. She could not open the door without Miss Chandler being aware of it, and that she did not desire.

A sudden idea seemed to strike her, and passing swiftly through the drawing-room, she entered the conservatory and silently drew back the portiere that separated it from the library.

She had already possessed herself of a key by some means, and was unlocking the desk in which Leonard Chandler had told Leonie he kept his money.

The beauty of the blonde face was marred by an expression of great anxiety, but there seemed to be not the slightest repugnance at the disgusting act she was performing; on the contrary, there was a smile of relief when she found that the drawer contained an even greater amount than she required.

With unusual deliberation she counted out the money, laid it on the desk, replaced what was left, and relocked the drawer. She picked up the money, and was about to leave the room, when Leonie stepped forward, allowing the portiere to fall behind her.

The hand that held the money fell upon the desk, and Miss Chandler gazed at the girl aghast.

Leonie did not speak, but waited until Miss Chandler had fully recovered herself.

"Why are you here at this hour?" the heiress demanded, haughtily. "Surely you know that the servants are not allowed to be roaming over the house in the middle of the night."

"I am not a servant, Miss Chandler," answered Leonie, with dignity, "but a detective whom your father placed here to locate a thief! I am sorry to say that I have found her."

The tone was haughty enough, but the blue eyes faltered, and the cheeks were white as death.

"I mean," answered Leonie, firmly, "that I shall have to report to Mr. Chandler that the thief whom he has sworn to prosecute is his own daughter."

Leonie laid her hand upon the burglar alarm that the room contained. She had no intention of ringing it, but was simply trying to frighten Miss Chandler into putting the money back, and making a promise that the operation never should be repeated. Much as she loathed the act, much as she despised the girl who could descend to so vile a thing, she had no wish to disgrace her or the family of which she was a member.

With a spring like that of a tigress, Evelyn Chandler was upon her, and had seized her hand.

"Do you know what you are doing?" she cried, hoarsely. "You would disgrace me forever! I tell you that you shall not. Let go of that bell, or as Heaven is my witness I will kill you, and escape before it can be answered!"

By the flash of demoniacal light in the blue eyes, Leonie saw that the girl meant what she said. Her hand fell from the bell-cord.

"Then put the money back," she said, as quietly as she could force herself to speak.

"Never!" exclaimed Miss Chandler, vehemently. "Do you think my father would believe you if you told this story to him, and I was not here? To-morrow you may tell him what you wish."

"Then you propose to make me an accomplice to your act, so to speak, by my remaining quiet, and saying nothing, while you rob your own father, is that it?" cried Leonie, aghast at the girl's audacity.

"Exactly!" replied Miss Chandler, firmly, the memory of her danger overcoming her fear.

"And I tell you," exclaimed Leonie with equal firmness, "that it shall not be so! Put that money back, refuse in my presence to give that man up-stairs any more, either now, or at any future time, and you are safe from me. Refuse, and as God is my judge I will denounce you! You think I am at your mercy. Look!"

She had prepared for some such emergency, little thinking under what circumstances she would require it; and as she spoke she produced a small Derringer revolver, which she did not point toward Miss Chandler, but with it clasped in one hand she calmly laid the other upon the bell-cord.

"No!" cried Miss Chandler, half wildly. "Denounce me if you will; disgrace me, if you wish. Do you not think I will not tell the story of your infamous birth? Do you think that I have not seen that you are in love with Lynde Pyne? Ha, ha! Tell this if you wish. It will disgrace me, and then I shall not hesitate to tell the world that you are the daughter of Lena Mauprat, who was condemned to the penitentiary for stealing. What if I am the daughter of the same mother, and but the adopted child of Leonard Chandler? I am legitimate, while you are not!"

Slowly the hand that held the bell-cord dropped. The one that held the pistol relaxed its hold, and the weapon fell upon the chair that was under it noiselessly, the dainty face became gray and drawn, and without a cry or moan, Leonie Cuyler fell at her sister's feet.

CHAPTER V.

A pale gray light, like a stray moonbeam glimmering upon the headstone of a grave, crept into the room and softly touched the face of the girl that lay upon the floor in a death-like swoon.

There is an inexplicable something in magnetism that annihilates distance and speaks louder than a human voice.

It has baffled scientists for generations, and will for generations more, yet its presence has been more or less felt by every one, like the influence of a haunting but half-forgotten dream.

Some such feeling disturbed the slumbers of Leonard Chandler. He tried vainly to sleep, and at last, in sheer desperation, he arose, slipped on his trousers, slippers, and dressing-gown, and sat down to that consoler of man—a smoke.

It had not, however, its usual influence. His nervousness increased with each moment, until at last he sprung to his feet, the expression of his countenance indicating great anxiety.

"It is the same feeling that I had while I was being robbed the last time," he muttered. "I wonder if it can mean anything? I am going down to the library and sleep there on the couch to-night. No one will know of my presence there, and it may be that I shall detect the thief myself. Pshaw! It seems too absurd an idea to think of—and yet it can do no harm. How Anna and Evelyn would laugh if they knew of this!"

He hesitated, puffing out great volumes of smoke in his perplexity, then turned resolutely toward the door.

"They will have to laugh," he exclaimed aloud, compressing his lips firmly. "Something tells me to go, and I must go!"

He waited no longer, but opening the door softly, he went noiselessly down the stairs, and silently opening the door of the library, passed in.

He advanced nearer to the desk, and, with a thrill of horror, saw the revolver lying upon a chair. He leaned over to pick it up, and as he did so his eyes fell upon the colorless face of the girl lying there.

He shrunk backward with a suppressed cry, then quickly kneeled beside her and placed his hand above her heart. It was slowly trembling.

The sound clanged through the silent house like the iteration of the cry of murder on the stilly night. It did not cease until servants and family had hurriedly entered the room, their faces blanched with fear.

"Heaven knows!" answered Chandler hastily, his brow contracted curiously. "Look there! There is some mystery about this house. I think we are about to get at the bottom of it."

He pointed, as he spoke to the prostrate body upon the floor, then lifted it himself to a couch.

While the servants were obeying he took his keys from his pocket, and with a hand that had grown steady under excitement, he opened the drawer that had contained his money.

He quickly found the roll, brought home the night before to meet an obligation the following morning at nine o'clock, and counted it.

With compressed lips and a countenance of dangerous resolution he laid it down, and turned toward Leonie again. The first person to confront him was his daughter.

"More money missing?" she asked, with a show of anxious interest, yet capitally assumed innocence.

"A thousand!" he answered, almost shortly. "There is one consolation in it. I shall soon know the thief! I would give a thousand, or even ten, to know that!"

He left her and, stepping to the side of the couch, he stood with folded arms awaiting Leonie's restoration to consciousness. He neither spoke nor moved, but stood like a statue through the moments that seemed like hours until the eyes opened, and with an air of great bewilderment Leonie sat up.

With the fingers of one hand pressed upon her temple, Leonie slowly arose from her reclining position, her eyes traveling from one place to another vaguely. They rested at last upon the blonde beauty that had ruled New York society with an iron hand, and with a long breath, that was a half articulated sound, she tottered to her feet.

Evelyn Chandler's heart gave a great bound, then seemed to stand dangerously still.

"Leonie," he said calmly, "you were in this room when it was robbed, were you not?"

"I cannot!" she replied, so hoarsely that no one would have recognized her voice.

"Do you realize," he said, impressively, "that your refusal leaves a shadow upon some member of my family?"

"That cannot be," Leonie answered with painful effort. "What need would any member of your family have to steal?"

The pause was so long before the most important word, that when it was spoken Evelyn Chandler almost betrayed herself by a sigh of relief. She knew that her secret was safe, yet there was nothing of gratitude in her feeling toward Leonie. On the contrary, she detested her all the more that she owed it to her.

Behind her relief the sound of the voice of the man who had adopted her came to Evelyn.

"Do you know that your refusal to convict a thief under the circumstances makes you an accessory to his crime, and punishable with him?" he was saying, his eyes steely with anger.

"I beg that you will not do that sir, for—my—father's sake. He is old and—has but—me. Surely you will not——"

"You shall go to jail if you persist in your refusal to answer me!" cried Chandler, without the softening of a muscle in his face. "I will give you until morning to decide."

"It will be useless, I cannot alter my determination. But—is there nothing that you can say? Surely you will pray him only to let me go free?"

She had turned to Evelyn Chandler and extended her arms. The lovely face was quivering with anguish, the eyes glistened with a fire that no tears could quench, the sweet mouth trembled piteously, but Miss Chandler returned the glance with one that was half sneering, wholly defiant.

"I never interfere in any of my father's matters," she said, coldly: "he is quite right. If you know the thief, you should be forced to tell who it is."

Too dumb from anguish to realize the extreme audacity of the girl who could stand before her and so coolly make a speech like that, yet seeing that she had nothing to hope for in that quarter, Leonie turned away with a weary groan.

"I have nothing more to say," she exclaimed, dully. "I pray that you will spare me for my father's sake. Oh, dad, dad! you tried to save me from this but I would not let you. God help you and me!"

Regardless of their presence, or perhaps forgetful of it, the unhappy girl sunk upon the floor, and covering her white face with her hands rocked her body to and fro miserably.

Twice Leonard Chandler spoke to her, but she did not hear; then motioning the others from the room, he, too, passed out, and turning the key in the lock upon the outside, he left her there a prisoner.

CHAPTER VI.

The house had barely become quiet again than a noiseless step descended the stairs, a light hand turned the key in the door of the library, and Evelyn Chandler once more entered the presence of her sister.

"I have risked my father's displeasure to give you your liberty," said Miss Chandler, coldly. "If you are wise, you will leave here at once and forever. My father is a man whose justice is not tempered with mercy. I tell you frankly that if he can find you he will most certainly punish you as he has threatened to do."

"You mean that you would allow him to do that?" Leonie asked, her voice still unsteady almost to inarticulation.

"What have I to do with it?" asked Miss Chandler, with calm scorn. "I am not one of the emotional kind to become interested in criminals."

"I repeat that I am not of a sentimental nature. I will say, however, that I am sorry you forced this story from me."

"Not for what you have done? Oh, my sister—for you are my sister—listen to me. I don't know what that man is to you, but I beg of you, for your own sake, not to do again the dreadful thing you have done to-night. Think of the consequences!"

"Fancy the daughter of Lena Mauprat preaching honesty!" she exclaimed, with heartless sarcasm. "My dear, are you anxious to know who that man was who forced me to produce that money for him? Well, since I have seen how perfectly I can trust you, I don't mind telling you that he is my father, your mother's husband, an ex-convict, a gambler, and presumably a thief. I am very anxious that his relationship to me should not be known to my respected adopted father, who knows nothing whatever of my parentage, save that they were poor. I am expecting to make a brilliant marriage, thanks to my prospective millions, and I cannot afford to spoil it with any romantic stories of convict fathers and mothers. You are sensible enough to understand that, I am quite sure, and will do nothing to spoil your sister's chances. Am I not correct?"

The speech was so heartless, so utterly cold-blooded, that Leonie, even in her half-stunned condition, shuddered.

"You have nothing to fear from me!" she answered wearily. "I don't seem to realize just yet what has happened, but as I have been in ignorance of your existence until to-night, I can try to forget, if you so wish! Is there nothing kind that you can say to me, for our——"

She had meant to say, "for our mother's sake," but the words stuck in her throat and refused to be uttered.

"Why did not you finish your sentence?" she asked brutally. "If you will take my advice, my dear Leonie, you will leave here at once. I cannot answer for the result if you remain until to-morrow."

Weary, heart-sore, Leonie turned away. There was nothing that she could say—nothing that she could do.

Bowed down, feeling as though a century had been added to her years since the night before, she crept away, and out to where the pale streaks of red in a cool gray sky showed that the morning had broken.

She was without hat or wrap, but did not seem to realize it as she tottered on, apparently oblivious of surroundings, even of suffering!

And so she reached the house that had been her happy home! How changed everything seemed! Slowly, wearily she ascended the stairs and entered the room where she and "dad" had passed so many pleasant hours.

In a large chair near the open window Godfrey Cuyler sat, his long white hair slightly lifted by the breeze, his head resting upon the back of the chair, his eyes closed in sleep.

She stood above him, gazing silently down upon him, trying to think while her brain seemed to be an impenetrable maze, yet through all the gloom that surrounded her a single thought struggled through! How white and wan he looked! Was she about to lose him in addition to the other terrible trouble that had come upon her?

As the thought came to her, a low groan of indescribable misery fell from her lips. It awakened the sleeper.

The act frightened him as perhaps no other would. He fell back, his face became ashen, his lips blue. A cold moisture, like the dew of death, stood thickly upon his brow.

"Leonie," he said, his voice sounding strangely thick and guttural, "where have you been for the past week that you could not tell dad?"

Why he did not die at that moment was a mystery, but the shock seemed to rather paralyze than excite him. His lips grew a shade bluer and trembled, but that was the only evidence of emotion.

"Not all, but, oh, dad, I know I am the daughter of a thief, and it is enough, enough. Dad, dad, why did you do it?"

The misery of the young voice would have been exquisite torture to him had he not been deprived of the capacity of feeling. His brain seemed to act in a way, yet his emotional organs were stunned. He took her by the shoulders and looked her earnestly in the eyes.

"My darling," he murmured, his voice scarcely audible, "do you think I brought that shame into your life? Your mother was my daughter, my dearest! Oh, Leonie, Leonie, I have tried so hard to keep this hideous thing from you, for this—for this! Child, child, why did you do it?"

"It is better so, dad, much better! It has shown me what my life must be, and my—dreams—were—different. Somehow I feel better to know that you are not my father, that you did not bring this shame upon me! Oh, dad, why can we not die together and end it all?"

A curious expression crept over the white, still face of the old man, but he made no comment, only smoothed down the bright, beautiful hair with a hand that trembled peculiarly.

"Now that you know so much, my little one, I must tell you all," he stammered, wearily.

"Look in the desk there and get me the picture you saw," he whispered, handing her a key.

Mechanically she obeyed, and handed it to him with the case unopened. He pressed the spring and revealed the pictured face to her.

She took the portrait from his hand and gazed upon it. For the first time the glazed eyes filled with tears, but they did not fall.

"It is very like—her," she said, slowly. "Oh, dad! what have I done that God should send a curse like this upon me?"

"Hush, dear! You must not question the wisdom of God. Bear your burden meekly, and He will help you in the end. Oh, Leonie! why would not you let me save you?"

"I could not, dad. You must not blame me. What right had I, the daughter of a thief——"

"You shall not say that—she was your mother! Listen to her story, and see if you cannot find an excuse for her, even as I did. Listen, Leonie! I will make the story as short as I can."

CHAPTER VII.

His face was growing more gray momentarily, his breathing seemed forced and unnatural, there was a curious, quick throb about his heart that was ominous, but Leonie did not observe it in her bewildered state. She might have noticed that he was pale, but she attached no significance to it.

"I don't know how to tell you what Lena was to me in her childhood," he said, brokenly. "Her mother died when she was a little child, and I had only her. Ah, Leonie, I worshiped her! We were wealthy then, and there was never a desire of hers that I left ungratified. I devoted my life to her—watching her grow as a miser does his fortune. She was my idol, and God punished me, as He promised to do all those who worshiped outside of Himself. She was only eighteen—young, lovely; oh! I can never describe her to you as she was when she met Ben Mauprat. She could have married a prince, but she fell in love with that scoundrel, and while I pleaded with her upon bended knee to give him up, she eloped with him as soon as my back was turned, and the tragedy of her life began. He was a gambler, a libertine—there was nothing under heaven that was low and vile that he was not. To save him from the penitentiary I spent money—thousand after thousand, until I had reduced myself almost to beggary—and the end came! When he could get no more money from me he robbed a bank, was detected, and sentenced to the penitentiary for ten years."

There was a long pause for rest, then, with only an increased pallor in the face, Godfrey Cuyler continued:

"At that time I was living in New Orleans, but that city, being too small for Ben Mauprat, he brought his wife to New York. Evelyn was then about three years of age, and as like her in appearance as could be. When Ben was sent to the penitentiary my poor girl wrote to me, but the letter never reached me. That was the cause of all the after suffering. She thought that I had deserted her, and that made her reckless. Oh, Lena, Lena! You should have known me better, my darling!"

For the first time emotion overcame him, and bowing his head upon his hand, the old man sobbed aloud.

A choking sensation followed. He gasped once or twice for breath, then in a much more feeble and broken voice, he continued:

"She was penniless, helpless, and had that child to support. Well, Leonie, the result of it was that Mrs. Chandler, in her charity rounds, saw the child, fell in love with it, and convinced by Lena of the perfect respectability of the child's parentage, she adopted it. She knew nothing of the baby's father, but believed him to be dead. How can I tell you the rest?"

The white lips trembled. He endeavored to moisten them, but his tongue seemed as dry and parched as the lips. Still by a mighty effort he went on:

"Lena went to live with a family of decent surroundings, though poor. She had a little room in the house, and took in sewing enough to support herself; but it was a terrible existence,[Pg 8] one day having bread, the next day none, haunted continually by the fear of starvation. Well, at last Satan succeeded in accomplishing her utter destruction. So small a matter as the water-works in the house where she lived, almost upon the charity of the people, got out of order. The owner of the house came himself to see what repairs were necessary. He saw Lena. I have told you that she was beautiful. Leonie, he fell in love with her. Then the temptation of her life began. They told her how rich and proud he was, that there was scarcely a family in the city who could compare with his in point of birth and wealth, but that pride was his fault. Darling, that man was Roger Pyne!"

She sprung to her feet, but as she caught sight of Godfrey Cuyler's face, she sunk back again with a low sob of anguish.

"He was the uncle of the man who was your employer," he continued, the effort to speak growing more painful with each moment. "He fell in love with her. Believing that poverty was the only disgrace that attached to her, Roger Pyne called upon her and proposed marriage. Leonie, she was starving. She was so bitterly alone, so helpless, there was none near to guide her in the right path, every hope had been taken out of her life—— Oh, what shall I say to make you see her fault in a merciful light? God knows how hard it is to resist a temptation like that! She knew that if he knew the story of her life he would never marry her, and to her the protection he offered meant heaven. Leonie, Leonie, she married him, never telling him the history of her life, or that she had a living husband in the penitentiary!"

The exclamation fell like ice from the cold lips, but the expression of Leonie's face did not alter.

"A week later he discovered all," the old man went on dully. "In his terrible anger he cast her off without a penny; he went to Europe and left her here to starve. For several months she lived the same way that she had done before, barely keeping soul and body together; then you were born! I can never tell you what it was after that. Mrs. Chandler was also in Europe. Lena wrote to me many times, but the letters never reached me, and at last starvation came! She saw you dying before her very eyes, dying for want of food, and she unable to help you.

"Made desperate by her terrible extremity, she rushed out into the street and snatched a purse from a man. It contained only twenty little pitiful dollars, not one of which she had used; but she was arrested, tried, as her husband had been, and—God! how can I say it?—was convicted. I read the story in the papers. How I ever lived to reach her is more than I can tell. There were no extenuating circumstances printed, she was poor and friendless. There was no mention made of her marriage to Roger Pyne, but only the cold story of her crime. Oh, Leonie, my child—— But what is the use in attempting to tell you what I suffered? No words could ever describe it. I reached her in time to see her die, to hear her story, to have you confided to my care, and that was all. She died in the Tombs prison. It took all the soul out of my body, but I knew that I must live for your sake. I could not go back again to my old home, where everything reminded me of her, and so I settled here in this great city, where no man knows his neighbors' business or cares to know. As I watched you grow, the same love that I had given to Lena I felt for you. Then the desire that grew to mania came that you might never know of the shadow upon your birth. Oh, how I prayed that you might be spared that; and now—Leonie——"

There was another gasp for breath, a wild clutching at the collar, and for the first time Leonie saw. She sprung to her feet and seized his hand wildly.

"Nothing," he answered, his throat closing over the word with a peculiar choking. "You must—not be—frightened. I—am—often—so."

His face was not more ghastly than her own. She had forgotten the terrible secret of her birth, forgotten her mother's suffering, forgotten everything save the danger that was menacing him.

"Hush!" he whispered, the sound a feeble effort. "My little one, my little one—you do—not—blame dad?"

"Blame you? Oh, my darling, my darling! what does life contain for me but you? Dad, dad! look at me. Tell me that you will not leave me. Dad, speak to me."

"Surely God will not take you from me when you are all I have! Let me go for a doctor, quick."

"No; I should die alone while you were gone. I knew—the end—was near before—you came—and I prayed—God—to send—you before—it was—too late. He heard—my prayer—I am—grate—ful. Darling—it has come. It is—— Good-bye forever now!"

"Oh dad, dad, dad! take me with you. I cannot remain here so bitterly alone with this hideous disgrace, this frightful secret bearing me down. Let me go, too."

She leaped to her feet wildly, unmistakable insanity glittering in her eyes, and seized a knife that lay upon the table.

Godfrey Cuyler lifted his half glazed eyes and looked at her. Although death was upon him he realized her intention. Struggling to his feet he caught the back of his chair with one hand, and with the other he grasped the knife.

God lent him strength for the moment; he wrenched the knife from her and flung it from him. It fell through the open window.

She pitched headlong upon the floor insensible. He fought back death to lean above her, but a spasm of the heart seized him. He flung himself around and fell back into his chair. The muscles relaxed after a moment, the eyes rolled upward, and limp, utterly lifeless, the body of Godfrey Cuyler lay, when they found him there an hour later, with Leonie still upon the floor at his feet.

CHAPTER VIII.

It was the girl whom Leonie had engaged to cook Godfrey Cuyler's meals during her sojourn at Leonard Chandler's who found them there.

She gave the alarm, and several women, and men, as well, hastily answered the summons.

Little was known of the Cuylers among the tenants of the house, as they were people who had few associates, but a doctor was brought, and the living separated from the dead.

He it was who examined some of their effects, and finding only the address of Lynde Pyne, sent a messenger to his office.

He was not in so early in the morning, and it was not until nearly ten o'clock that the note the physician had sent reached him.

He did not even remove his coat and hat, but turning to his office boy, gave a hasty order:

"But, sir, Mr. Chandler has been here already. He seemed very much put out that you were not here, and said that he would call again at half-past ten."

For a moment Lynde stood gnawing the ends of his mustache in perplexity, then, with an impatient wave of the hand, he turned away.

"Say that I could not wait, but that I will call at his office at one," he exclaimed, leaving the room almost at once.

Once in the street, he called a cab, and giving the driver the address the physician had provided, he ordered him to drive quickly.

It was with feelings of decided relief that he sprung from the cab as it paused before the door of a poor but respectable lodging-house.

Five minutes later the door of Leonie's room opened to admit him. She had recovered from her swoon, but lay almost lifeless upon the chair in which her grandfather had died.

In as few words as possible the physician explained what had occurred, after Lynde had introduced himself, and at the latter's request he was left alone with Leonie.

She was not even cognizant of his presence when he drew a chair to her side and took her hand.

She drew back when she recognized him, as though another terrible misfortune had befallen her.

"They told me you were in trouble and I came at once," he answered tenderly. "My poor little girl, is there nothing that I can do for you?"

She shivered horribly and arose, pacing up and down the floor, her great wild eyes restlessly roving from one object to another.

He watched her for a few moments, fascinated by the peculiar magnetism of her sufferings, then arose, and laying his arm about her shoulders, he took her hand. There was nothing impertinent in his act, only the sincere interest of one whose heart is deeply touched.

"Leonie," he said, gently, "let me do something to help you bear your terrible sorrow. It breaks my heart to see you like this while I sit helplessly by. You must not grieve so. They tell me he was old. Think, dear! He has borne his burden of life, and perhaps now is happy and at peace with God. You could not expect to keep him with you always. Are you not a little selfish, dear? Try to think of it as the will of God, and——"

"Oh, I can't!" she interrupted, her teeth chattering under her fearful suffering; "he was all on earth I had. In the whole world there is no human being left for me. I am as much alone as though my little craft rocked in mid-ocean with only the waves surrounding me. Oh, God! You cannot think what that means until you have been left so. I have nothing left me but suffering and——"

She had meant to say disgrace, but the word was drowned in a horrible groan. She fell into a chair, and holding to the back buried her face upon her arm. Lynde Pyne stood beside her. He laid his hand upon her bowed head, and smoothed the soft hair caressingly.

"Leonie," he said, pausing between each word as though to control an almost irresistible desire, "you must not speak with such despair. You are not—alone. If a steadfast friendship—the love of a—brother—will be a consolation to you, I offer you myself. Leonie, little girl, trust me."

"Trust you?" she echoed; "with my whole heart. Ah! what am I saying? Forget it! I—I am weak—too miserable to think. Mr. Pyne, if you have any pity for me, I beg that you will go away. I cannot—come to—you again to do the work——"

"Don't speak of that now. What do I care for the work or anything else, when you are in trouble like this? Leonie, don't look like that! Oh, child! if I might only bear it for you. You must not send me away, dear! There is so much to be done, and I must do it for you. Have you no woman friend?"

"No. Dad and I have lived all alone, caring only for each other. Oh, dad! why did you leave me with this frightful burden to bear alone? Why could you not take me with you? I feel as if I were going mad."

"Hush, dear! There are others to whom you are necessary. Leonie, I must tell you, great sin though I am committing in doing so. My darling, I love you with all the soul in my body, with all the strength of my being. Can you not see it? Do you not know it? Leonie, what have I said to cause you to look at me like that?"

"You love me?" she whispered, the words more a breath than an articulation—"you love me?"

"Dearest, can you doubt it? I know that I am the greatest scoundrel living, to tell you so. But how can I see you in such distress and not speak, when my heart is full to overflowing? Darling, look at me."

She had buried her face in her hands, and was rocking herself to and fro in her abandonment to a grief that was well nigh killing her. At his command she dropped her hands exposing to him an expression of agony that[Pg 9] he had never seen equaled. With a suppressed cry he took her in his arms and covered her lips with passionate kisses.

"My love, my love, you madden me!" he whispered. "What terrible shadow is it that is darkening your life? You love me! I see it in the expression of your sweet, sad eyes, and yet the knowledge of my love brings you but pain. Leonie, what is it?"

"I cannot tell you," she cried hoarsely. "I entreat you to leave me! I will tell you that there is a shadow upon my life, the knowledge of which reached me within the last few hours, that has forever wrecked my happiness. There is no relief that can ever come to me but death! If I love you, it but makes the curse the greater, and the assurance of reciprocation is anguish!"

She crushed his hand beneath hers and arose, staggering as though beneath the weight of a physical burden. He sprung to his feet and took her by the shoulders, his beautiful face quivering with emotion.

"You are tempting me to the first dishonorable act of my life," he cried, almost fiercely. "I love you as no man ever loved a woman before. My whole soul seems swallowed up in my passion! I am the betrothed husband of another woman, but you have but to speak the word to make me false to my promise! I will give up everything for you, even to life itself were that necessary. I care not what shadow darkens your existence. Say but the word, promise that you will be my wife, and I will throw aside every consideration for your sake! Leonie, speak to me!"

His passion seemed to quiet her. Not since her entrance to the library, where she had discovered something of that fearful secret, had she been so calm. She did not attempt to withdraw herself from him, but gazed into his face with a devotion he never forgot.

"I thank you for your words," she said brokenly. "Perhaps they have saved me from suicide or a madhouse. I think I have suffered this day as no woman ever did before, yet I would go through it all again before I would have you false to your vow. There are reasons why, even if no pledge existed, you could never make me your wife. I tell you this because it may be a comfort to you in the after years. It is good-bye now forever, for from this hour to see each other would be dishonor."

"And you think that I will give you up, knowing that you love me? Never! I will go to Miss Chandler and tell her the truth. I will say to her——"

She had wrenched herself from his arms, and was standing gazing into his face in an almost stupid way, her eyes expressive of paralyzing horror. She was bending slightly forward, her lips parted, her countenance drawn to distortion.

What was she to do? The situation was hideous to her, and yet she felt herself utterly incapable of revealing the story of her own life and her sister's. But could she in justice allow an innocent man to marry a thief, the daughter of a convict, when she could save him?

To speak would ruin her sister, throw her upon the world as a beggar to fall to the lowest depths of infamy, as Leonie knew she would. To remain silent would very likely result in the ruin of the man she loved.

As she stood revolving the terrible alternative in her mind the door opened, and a blue-coated officer entered the room.

CHAPTER IX.

The horror of the situation struck Lynde Pyne with paralyzing force, but his was one of those natures that recovers all the more quickly, the more powerful the blow.

With instinctive kindness he drew the girl's arm through his own, and by his strength steadied her tottering feet.

"Do not fear," he whispered. "I will save you. My poor girl, my suffering one, you must trust me, and know that your sorrows are mine. I will bring you back here within the hour. You trust me, do you not?"

She was too much dazed to reply. All intellectuality seemed frozen in her. She was scarcely conscious of what he had been speaking.

He hurried her onward that he might return with her all the sooner, drawing her arm yet closer within his own protectingly.

Once upon the street, he called a carriage, and together with the officer, they entered it.

He spoke but once to her on the way to the station-house, and then she did not reply. He attempted no further conversation, but watched her fearfully, noting with horror the stoniness of her countenance.

She seemed to be unconscious of her surroundings when she was placed in the narrow cell, and when they came to her again some time later, they found her in the exact position in which she had been left. Not a muscle seemed to have been disturbed.

Lynde Pyne entered there with an officer. He took her by the hand, and gently lifted her to her feet.

"No, now! You need not be afraid to tell me the worst. If anything could have killed me or driven me mad, I should be dead to this suffering now. Has—that man withdrawn the charge he made against me?"

"I see! You forget that my experience has been in the office of a lawyer. How much bail was required?"

Disregarding, or not seeing the glance of warning from the latter, he answered with the customary indifference of his class:

Leonie groaned. Something in her face sent a quick thrill of apprehension through Pyne, but as she fell back immediately into the old apathy, he said nothing.

Silently he led her to the waiting carriage, and they were driven again to that house wherein death reigned. Wearily Leonie dragged herself up the long, steep flight and into the room where she had only that morning—but how long ago it seemed—heard the hideous story of her mother's shame.

She started to the room in which lay the body of her beloved dead, but a solemn-faced man met her at the door and told her gently but clearly that she could not enter.

She made no resistance, but allowed Lynde Pyne to close the door and place her in a chair beside the open window.

Her faculties seemed to be entirely restored, but not a tear relieved the terrible brilliancy of her eyes.

With the death of hope and the birth of despair, had come a calm that had the appearance of stoicism.

Lynde Pyne kneeled beside her, and taking the small cold hands in his, chafed them tenderly.

"Leonie," he said gently, "I wish that you would trust me, dear! I wish that you would remember that there is nothing in all this world that I would not do for you if you would only let me. I wish that you would try to think there is no trouble that I would not bear for you, if by so doing, I could relieve you of sorrow. You know that I would do that, do you not?"

"Because I cannot. It is part of the curse that is upon me that I must suffer in silence. There is only one thing, and if you would promise that, there would be a load lifted from my heart—a load of shame! What am I saying? You must not listen to me, but—— You know that I love you, do you not?"

"Well, listen! There are reasons that make it impossible for me to be your wife, but"—holding his hands in a grasp like iron and looking into his eyes with an earnestness that was terrible—"it would kill me—to see—another—in the place—that honor—forbids me—to accept. Lynde! Lynde! promise me, swear to me that you will not make Evelyn Chandler your wife!"

She had arisen and was standing over him, her hands still holding his, her wild eyes gazing into his with a fierceness that was startling.

"You wish me to break my word without cause!" he said, gently. "Give me some reason for it. Let me say to Miss Chandler that I have been mistaken, that I love another, and that that other will be my wife, with her permission, and I consent. How could I go to her and tell her that I must have my promise back without an excuse to offer?"

"I don't know; but if you love me, if you would save me from a madhouse, you will find a way. Lynde, promise me!"

He spoke the words slowly and impressively. She started, and for the moment seemed about to faint, but quickly recovered herself.

"Don't you know that they will force it from you upon the witness stand? Don't you know that the most minute examination will be made into your life and antecedents and hers? Do you think you can conceal a fact from these men where a family like that is concerned? Why, there will not be an incident from your birth to the present day that they will not discover——"

"Hush! You are driving me mad! I will find a way to prevent that if I must seek death to do it. Oh, my God——"

In her frightful excitement she might have told him all she knew and saved herself from the terrible time that followed, had not the door opened, and the undertaker entered.

Mechanically, Lynde Pyne was about to follow her, when a messenger entered bearing a note addressed to himself.

CHAPTER X.

Reluctantly enough, Lynde Pyne left the room in which the mortal remains of Godfrey Cuyler lay, after having assured Leonie of his immediate return, and went to the office where Leonard Chandler awaited him.

Upon the way, his reflections were not enviable ones. He felt quite convinced that Leonie's agitation was not the result of her grief occasioned by her grandfather's death. On the contrary, there was something behind that seemed to overshadow death, and cause her almost to forget it.

Those were the questions that he put to himself persistently, and to which he found no answer.

He gnawed his mustache in helpless silence, his brows drawn in a heavy frown, and decided upon the only course open to him, to wait for the assistance that time renders.

That is not an easy method, particularly to[Pg 10] an impulsive man, but it was the only way. His humor, therefore, was not of the pleasantest when he entered the office to which he had been so imperatively summoned.

"Good-morning, Mr. Chandler!" he exclaimed rather somberly, shaking hands. "I am sorry that you were forced to wait for me, but——"

"Never mind that, sir," interrupted Chandler, not even the shadow of a smile lighting the anger in his eyes. "I want an explanation from you, sir. I understand that you furnished the bail under which that girl, Leonie Cuyler, was released from jail. Is that true, sir?"

"And you did that, knowing that I wished her to remain there until she had sense enough not to decline to reveal the name of a thief?"

"Pardon me, Mr. Chandler. I am afraid I did not think of your wishes upon the subject at all. Miss Cuyler's grandfather, her only living relative, died this morning. She was as devoted to him as any own child could be, and in common humanity, if there had been no other reason, I could not have allowed her to remain there."

"What do you suppose I cared for her grandfather? That girl shall tell who the thief who robbed my house was, or I will prosecute her to the day of my death. I will spend every cent of money that I possess, but what I will find out the truth of this affair. Do you understand that, Mr. Pyne? Nothing in the shape of sentimentality shall deter me. That girl went there for the purpose of convicting the thief, and she shall do it."

The words were spoken slowly, and with an emphasis upon each that showed Lynde Pyne very clearly that his guest meant every word he uttered, and more.

Pyne raised his foot, placed it upon a chair, and leaned his arm upon his knee with greatest nonchalance.

"Mr. Chandler," he said, impressively, "for several years I have been your attorney. You have always followed my advice implicitly in every instance, and there has never been a time when it has been incorrect! Am I right?"

"Then there is reason why you should listen to me in this. Do not press this case against Miss Cuyler. If you do you may regret it to the last day of your life. Withdraw the charges you have made against her."

"But I will not. Do you suppose that I will let a matter like that rest? Never, I tell you. Leonie Cuyler shall speak, or the whole weight of my fortune shall be turned against her. I direct you now to press this thing to the last extremity. Let no stone go unturned. Move heaven and earth to——"

"Pardon me, Mr. Chandler. It is useless for me to allow you to go further. If you persist in this heartless scheme I must resign from the case. I cannot act where my client refuses to follow my directions."

"What!" he gasped. "You throw up all the business that I have put into your hands because of that girl? You must be mad! Why, man, I will ruin you!"

"If you think you can you are perfectly welcome to try, but I tell you frankly that you have not enough money in your possession to tempt me to lift a finger against Leonie Cuyler."

"I dare do anything that my conscience and my duty may dictate, Mr. Chandler, regardless of other considerations."

"Then I tell you, sir, that you shall never enter my doors again! Remember that. If you presume to call, the servants will have instructions to throw you out. And as for that Cuyler girl, I am all the more determined that she shall be forced to tell all she knows, if my entire fortune must be spent upon it. Good-morning, Mr. Pyne. I am afraid that you will discover before you are through with it that this morning's work is liable to cost you dear!"

He banged the door behind him, and for many minutes Lynde Pyne stood there looking at it intently, then he turned suddenly, with a short, mirthless laugh.

"I am afraid I have played the dickens!" he muttered. "But there seemed to be nothing else for it. He will leave no stone unturned to force this story from Leonie; she will emphatically refuse to answer, and then—well, God knows what will come after the 'and then!' There is nothing to think of now but burying that man, and getting at the bottom of these facts that threaten such danger to Leonie."

"Tell him that I am out! That I have gone over to the courtroom about a case that I have on. Tell him anything that comes into your head, but don't let me be interrupted again to-day. Do you understand?"

"I must go and see about that funeral!" he exclaimed to himself. "That poor child is there all alone, except for that ignorant mob. What a relief it is to think that old Chandler broke that engage—— Bah! that savored very strongly of cowardice and almost dishonor; but somehow I can't help feeling that I am ten years younger."

CHAPTER XI.

The golden hue of a dying sun lit up the West, and shone with radiant glory into the bare chamber where Leonie Cuyler sat, her head bowed upon the arm of the chair in which her grandfather had died.

She did not hear the knock that sounded upon the door, nor did she hear it open, nor see the man who entered.

He looked at her for a moment in silence, noting her extreme gracefulness even in a position like that; he saw where the sun kissed the bowed head as if in benediction; he understood the terrible grief that hovered over her, and something like tears gleamed in his eyes as he went forward and drew a chair close to her.

"Leonie," he said, taking her hand gently, "arouse yourself, dear. Do you think you are doing right to give way to your grief in this manner? I know that it is hard to bear; but it must come to us all sooner or later, and he is at rest! Does that thought bring you no consolation?"

"It is the only consolation that I have!" she answered drearily. "When I remember how full his life was of sorrow that no time could ever have lightened, I am glad that he is at peace with God. But the burden is hard to bear, when I am so bitterly alone, oh, God! so horribly alone!"

"You are good to me, Mr. Pyne, so good that you are breaking my heart afresh every hour; but in justice to you I cannot accept the friendship that is so sweet to me. In mercy to myself I must refuse it! I have been in the world so long that it is no secret to me what construction is put upon the friendship of a man like you for a creature in my sphere and——"

"Leonie, I forbid you to speak like that. You know no more of what you are saying than a three-months-old child. There is no man that will have a right to question my motives when I say that I have asked you to become my wife. I did not come here to-night to speak to you upon this subject, nor shall I. You must listen to me—you must see the truth of what I say, for there is no time to be lost. Have you forgotten that to-morrow is the day set down for the hearing of your case?"

Her hand closed over the arm of the chair, her teeth were set firmly, her face became a shade more ghastly, but her voice was quiet as she answered:

"Then it is quite time that you remember, Leonie. I have, without your request, or even consent, constituted myself your attorney, and it is to talk with you upon this subject alone that I have come here to-night. I want you to feel the strength of my love sufficiently to know that you may trust me in all things. Do you think that you can do that?"

"Leonie, I entreat you, for your own sake, to tell me the truth about this. If there is anything that ought to be concealed, I will help you to the last day of my life to conceal it; but, for the love of Heaven, don't place yourself in this hideous position without advice from some one. Let me be the judge. Tell me the truth, and I swear to you upon my honor that, if there is reason for the concealment I will help you to it!"

He paused for a moment, wiping away the moisture from his brow that earnestness had brought there.

"I know that what you are saying to me is intended for my good alone," she cried, in a choked voice, "and from the bottom of my heart I thank you, but—I do not seem capable of thought to-night. I do not seem to understand. You are so good to me that I feel that I can ask anything of you, and therefore I beg that you will come to-morrow. Leave me this night, my first without—dad—to myself, and to-morrow——"

She could not complete the sentence, but turned away, hiding her quivering face upon her arm.

"I have been cruel, but it was the only way to save you," he whispered. "Tell me that you forgive me?"

"There is nothing to forgive," she answered, lifting her dull eyes piteously. "If there should ever come a time when you feel that you have something to forgive me for, remember that what I shall do will always be for your good, will you not? Remember that however unworthy I may be, that I loved you with all my heart, and—— Oh, go! I beseech you, go! I am not myself! To-morrow——"

She did not finish the sentence, but raised herself to her full height, looked him in the face with a long, searching, hungry passion, lifted his hand to her hot, dry lips, and pressing a burning kiss upon it, passed hurriedly from the room.

"What does it mean?" he asked of himself. "Her manner was most singular. Poor little girl. She is almost mad from this grief and harassing. I wish I could have comforted her instead of adding to it. Well, I will see her to-morrow, and I will save her in spite of herself."

Deliberately she had cut herself from him, leaving herself absolutely alone, with not one human being that she could call her friend.

A great pity for herself surged into her heart, pity for the loneliness of her situation, for the isolation that had been thrust upon her through no fault of her own.

She sat down for a moment, burying her face in her hands; then she lifted it, ghastly with fierce determination.

"This is no time for inactivity or irresolution!" she cried passionately. "I must follow the life that Heaven has seen fit to fasten upon me without consent of mine. I am a nameless creature, but I can still have the courage to save my sister. Lynde Pyne has pledged himself to pay fifteen hundred dollars to the court to-morrow in default of my presence. Virtually I am simply forcing a loan upon him, for it shall be repaid to the last farthing. My weakness has fallen from me like a mantle. When that is repaid, I can allow my grief indulgence, but until then——"

Not once, but many times she read the note, taking it in her hands to destroy it; then resolutely she placed it in an envelope, sealed, addressed and stamped it.

"It sounds ungrateful, harsh, unfeeling, but it is better so, much better," she muttered, her lips drawn together coldly. "What difference can my love make to him? It could only bring disgrace and contamination. It could only fill him with loathing if he knew. He will learn to despise me when he reads what I have written, and it is better that he should."

She hesitated no longer, but pinning on her hat, she went to the bureau, and taking from it an old pocketbook, counted the few dollars that remained in it; then she picked up her letter, and with it clasped firmly in her hand, went into the street.

The beautiful hair that had been one of her crowning glories was gone, and a little boyish head that she could scarcely recognize as her own was reflected there.

There was no satisfaction, only bitterness in the face that looked back at her, and she turned without a murmur.

She took up a bundle that she had thrown upon the floor upon her entrance, and took from it a full suit of boy's clothes.

Throwing off her own, she clothed herself in the others, and again looked calmly into the mirror when the task was completed.

With the same mechanical movements she opened the drawer to the old secretary, and took from it the picture that Godfrey Cuyler had told her was the face of Lena Mauprat, but she thrust it into the pocket of her coat without a glance at it.

There were one or two souvenirs of "Dad" that she put into her pocket, then turned to take a last view of the room in which she had been comparatively happy.

A sob arose in her throat as she pictured the face of her grandfather—that dear old face that she was never again to see until she met him in the presence of God!

With an unvoiced prayer in her heart, she kneeled and kissed the chair in which he had died, then slowly she arose and approached the door.

One last glance, a bursting sob, and Leonie Cuyler passed from the room forever!

CHAPTER XII.

Andrew Pryor rushed into his library with every appearance of haste and excitement upon his kindly face, his breathing short, his hair seeming to have taken an upward turn.

"I want you to go down on 'Change for me. Hurry, boy! There is not a single moment to lose. I want you to get there before the market closes, and tell Caswell for me, to buy two thousand Western Union, Buyer 30, and sell five thousand Northwest preferred, Seller 60. I have just had a 'pointer' by which I shall make a pile if the market goes as I have been informed. You have just three-quarters to make it. If you get there—— Ah, that is right. That boy is invaluable."

The sentence was finished to himself, the break being caused by the exit of the boy to whom he had been speaking.

The white-haired old gentleman stood for some time with a smile upon his lips, rubbing his hands together with an expression of profound satisfaction.

First came a look of deep thought, then one of fear, followed by an expression so full of consternation that to a disinterested observer it would have been laughable.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed aloud, "I am positive that I told that boy to buy Western Union and sell Northwest preferred! If he gives that order as I gave it to him, it will ruin me! What in Heaven's name could ever have made me such a colossal fool! It is impossible to do anything now! He has been gone fully fifteen minutes, and—what in the name of common sense am I to do? Nothing, I suppose. Five thousand Chicago and Northwestern preferred short! Caswell will think I have gone mad! Here! Sarah! Sarah! Tell William to bring the cart to the door, quick! There is not a moment to lose! Don't stand staring at me in that insane way, but hurry! There is not a confounded one of them on this place that is worth the salt in their bread but that boy whom I never saw until a week ago. Where the devil is my coat? I never can find it without that boy. Lord! if Caswell has bought that—— Oh, here it is at last. William, what in the name of Heaven are you doing here? Didn't Sarah tell you to bring the cart to the door?"

"Never mind what you thought, you infernal fool! What business had you to think? It is too late now. I shall take the elevated."

He banged the door after him as he spoke, and hurried down the street to the nearest elevated station, rushed up the steps, and was forced to wait something over five minutes for the train, during which time he looked at his watch about twenty times.

The day was decidedly cool, but in spite of that fact, the perspiration rolled down his face like rain.

"I won't get there until the Exchange closes," he muttered; "and with my affairs in the state they are—— Well, I can't understand what ever made me such an infernal——"

Andrew Pryor rushed in pell-mell, took his seat, and imagined that the train had never run with such exasperating slowness as upon that occasion.

It came to an end at last, however, and colliding with everything and everybody where collision was possible, he rushed on.

At the very entrance of the Stock Exchange he ran directly into the boy whom he had sent upon the errand.

The expression of the boy's face was laughable, but partaking of his excitement, he answered, breathlessly:

"I hope I have not done wrong, sir; but going down in the train I remembered that Northwest preferred had been jumping at an astonishing rate the last few days, and I thought you must have gotten the order mixed."

Andrew Pryor's month opened as if to say something, but it closed with a sudden snap, and his hand came down on the boy's shoulder with positive affection.

"My boy," he exclaimed, with amusing emphasis, "you have saved me more than you can imagine. The people in this town would have had me adjudged a lunatic without a trial if you had delivered that order as I directed you. Such brains as yours shall not go unrecognized. The fellows have been laughing at me because of your youth and girlishness, but they can laugh and be hanged! You are my private secretary from this day at a salary of one hundred and twenty-five dollars per month. You are the smartest boy of your age in New York to-day."

"I am afraid you overestimate what I have done, sir. You see, I knew the market fluctuations and——"

"Will you let me be the judge of that? I tell you there is not another boy in the city that would have done it. Well, it is something in your pocket. You have made a friend, and I am glad of it. You deserve it!"

The handsome eyes of the youth were downcast. He did not reply, but somehow Andrew Pryor seemed to understand that the silence was not the result of ingratitude.

He preferred it, upon the whole, to a flow of words, and attributed it to feeling upon the part of the boy.

Together they went home, and at the door inside the hall Andrew Pryor paused again, laying his hand upon the shoulder of the young man.

"I shall expect you to dine with the family to-night," he said. "It is the respect your new position demands!"

A brilliant, embarrassed red overspread the handsome face, which the patron was not slow to observe.

"It seems such an absurd thing, sir," he answered, "and yet I must ask you to excuse me, because I do not possess a dress suit!"

"Then you will come without one until it is purchased. A dress suit does not make the gentleman. If you have not the money that is required, do not hesitate to call upon me. There must be none of that false pride about you that is so despicable in most young men. I have taken a great liking to you, and I am determined to see you succeed in the world. There are very few of us who would have occupied our present positions had there not been a helping hand extended to us. Mine will be the hand to assist you up the ladder to social prominence and wealth. We dine at 6:30. I shall expect you."

Neil Lowell bowed respectfully, but quietly, and passing up the stairs, went to his own room.

"That is the most extraordinary boy that I ever knew!" he muttered. "Some day I must get him to tell me the story of his life. I would be willing to stake my head that his parents were somebody!"

And in his own room, a comfortable nest, not elegant, but cozy and homelike, Neil Lowell threw aside his hat and coat, and seating himself in front of the fire, bowed his chin upon his breast and was lost in reflection.

"What a strange world it is!" he muttered. "Only a little while ago, and as a girl, as poor, unfortunate Leonie Cuyler, my heart seemed breaking. I was friendless, and helpless, made desperate by my struggle with life. Driven to bay, I gave myself the appearance of a boy. For a time I feared the tracing of detectives. I lived in constant terror, hiding by day, living in dread at night, subsisting upon the few crumbs that came in my way, or starving, as occasion demanded, until I could bear it no longer! I threw aside fear, and determined that whatever the consequences might be, I would brave it out. I obtained some light work; I went from that to my old work of typewriting, but the girls monopolized that, and I was a—boy. However, I got enough money together to buy a decent suit of clothes, accidentally performed a slight service for Andrew Pryor, was taken into his employ to do anything that came my way that was not menial, though I don't know that I should have refused that had it come my way, and now I am his private secretary. It is a curious world! I wonder what in Heaven's name is in store for me? They must all discover sooner or later that I am not what I appear, but how can I help it? It is useless to repine now! There is no going back. It is forward or die, and I am not ready for that yet. Thank God for one thing. It will enable me to repay the debt that I owe to Lynde Pyne! Suppose that he knew the truth? Suppose that he knew that but yesterday he had stood beside me, Leonie Cuyler? Suppose—— But the time for supposing anything is over. I am Neil Lowell now, and Neil Lowell I shall remain to the end of the chapter. I even intend to try to forget that I am not the boy that I appear. There is no reason why I should not remain Neil Lowell. I have as much right to that name as any other. As a boy, life promises something to me, as a girl, it holds nothing but disgrace and shame. Let me see! If I am to appear at that dinner-table I must be presentable. I shall have just time to go down-town and make some necessary purchases before the dinner hour. Ha! ha! It does seem too absurd to think of Leonie Cuyler in the bosom of the family of Andrew Pryor as a fine young man, and his private[Pg 12] secretary. I suppose I shall be making love to one of the girls next."

The expression of the beautiful face was nearer to amusement than any that had shadowed it since that death on the top floor of the tenement, that Leonie Cuyler had called her home.

The black derby was pulled down to carefully conceal the broad brow, and with a very boyish swing to his gait, Neil Lowell passed out of the house again.

The few necessary purchases were made, the suit that Andrew Pryor required at his dinner-table was ordered, and Neil Lowell returned home.

With a heart that thrilled with embarrassment, but well concealed by the most composed exterior, he descended to the dinner-room.

"My dear," he said to his wife, "you have known this young man as a boy to whom I have taken a great liking, but for a service rendered me to-day that shows his capability to fill such a position with credit to himself, I have made him my private secretary. I wish him in future to be received as a member of my family. Gwen, my dear, come here. Miss Pryor, allow me to present Mr. Lowell!"

The formal introduction was made to his eldest daughter, who bowed courteously, then followed by an introduction to the others, two in number.

Gravely, and with the polish of a courtier, Neil Lowell responded to the introduction, filling Andrew Pryor with more surprise than ever.

"Where in thunder did the boy get his polish?" he kept asking himself all through dinner, but the end came without his having found a reply.

"He is a charming boy!" Alice told her sister, Gwendolyn, when they were alone in their own room.

It was altogether a triumph for Neil Lowell, and the tears that moistened his pillow that night were girlish, but they were not tears of sadness entirely.

CHAPTER XIII.

"Well, stop! I'm tired of it. It seems to me that you do nothing eternally but work from morning until night!"

"Not exclusively. I don't want any fellow to make himself a slave for me. Are you going to the Dorlans to-night?"

"Well, I don't know any one, sir, and it did not seem to me that I should be missed. It was very kind of Mr. Dorlan to ask me, but I did not think that he expected me to accept. He only did it because he thought you would like it."

"Then you acknowledge that you have not as much consideration for my feelings as he has."

"He, you say, invited you because I wanted him to, and you won't go, knowing that I am very anxious that you should!"

"I will not press you if you wish that I should not. By the way, Lowell, won't you have a cigar?"

The silver case was lifted and held upward for the young man to select one to his own liking. Half a dozen dimples played about his pretty mouth as Neil Lowell suppressed an outright laugh.

"What? Oh, hang it, I always forget you are only a boy. You have so few of the frivolities of youth that I can never seem to remember that you are not an old man. I have no prejudice against smoking, though, for old or young, if not carried to excess. You must learn. It is a great comfort, and——"

Andrew Pryor paused as the door of his study was thrown open without permission, and Alice, his youngest daughter, entered.

"Papa," she cried enthusiastically, "I have just had a letter from Edith. It has been delayed somehow upon the road, and I find by comparing the dates that she will be here to-night. Isn't that just perfectly lovely? She said it would be impossible for her to tell exactly by what train she would arrive, but that we need not trouble to meet her, as her cousin would be with her, and he could bring her to the house at once, but that she would arrive in time for dinner! I am so pleased!"

She threw her arms around the old gentleman's neck, and proceeded to half suffocate him in her demonstrations of joy.

"Gwen is as happy as I am," she continued, her black eyes dancing with delight. "I have already planned a thousand different things for her entertainment. The dinner to-night must be just lovely. Don't you think I had better invite a few people, impromptu, don't you know?"

"I dare say that would be very pleasant, but I am going to Dorlan's to a stag dinner," returned Pryor sheepishly, as though knowing that his absence from home would be regarded very much as a crime.

The pretty face fell, the corners of the little mouth were drawn downward, and the tiny hand fell from his shoulder.

"Now then—now then!" cried Pryor, rising and patting her cheeks lightly. "You need not look as though I had locked you up in the closet. This dinner has been arranged for a week, and I could not possibly decline. But that need not hinder your arrangements at all, for Lowell will be here, and he can act in my place. I shall perhaps be able to make my own excuses before I leave, and just authorize him to do the honors. I don't think I would ask any one but Edith's cousin, then you can make a little family dinner of the first one."

"And are you not going to the stag dinner, Mr. Lowell?" asked Miss Pryor, lifting her sweet eyes to his face, glowing with good humor again.

"Well, some other time! Then we shall have the family dinner to-night. Oh, I shall be so glad to see Edith! I do wonder what her cousin is like? I hope he will be pleasant and companionable for you, Mr. Lowell."

"That is very kind of you, Miss Alice, but I much prefer the society of the ladies."

"Right again, Lowell! Gad! you are the most sensible boy I ever saw!" exclaimed Mr. Pryor admiringly.

"Then we may count upon you for dinner to-night, Mr. Lowell?" interrupted Alice.

"That is so good of you. But there is one warning that I have to give you. Don't fall in love with Edith. She is already engaged, but the greatest little flirt in existence."

A look completed the sentence, a look that brought the quick color to the pretty, round cheeks, which Neil Lowell was not slow to see.

The girl kissed her father and hurried from the room. The old man glanced from Lowell to the closed door, and back again, in much surprise.

"Neil," he said, after a long, thoughtful pause, "that is a subject upon which jests are not admissible."

"I understand you, sir, and I beg that you will feel no anxiety whatever upon that point. I am too young to fear."

"No, you are not. Your face is unusually handsome, and—— Remember, boy, I do not speak for my daughter's sake alone, but yours as well."

"I made up my mind, Mr. Pryor, some time ago, and I shall keep to my resolution, that I shall never marry. I beg that you will feel no concern for either me or—for her. Will you excuse me? We neither of us have much time in which to dress for dinner."

Andrew Pryor nodded a consent, and with infinite amusement in his heart, and amusement that was to be piteously short-lived, Neil Lowell sought his room to dress for that dinner that was to linger long in his memory.

CHAPTER XIV.

Neil Lowell had never looked better in his boy's attire than when he had completed his toilet for dinner that evening, and stood before the glass taking a last survey of himself, very much after the manner of a girl. Then he opened the door and went down-stairs.

As he entered the drawing-room, his first impression was that it was empty, but as he advanced into the room, he saw the form of a man leaning over a table upon which some rare etchings were carelessly tossed.

The slight noise of the entrance attracted the stranger's attention, and he lifted his head.

Neil started; an hysterical cry rose to his lips, but before the guest had advanced he had recovered his perfect self-possession.

"You are Miss Edith's 'cousin,' I think," he said with a smile, advancing and extending his hand. "I don't suppose that Miss Alice intended us to meet in this fashion or she would have told me your name. I am Neil Lowell."

The gentleman paused, looking down upon the slight figure with a puzzled expression.

He took the extended hand in his as though half unconscious that he had done so, then pulling himself together, he said slowly:

"I am Lynde Pyne. I have heard your name mentioned by my cousin as the private secretary of Mr. Pryor, of whom Miss Alice has made frequent mention in her letters. You must really excuse me, but your face is so strangely familiar to me, that I cannot recover from the surprise of it."

"Now that you speak of it, I remember seeing you on 'Change the other day. The day that Lake Shore took its great boom. Do you not recall it?"

"No!" shaking his head slowly, "it was not there. I did not see you there, but——"

The sentence was interrupted by the entrance of the girls. Introductions followed, and were barely completed, when the butler's announcement of dinner was made.

With a heart beating almost to suffocation, Lowell offered his arm to Miss Edith Pyne, and conducted her to the dining-room, seating her upon his right, while he occupied the host's position.

"Is it not extraordinary? Look! Did you ever see so great a resemblance as that between Mr. Lowell and Edith?"

There was no need to call attention to it, for every one in the room had observed it before, but Lowell's face was crimson.

"You compliment me too highly, Miss Alice," he stammered. "No doubt that is where Mr. Pyne saw a resemblance in me to some one, if it is true."

The sentence was dreamily discontinued, and the girls began to chatter upon other subjects, while Lowell and Pyne maintained an uncomfortable silence.

"It is so delicious to be here!" Edith cried joyfully, "only it will be for such a short time. Mamma insists that I shall spend part of the visit with Evelyn Chandler. I ought to be pleased, I suppose, but I can't. I should not say it before Lynde, but I don't half like her."

If his life had depended upon it, Lowell could not have prevented himself from raising his eyes to those dark, compelling ones before him. They were fixed curiously upon his face. A slow color surged into the pink cheeks and the eyes of the boy were lowered.

"Why should you not say that before Mr. Pyne?" questioned Miss Pryor. "If rumor is correct his engagement with Miss Chandler is at an end."

"Then rumor does not speak correctly!" snapped Miss Pyne. "I wish to Heaven it did. The engagement was broken by some kind of row between Mr. Chandler and Lynde at the time those robberies were committed, but Evelyn would not have it. She made her father straighten matters out, and Lynde was hooked again, and will be landed in January. You see, the fish is about tired out, and the fisher-woman will soon be triumphant."

A cold perspiration was growing about his mouth; but knowing that Pyne's eyes were fixed upon him, he forced a smile to his lips, and glanced in Pyne's direction.

"Then I presume we are to congratulate you?" he said, in the form of an interrogation.

The trembling of the voice was not lost upon Lynde, who never removed his eyes from the boyish face.

"I should murder him if he did!" ejaculated Miss Pyne. "You know that I don't like Evelyn, and she knows it, though mamma insists upon it that I shall be the essence of glucose in her presence. Bah! what you want to marry her for is more than I can see. You are not in love with her, and you know it."

"Young ladies," interrupted Mrs. Pryor, with a good-natured smile, "don't you think this conversation had better be discontinued? It is the first time I ever heard of discussing a gentleman's fiancee so uncomplimentarily in his presence."

"Pooh! We are all like brothers and sisters here!" exclaimed Miss Pyne. "It is only in the family, you know. Mr. Lowell don't count. Did you ever see Miss Evelyn Chandler, Mr. Lowell?"

"You must excuse me, Miss Pyne. I have not your right to discuss the lady in question."

Mrs. Pryor, not approving the conversation, arose from the table, giving the signal to the ladies.

Lowell arose, and opened the door for them to pass through, then he resumed his seat.

He was the host, in the absence of Mr. Pryor, and he knew that he must remain at the table until his guest was ready to leave it.

During the time that the butler was arranging the cigars and wine upon the table, after the departure of the ladies, he felt those glowing eyes fixed upon his face.

As they were passed to Neil, he glanced up, and saw those curious, questioning eyes still fixed upon him. He selected a cigar with greatest nonchalance; the lighted candles were placed for their use, and the butler retired.

As though it were an occurrence of everyday life, Neil cut the end from his cigar, stuck it in his mouth, and was about to apply it to the flame, when Pyne put out his hand and laid it upon that of the boy.

"I mean that you have never smoked a cigar in your life, and that it will nauseate you."

"You are correct," he said, his face flushing. "I never did! Mr. Pryor was taking me to task about it to-day, and I determined to learn. I did not dream that I should handle it so awkwardly. Will you excuse me, then, if I take a cigarette instead?"

"Certainly; but I don't think I feel inclined to smoke, if you will excuse me altogether. The chatter of those girls has upset me. It has brought back memories which I thought I had conquered. Neil Lowell, there is a question that I should like to ask you. What is it that you know of Miss Evelyn Chandler? And what relation are you to Leonie Cuyler?"

The man's face was lighted with a brilliant crimson. His eyes glittered with excitement.

He arose from his chair and stood over the boy, one hand resting upon the table, the other upon the back of Lowell's chair.

The boy lifted his eyes to the thrilling face, and very slowly arose to his feet.

CHAPTER XV.

For a full minute Neil Lowell and Lynde Pyne stood there facing each other, each seeming to measure the other's strength, not physically, but mentally.

Neil was striving to decide what course it would be safest for him to pursue; then, seeming to have arrived at a definite conclusion, he stepped back a pace, his eyes growing colder.

"What I know of Miss Evelyn Chandler," he said, frigidly, "is my own concern, and there is no reason why I should make it known to you or to any one else, unless it is my desire so to do. I have made no charges either for or against her, and I deny your right to question me upon that or any other subject."

"I did not ask my question in the spirit that you seem to ascribe to me," he replied, without anger; "the expression of your face, when these family affairs were spoken of, was such as to give birth to suspicion. I do not demand that you answer me; I simply request it."

Slowly the boy lifted his eyes, fastening them on the face of the man before him, determined that no weakness, however great, should make him betray the identity that it was so necessary for him to conceal.

He had told the truth, and he had told it with such perfect frankness, such entire candor, that Pyne was staggered.

"Then if you have seen her once, you will excuse me for my inquiry into your affairs, knowing how much you are like her."

"There is little in resemblances. You heard Miss Pryor speak to-night of my resemblance to Miss Pyne, your cousin."

"That is strong, I grant you, but weak by comparison with the other likeness. In asking your pardon I must tell you that my interest in Miss Cuyler was so strong at one time that it has shadowed all my life. I cannot speak further without betraying a secret that is not all mine. But for her sake, because you were her cousin, I offer you my friendship, if you will have it. I am not rich, but whatever I can do for you you may be sure that I will. You promise?"

"I will remember!" he answered, in a voice so choked from emotion that vision was not necessary to know the nearness of tears.

"Will you give me your hand that I may know you have forgiven me for my presumption?"

Without a word the little hand was extended, and as that of the man closed over it, a quick, low cry escaped his lips.

"You cannot deceive me longer!" he cried, hoarsely. "I knew that you were Leonie in the beginning, but I wanted to have some proof before making my assertion. Oh, Leonie, child, child! why did you think it necessary to conceal your identity from me? Did you not know that I would have given my life, my soul, if needs were, to have saved you?"

She knew that the ring she wore had betrayed her, but she could think of no way in which it was possible to cover the fact that he had discovered.

Very gently Lynde closed the door, then turning, took her hand and drew her down upon a couch beside him.

"I did trust you," she cried desperately, "and you are to marry Evelyn Chandler!"

She had not meant to say that, but somehow the words had escaped her without her will. She would have recalled them if she could, but now it was too late. She lifted her eyes helplessly to his face.

"You trusted me by leaving me at the time that I needed you most. You trusted me by going away and leaving me in ignorance as to your whereabouts. You might have known that at any price I would save you, and I have. It is not necessary that you should longer disguise your sex from the world. The charge that Leonard Chandler made against you has been withdrawn."

For a moment she was silent, then she sprung up, standing before him, her lovely face quivering with emotion.

"Then that is the secret of your renewed engagement with Evelyn Chandler. Tell me the truth, Lynde. Is it not so?"

"Yes," he answered. "You must not ask me anything further, because honor forbids that I should answer you. But you are free as air."

"I am free, but you!" she cried, her voice scarcely more than an agonized whisper—"you are worse than a prisoner! You do not love her, and, not loving her, you will marry her for my sake. Listen to me, Lynde. You must not do it—you must not, if I go to the gallows instead of to the penitentiary! You have taught me a lesson in self-sacrifice. I shall not tell you now the secret that has moved my life, that has robbed it of every hope, of every joy, because my unsupported testimony would count for little; but I will find a way to prove my words; and I will save you from the woman whom you would make your wife!"

"I beg that you will not do that, Leonie. There is nothing now that could relieve me of the sacred promise that I have taken upon myself, and anything that you might say would but be a useless sacrifice upon your part, and would but increase my burden. Promise me that you will do nothing!"

"I will promise to say nothing to any one until you know all the truth, and that you shall be the judge yourself. Will you be content with that?"

"Then say nothing of what you have discovered to-day regarding my sex to any one! I have reasons for wishing to preserve myself from recognition, and there is little hope for me unless I preserve the costume that I have assumed. If I am forced to leave here, as I should be were it known that I am not a boy, Heaven knows into what a position I might be thrown."

"I promise. You will not refuse to allow me to see you sometimes? You will not refuse to grant me——"

"It is better not!" she interrupted, sorrowfully. "There is nothing that can ever lift the barrier that lies between you and me, Mr. Pyne. That is as irrevocable as death itself. I am not saving you from Evelyn Chandler to secure you for myself. The reason that makes it almost a crime that she should be your wife, extends to me, and though I have brought you sorrow, I will never bring you disgrace. When you are here I shall find a pretext for remaining out of your presence, for it is much better that we should not meet! You believe that, do you not?"

"I am deaf to your words. You know[Pg 14] where to find me; you know where I shall remain, unless the object that I have in view requires that I shall go elsewhere; but unless necessity demands it, I beg that you will not seek me. I will come to you when I have discovered the proofs that are necessary."

She left the room as she ceased speaking without a backward glance, turning a deaf ear to his pleading tones, and walked unsteadily up the stairs to her own room.

CHAPTER XVI.

Evelyn Chandler turned to her maid with anything but an amiable expression of countenance.

"She gave me none. She wished me to say that her call was purely a matter of business, that she would not detain you longer than necessity required, and begged that you would not decline to see her."

Concealing the disgust she felt at the well-known indolence of her mistress, the maid left the room, but returned a little later, followed by a woman clothed in somber black.

A heavy veil was drawn across her face, a covering which she took the precaution not to remove until the maid had retired and closed the door.

"My maid tells me your call is upon business," said Miss Chandler, curtly. "I have but a few moments to spare, therefore, you will excuse me if I ask you to be brief."

Without a word the veil was lifted, revealing the lovely features of Leonie Cuyler.

Miss Chandler was on the point of crying out, but by a mighty effort restrained the inclination.

"It is to tell you that I have come," returned Leonie, quietly taking a chair that had not been offered her. "Will you excuse me if I consume a little of your valuable time in telling you how I risked my freedom and my honor only a short time ago to save you from the consequences of your own folly. Will you——"

"No, I will not!" interrupted Miss Chandler sternly. "I am quite convinced that you have not come here without a purpose, therefore I request that you state it as speedily as possible, and without all this circumlocution. If you wish to impress me with the idea that I am under an obligation to you, I may as well assure you in the beginning that I do not recognize the fact; and even if I did, I am not one to be influenced by such considerations."

"Very well," said Leonie, assuming something of Miss Chandler's own manner. "If you are determined to have this war and not peace, I am ready for you.

"There was one," she continued, "to whom I owe more than I could ever repay were I granted a thousand years of life. No brother could have shown me greater tenderness, greater consideration, greater mercy."

"I refer," Leonie went on, as though the interruption had not been made, "to Mr. Lynde Pyne."

"I supposed as much. Lynde was always something of a Don Quixote. It is pleasant to hear of his generosity, but really if you don't hurry I shall have to leave you. I should not like, for your own sake, to have my father find you here."

"I have come to tell you, Miss Chandler, that the engagement that exists between you and Lynde Pyne must be broken!"

"Have you come here to threaten me?" she asked coldly. "If you have you will find that you have attacked the wrong person. I think I have already demonstrated to you the fact that I am not in the least a coward."

"Promise me," she said, "and keep your word, that you will break this engagement, and I swear to you, that so far as I am concerned, the secret of your birth and the knowledge of who was the thief in Leonard Chandler's household, shall be eternally preserved. Refuse, and whatever it may cost me, the entire matter shall be made public in time to save Lynde Pyne from the marriage that would not alone wreck his life, but his soul as well."

"I make no compact with you of any kind!" said Evelyn, harshly. "If you make this charge, without bringing ample proof to back up your assertions, I warn you that my father, Leonard Chandler, shall use the force of his entire fortune against you. His anger against you is already at fever heat, and I have but to speak the word that will make him your most deadly foe. As far as my love for Mr. Pyne is concerned, that is none of your business. Whether I love him or not, I intend to marry him, for reasons that do not in the least concern you. Now go, or the servants shall have instructions to put you out!"

She had hoped to frighten her sister into measures, but she saw there was about as much possibility of that, as there was in frightening a desperado into giving himself into the hands of the authorities.

With little outward evidence of the disappointment she really felt, Leonie again wrapped the veil about her head and left the room.

"She means every word that she has said," she muttered, below her breath. "She was a typewriter in a lawyer's office long enough to have absorbed some of their knowledge, and will, therefore, know exactly how to go to work. I cannot sit still and let her succeed, as undoubtedly she will if I do not immediately take measures of precaution; but what shall they be? I cannot consult my adopted father. Therefore, there is but one course left—I must consult my own father. Bah!"

The sentence was concluded with a shiver of repulsion, but it vanished almost before it had existed.

She sat down and took her chin in her hands, a favorite position when in deep thought.

"It is the only way!" she cried, at last. "Let me see! I have an engagement with my dressmaker at this hour, but when that is ended, we shall see what Ben Mauprat can suggest. A man who has been a scoundrel all his life certainly ought to be able to thwart a single-handed girl."

CHAPTER XVII.

The speaker was Neil Lowell, who stood in the presence of his employer, hat in hand.

"Hang it, boy, a servant has some time off, and you never take any. It would really do me good to have you go out more. You never do unless I send you. Go, and come back when you get ready."

Lowell did not wait for further words, but left the room, and instead of going directly to the street, as his dress would have indicated that he intended, he went to his room again.

He locked the door and hurriedly disrobed. Ten minutes later, a red-brown wig was drawn over his cropped head, and a suit that indicated shabby gentility had taken its place. An old and much-worn hat was placed upon his head, completing a most excellent disguise.

"If Mr. Pryor, or any one in the house discovers me, I shall tell him quietly that I am engaged upon a piece of detective work, and he will be perfectly satisfied and ask no further questions, bless his dear old heart; but I must prevent detection if I can," muttered the boy to himself as he left the room, and, taking the servants' stairway, went down and very quietly let himself into the street.

He took the elevated train and rode down-town, leaving it at the Bleecker Street Station, then walked quickly across town.

The place that he entered was one that would have made a man's heart stand still, much less that of a person built upon his small scale, and for a single moment he hesitated, but the hesitation was scarcely long enough to be called one.

It was a low saloon, and one in the "ring" could easily have recognized more than one member of the Whyo gang in that motley assemblage.

Blurred eyes were lifted questioningly, and the boy was "taken in" from head to foot.

Disregarding all this, and affecting a boldness he was far from feeling, he advanced to the man behind the bar and said, in a low tone:

"Say, pard, I've been told that you kin tell a feller where to find Ben Mauprat. Ef yer kin, yer'll do a good day's work fur Ben!"

"Say, Ike!" the barkeeper called to a man across the room, "this here kid wants to know where Ben Mauprat lives. Kin you tell him?"

"Cert! he lives on Great Jones Street—Number ——. He is sweller than we are. Shouldn't wonder but what he'd be one of the four hundred before the month's up."

The boy did not wait to hear the conclusion of the speech, but, muttering some words of thanks that "Ike" did not condescend to notice, he left the saloon.

The number that had been indicated was not a desirable-looking residence, but no doubt to the other men of his class, Ben Mauprat's home was eminently respectable, if not elegant.

The boy's manner was an excellent imitation of the tough, and, half afraid to refuse, the woman reluctantly pulled open the door and allowed him to enter.

"He's in there," she said, indicating a room. "You can wake him yourself, for his temper ain't none too good at the best of times."

She went back to her work, and noiselessly Neil Lowell entered the room that she had pointed out to him.

There, upon an old hair-cloth lounge, lay the man whom he heard talking to Evelyn Chandler on that memorable night.

The same heavy snores that had greeted Neil upon his entrance continued, perhaps a trifle louder, and feeling that he was secure from interruption from the woman who had admitted him, Neil began a hasty survey of the premises.

A broken chair, a table, with pieces of wood propping up one leg, an old secretary, with one door wrenched off, a dilapidated inkstand, and that seemed to be about all.

The first thing that met his eyes was a dainty note that even the grimy hands of Ben Mauprat could not rob of its beauty.

Without the slightest hesitation he opened it. There was no beginning. It simply read:

He remembered to have heard the name of Luis Kingsley before, but it was impossible for him to remember in exactly what connection; therefore, he pocketed the letter, and finding nothing further, he turned to Mauprat.

"Say, are you dead, or what's the matter with you?" he demanded. "Won't you ever wake up?"

"But that is no reason why you'll never want to see me again. Say, do you want to find that girl that played detective in the house where the Chandlers live?"

"What do you know of her?" he asked, rising and looking as straight as his half-drunken eyes would allow into the boy's face.

"I want to know what Luis Kingsley has done with the money that belongs to Lynde Pyne."

"More than I am going to let you know. Say, look a-here, Ben! You don't know me, but I do know you mighty blamed well. I'll just tell you who I am, as a pointer. I was Lynde Pyne's office-boy, but he discharged me fur—— Well, never mind what fur, I got the bounce, jist the same. A feller can't starve, and I have got to do jist that or git some money. Now I propose to help you if you will help me. Is it a go?"

"'Tain't necessary fur you to know. All I say is that I know Luis Kingsley has got some money that belongs to Lynde Pyne. I know you know all about it. Do the square act on the divy about what you git out of it, and I will tell you all I know about that Cuyler girl."

Mauprat had opened his mouth to reply, when a violent pull at the bell interrupted him. Breathlessly he waited, and with apparently careless indifference, Neil waited also.

At the expiration of a few seconds, the door was opened by the woman who admitted Neil.

By her manner, both her hearers knew as perfectly well who she meant as though she had spoken the name, but before either had time to think upon the subject at all, a heavily veiled woman pushed by her and entered the room.

"I wanted to see you, and have not time to wait!" she began; then paused suddenly.

He stood the test well, but started slightly as the long-gloved finger was pointed at him.

"Who is that?" demanded Miss Chandler, in the stoniest voice that Neil ever remembered to have heard.

"He is Bob Wells, a former office-boy of Lynde Pyne's," answered Mauprat, hurriedly. "I will——"

"Your 'office boy of Lynde Pyne's,' is Leonie Cuyler!" cried the young woman, excitedly. "You must be mad that you could not recognize her through that disguise!"

Without a word, but showing his teeth like a ferocious canine, he sprung forward and caught Leonie by the throat.

CHAPTER XVIII.

"You cursed little imp of Satan!" he cried, his voice hoarse from rage. "I'll teach you to come here trying to impose upon me. What in thunder do you mean by it? Answer me quickly, or by Heaven! I'll strangle all the life out of your little carcass. Do you hear?"

"I will tell you!" exclaimed Miss Chandler, who had already removed the veil that covered her face. "She has come here to play the spy. She has threatened that unless I break the engagement with Lynde Pyne—which she has somehow discovered to exist—that she will make known the secret of my birth, and of my relationship to you. She is here for the purpose of getting information from you upon that subject."

"And perhaps I should have been fool enough to have said something that might have given it to her, if you had not come in just when you did. So you want to break the engagement that exists between Miss Chandler and Lynde Pyne, do you?"

"Yes, I heard you," she answered, bravely. "But I did not think it necessary to reply. Your daughter has told you, and I thought it useless to corroborate her words. But since it seems that you require it, I may as well tell you that I do not approve of her marriage to Mr. Pyne, and it is my determination that if such a thing is in the range of possibility, I will prevent it!"

He stood with eyes and mouth both open, gazing at the girl as if her audacity must be the result of lunacy. Then he sprung forward again.

She was too quick for him, however, and before he could reach her, she had put the rickety table between them.

"Wait a minute!" cried Miss Chandler, interrupting the chase that she saw was imminent "I have not time to wait for gymnastics of that kind. Listen to me, and let us decide what is to be done. It is dangerous to allow lunatics their liberty, and that is what I think Leonie Cuyler must be. No one else would attempt the role that she has essayed. I think therefore, that for the benefit of the public she should be restrained! I suggest that you keep her in confinement until after this wedding shall have taken place, then—presupposing of course that her physicians pronounce her cured—she can be released. What do you think of my plan? It seems to me to be the only safe one!"

"We should be doing a public benefit!" exclaimed Mauprat, his rage turned to mirth. "I tell you, Evelyn, you are a chip of the old block. It is a capital idea. I think while she remains here as my patient that I may be able to compensate her for the trouble she took to sell me some information."

"It is useless," interrupted Miss Chandler. "I am quite convinced, and nothing she could say would alter my idea, that the safest thing—the only safe plan, in fact—is to confine her until after the marriage. Then the harm that she can do will be little enough, for should she make known all the facts that are in her possession, she would hurt no one so much as the very man whom she has risked so much to save—Lynde Pyne. I am sure that you agree with me."

"That is all that I came to see you for to-day. I feel quite relieved that I know my dear sister to be so well taken care of for the present. She has given me a great deal of concern during the last few weeks, but now my mind will be at rest. Be sure that she does not escape, and should you want to see me about anything, send the message to the old address. Do not risk coming to the house. Good-bye! Do not allow anything to happen to your precious patient."

With a mocking bow to Leonie she left the room, and Ben Mauprat turned his entire attention to Leonie.

He pointed to the door, and thinking that she saw her opportunity, Leonie bowed courteously and walked in the direction he indicated.

She had scarcely entered it, than, with a quick bound, she reached the front door.

She would undoubtedly have made good her escape, but that an unfortunate accident happened.

Some one had hold of the knob of the door from the outside, and as she pulled it from within, and some one pushed it from without, it came open with a sudden force that caused her to lose her footing, and she fell headlong.

Mauprat was upon her before she could recover herself, had caught her by the shoulder, and set her upon her feet.

"You infernal little fiend!" he panted, the oaths falling thick and fast, "I'll give you now a taste of the punishment that will come from that sort of thing if you try it in the future!"

He raised a heavy walking-stick and brought it down again and again upon the frail shoulders with terrible force.

The woman and the miserable hunchback boy who had caused the accident, stood shrinking back in the corner as far as possible, ghastly with fear, until unable to stand it longer, the woman caught the man's arm and held it in a grasp like iron.

"Stop!" she cried hoarsely, "You don't know what you are doing! She is not used to that sort of thing, and you will kill her!"

"Take what your interference warrants!" he cried, bringing the stick down with renewed force upon the body of the woman.

Finding that he could cause no outcry of pain upon her part, Mauprat turned sullenly to Leonie.

"She has fainted," he said, kicking the inert body with his foot. "Carry her up-stairs and put her in Dick's room. We'll see how she succeeds with her next attempt at escape."

CHAPTER XIX.

The order was given by Mr. Pryor to the servant whom he had summoned by ringing the bell in the drawing-room.

The young people of the family, together with their guests, Miss Pyne and Lynde, were there, and each one glanced in some surprise at the speaker when the order was given.

He had seemed preoccupied and worried during the entire evening, and now as eleven o'clock came and still no signs of the missing secretary, alarm took the place of anxiety.

There was not a question asked until the return of the servant, but an ominous silence was preserved.

"Has Mr. Lowell disappeared?" asked Miss Pryor, some concern expressed in her tone.

"Yes," answered her father. "It is a most singular thing. He has never gone out before to remain longer than an hour. He knew that I should want him about a matter of some importance to-night and yet he has not come in. I don't understand it."

Every eye was leveled in his direction and not toward Lynde Pyne, or they might have observed his sudden pallor, and the expression of absolute terror that had grown in his eyes.

"Mr. Lowell is fully competent to take care of himself," laughed Mrs. Pryor. "You will make a perfect baby of that boy, Andrew, and destroy in him the very characteristics[Pg 16] that you have so much admired. Eleven o'clock is not late in New York."

"It is for Lowell. He has no friends here; he is not accustomed to going out; he did not mention that he should be gone for any length of time, and furthermore, he knew that I should need him very particularly to-night. The whole thing in a nutshell is, that it is not like Lowell, and I am convinced that something has happened. If he is not here within half an hour I shall be sure of it."

To the surprise of all, Lynde Pyne arose. His face was deadly white, his lips quivering with dumb anxiety.

"You are quite right, Mr. Pryor!" he exclaimed. "Something must have occurred out of the ordinary to keep him out so late. Have you any idea where he was going?"

"No. Had he been gone longer I should say notify the police; but they would take little interest in the case now, as he has been gone so short a time, particularly as they know nothing of the regular habits of the boy. I suppose the only thing is to wait until to-morrow morning; then, if he has not come home, we must take every means in our power to find him."

Lynde accepted the invitation that Mr. Pryor extended to him to remain over night, and the following morning descended to breakfast without ever having removed the clothing that he had worn the night before.

"You have heard nothing yet?" he inquired of Mr. Pryor, almost before they had greeted each other.

He left Mr. Pryor to make what search he deemed advisable, and going to his own home long enough to change his clothes, called upon Miss Chandler.

He had not the remotest idea what he intended to say to her, and the position in which he found himself placed was a decidedly unpleasant one.

It was an exceedingly cold caress that fell upon them, but if she felt it, she made no sign.

"Not directly to me; but it concerns some friends of mine, who were terribly upset; and as I was with them, naturally I shared their anxiety."

"A mysterious disappearance of a member of the family. It is really a most extraordinary thing! The person I refer to is Miss Leonie Cuyler!"

He was looking directly at Miss Chandler as he spoke, in fact had not removed his eyes from the handsome face since his entrance.

"You surprise me!" she said, coolly. "I did not know that Miss Cuyler had been found since her other mysterious disappearance. It seems that she has a penchant for disappearances. One could almost get used to them, they occur so frequently."

"This is different from that. She had no reason for it, none earthly, and I cannot understand it!"

"I am! She seems to be a young woman who is bearing the burden of the wrong doing of some one else."

He was aware also of the sudden tightening of the hands about a paper-cutter that she had taken up, and of the quick, questioning glitter that came to her eyes, to fade almost at once under the restraint that she was putting upon herself.

"To me?" she repeated, frigidly. "I fail to see why you should have thought that. I scarcely knew Miss Cuyler."

"But you interested yourself in her once. She might have thought that you would again."

"I had really forgotten her. What I did was not interest, but humanity. She would never have come to me for anything."

The very manner of the utterance of the words convinced Pyne that she had been there, and that Miss Chandler, his handsome fiancee, knew more of the disappearance than she proposed to tell.

What was the secret that linked those two together, and what had Miss Chandler done with the young woman who seemed to possess some secret that she was determined to have concealed?

He knew that he could discover nothing further from her. He knew that inquiry would bring forth no further information, and that the only possible hope of ascertaining was to wait and watch.

He must secure the co-operation of a clever detective, and with the assistance that he could lend, he hoped for the best.

His manner to Miss Chandler was affectionate, as usual, though there was never any particular amount of demonstration.

He felt that whatever the nature of his discoveries might be, they would not release him from his obligation, so that what he was doing was because of his love for Leonie and the fact that humanity demanded it.

As soon as consistency with his former habits would allow, he left the residence of his fiancee, fully convinced that there was a deadly secret, and determined that, for the sake of the innocent woman, he would fathom it.

"You seem in some way to have changed to me of late, Lynde," she said to him as he was leaving. "I feel that you are growing away from me. I am afraid that I destroyed my own chances for happiness upon that day that I forgot the modesty of my sex, and went to your office to plead with you for what I could not allow to be wrested from me without a struggle. I loved you, Lynde, and felt that to lose you would be worse than death. You do not despise me for my unwomanliness, do you? You will never forget the promise that you made to me on that day?"

"I will never forget that promise, Evelyn. You may be sure of that. You must not think that your act that day caused you to fall in my esteem. A woman loses none of the beauty of her sex because she loves. My promise is yours, and there is nothing that can release me from it but death."

"Fool!" she muttered. "He will keep his word, and under any circumstances I am safe."

CHAPTER XX.

The call had to be repeated many times before it met with an answer, and even then it came faintly and broken by sobs.

"Won't you come in awhile? It is terrible in this horrible darkness alone. Don't cry, Liz. Come and tell me what he has done to you."

"It ain't to me. God knows I would bear it and say nothing if it was only me; but it is Dick, poor little Dick, and I am afraid he has killed him."

"Open the door, Liz. Let me help you in some way. I swear to you that I will not try to escape."

The woman arose and threw it open, allowing the girl in the rags of a boy to come from that pit of darkness into the light.

"I would not care much if you did escape!" she exclaimed dully. "He would kill me then, and I think I would be happier if he did. Look there."

She pointed to the child who lay upon a pile of straw on the floor, the miserable little hunchback who had unconsciously prevented Leonie from leaving there upon the night of her imprisonment.

"He has killed him," continued the woman, her voice filing passionately. "Last night when the poor child came in he was sick, so sick that he could scarcely drag his misshapen body after him. Ben told him to do something, and Dick did not get up as quick as Ben thought he ought, and he gave him a terrible beating. This morning the poor boy was so sick that he could not get out of his bed. I begged Ben to let him alone, but the more I begged the more determined he became. Dick got up, and as he did so, staggered against the wall and fell; then Ben, who swore it was nothing but laziness, got the cowhide, and the poor body is black and blue from the marks upon it. Oh, if God would but strike him dead, how much good it would do us all!"

"Why?" she asked bitterly. "Where would I go? What would I do? Besides, he would find me and he would kill me. You don't know Ben as I do. He is not the only man in the world that cares nothing for his wife and yet forces her to live with him, because the devil in his nature tells him that it is a good way to torture her. I don't go because I am afraid, like a thousand other poor women who inhabit the world. Some day I know that I shall kill him. If he would confine his beatings to me, I might endure it, but when he treats Dick in the way that he does, there will come a time when the worm will turn, and I, who have been trampled upon, will become a fiend of his own creating."

Leonie had turned away from the woman's passionate agony, and had lifted the little form that lay upon its rude bed in her arms.

The child groaned and shrunk back as though expecting a blow, and a hot tear fell upon his flushed cheeks as he saw the compassionate face bent above him.

"What pains you, Dick? Tell me, dear, and perhaps there may be something that I can do for you! Don't be afraid. There is nothing to hurt you now."

He lifted his scorching hand and laid it upon her face. His lips trembled so that articulation was almost impossible, but he managed to make her understand the words:

For one moment she shrunk from him, but in the next he was lifted in her arms. She sat in a chair rocking him to and fro.

"Liz," she cried, excitedly, "you must go for a doctor at once—at once, do you hear?—or the child will die! He has scarlet-fever or diphtheria, one of the two—I am not doctor enough to know which!"

"I can't!" she gasped. "Ben would kill me for leaving you here alone, and he would kill Dick because I loved him enough to risk it. Oh, my God, what am I to do?"

"Go for the doctor, quick!" commanded Leonie, "Ben can think that I was locked up, for I swear to you that I will make no attempt to escape. If he undertakes to hurt Dick when he comes home I will find a way to prevent him if I get killed myself for it! Oh, Liz, go! Is it possible that you can stop to think of anything when this poor child is dying?"

"Dying! dying!" repeated the unhappy woman, in an awe-stricken voice. "Now, God hear my vow! If he dies I will kill the man that has caused it, I swear it! He has wrecked my life, he has made me what I am, and I will end it all in a fitting manner. Oh, Dick! Dick!"

She snatched up a scarf and wrapped it about her head, dashing down the steps and out the door with the speed of the wind.

She did not pause even to secure the door behind her, but seemed almost to fly along until she had reached the office of a doctor.

The medical man knew nothing of who Dick was, but the manner of the woman was impressive to the last degree.

"Wait!" he cried. "What is the matter with him? I must know, in order to take what I may need."

"God knows what!" replied Liz, her expression indicating insanity. "I think Ben has killed him!"

He snatched his hat, and without a word[Pg 17] followed the woman as she rushed along in silence to her own home.

There was Leonie, as she had left her, rocking the child to and fro in the dilapidated chair, and singing to him a little song that she might lull him to sleep.

The eyes of the unfortunate mother filled with tears as they fell upon the tableau.

She touched the short crop of curling hair so lightly with her lips that Leonie did not feel it, but it rested there like a benediction.

The doctor took the slight wrist in his hand, and counted the pulse, then he looked at the sploched tongue.

"Why did you tell me that this child had been killed by some one?" he demanded of the woman. "He has a terrible case of malignant diphtheria."

"It is impossible to say, though the chances are largely against him. It will depend a great deal upon his nursing. You should have another woman to assist you."

"But you are a boy, and they are careless. He will need attention day and night."

"I think you will find me a capable nurse and a devoted one," she answered gently.

"Then to you I will give the instructions, for the mother seems incapable of understanding."

Very carefully he went over everything that she was to do in detail, telling her that perhaps upon her the life of the child depended, then took his leave, promising to call again later in the day.

"Liz," Leonie said, when she was again alone with the mother and her unfortunate child, "you must go at once and get what the doctor has prescribed. You need not fear but that I will take the best care possible of Dick."

"Malignant diphtheria!" whispered the poor woman, as she took the paper from the girl's hand. "And Ben beat him when he was dying! God forgive him, for I never can!"

She left the room mumbling some words to herself, words that seemed to proceed from a breaking heart; but Leonie scarcely knew that she had gone before she returned.

The medicine was prepared; but with all his frail strength the child resisted, until Leonie bent her tender head and kissed him.

"Won't you take it for me, Dick?" she whispered. "It will make you well, dear, and then there will be such fun for you and me. Don't you want to be well for poor mamma's sake?"

He turned his head without a word and did as she bade him, his suffering terrible to witness. Then pressing his head gently down upon her shoulder, Leonie rocked him until he slept.

Liz watched in a silence that was pitiful. Crouched down where she could listen to the slow tones of the soothing voice, she watched, hoped a little, and perhaps prayed.

"Had you not better lay him down?" she whispered, when quite sure that he slept.

"The bed is too hard," she answered. "Poor little thing, it will not hurt me to hold him."

"One must always take that risk. I am willing if I can be of service to him now."

"God bless you!" whispered Liz. "I'll find a way to repay you for this if I am killed for it. I can never forget that you might have escaped and would not because of me and my poor child. You are free to go now if you wish."

"And leave you to face Ben Mauprat with that child? No! my liberty would be sweet to me, but I could not purchase it at such a cost to you."

Liz lifted her eyes blinded with tears. She kneeled and kissed the hand that supported Dick's head.

"You are an angel!" she whispered. "I had a daughter once, long years ago that might have been like you if she had lived, but she died years ago. That was the cause of Ben's deserting me and running away for all those years when I was little more than a girl myself. Perhaps it would have been better for me if he had never come back!"

"How long have you and Ben been married?" she asked, not forgetting in her excitement to speak sufficiently low not to disturb the sleeping child.

"More than thirty years ago. He deserted me and married another woman, but she could not have been his wife, because I was that. Then she died and he came back to me."

But before she could complete the sentence, the door opened and Ben Mauprat was in the room.

With a low cry of horror, Liz sprung to her feet, and at the same time the eyes of the child opened. He shrunk further into Leonie's arms, seeming to entreat her protection. She clasped him closely and awaited coming events.

CHAPTER XXI.

As though paralyzed by the audacity of the situation, Ben Mauprat stood there regarding the three.

Not a single word was spoken, and for seemingly an interminable time a silence that was painful rested upon them; then, with a snarl of vengeance, he stepped forward, his hand extended as though to snatch the boy from Leonie's arms, but quicker than thought Liz had placed herself between them.

"Don't do it, Ben," she cried hoarsely. "I've been a good wife and a true one to you, but you must not carry this any further than you have. God knows I do not know how it can be, but I have loved you with the devotion that few women have shown the husbands who have treated them with love and tenderness, and I have had nothing but blows and curses in return. I have never opened my mouth against it, and I never shall, if you kill me; but you have done your last to Dick. Listen, Ben; he is dying. Do you hear? Dying, Ben, and you are the cause of it. That girl whom you beat, and almost killed, has more love for your own child than you have, for she gave the liberty that she might have secured for his sake; and as there is a God above us, I will protect her with my life! I have been a coward just as long as I shall. As far as I am concerned I am willing to bear anything, but for Dick's sake the end has come."

The woman's tone was not loud, but her arm was raised until she seemed to tower above Ben Mauprat like a giantess above a dwarf.

Her eyes glowed with the passion that was moving her, her very bosom seemed to swell until it threatened bursting.

The last words of her sentence were given a force that caused Leonie to almost rise to her feet.

"Stand out of the way!" exclaimed Mauprat slowly, his eyes glowing with rage. "I don't want to kill you."

"You may do it and welcome if you wish," exclaimed Liz, vehemently, "but you shall not kill my child! Do you hear that, Ben? He may not live an hour through the cruelty that you have already shown him, but that hour shall be passed in peace. You beat him last night and again this morning, and ten minutes ago the doctor told us that it would be nursing and chance alone that could save his life, and that chance he shall have! Don't go near him, Ben! Don't try it! I love him as the only thing that holds me to life. Without him there is nothing in all this world that makes it worth living, and as long as I can I will keep him with me. You made him a hunchback, you have robbed him of every hope, but you shall not take the few hours that remain to him. I beg that you will listen to me, for if you refuse, as surely as you take a step in his direction, I will kill you."

There was a hideous emphasis upon the last words that would have told a man more of a believer in the vengeance of a woman, that the worm had turned at last.

But Ben Mauprat was not a believer in that sort of thing. Once a coward, always a coward to him.

"'Pon my word, Liz, you are almost as good as a play!" he cried brutally. "If it were not setting a bad example I would excuse you for what you have done, on account of the amusement you have afforded me, but I am afraid that if I did that, the next thing you would do would be to allow this girl who has won your heart through her attention to that brat, to escape, and so ruin all my chances for wealth. The young one has always stood between me and your obedience! He has caused you to oppose my will oftener than anything else. He has caused you to get numberless beatings, and therefore the very best thing that could happen to you as well as to me, would be to have him die. I am not going to kill him outright, but I am going to show you that I will stand none of your rebellion, and that I will listen to none of your threats. I am going to lock that dangerous little rebel up, to settle with her later, and then I am going to give the boy the beating that his mother deserves."

The words were spoken in an awe-struck whisper, but they only seemed to anger the man the more.

"Malignant diphtheria, has he?" he exclaimed, harshly. "Well he may give it to the rest of us, and the best thing that can be done is to put him out of the way. Don't give us any more lip, Liz, but stand aside!"

He put out his hand to compel her obedience, but she only caught it, and held him convulsively.

"Don't, Ben!" she cried, wildly. "For the love of God have mercy! I have never asked many things of you, and I beg this as I would not plead for my own life! Oh, Ben, have mercy!"

For all answer he gave her a terrible fling, that sent her spinning across the room.

In another instant it is not to be doubted that he would have snatched the already dying child from her arms, but the desperate mother again interfered.

She did not fall, but maddened by her fear for the little, unfortunate creature in which was centered her only love, her only happiness, she seized a stick of wood that lay near the stove on the floor, and as Ben would have snatched the child from its helpless protector, she brought the cudgel down upon the back of his head with a force that, for a woman of her build, was supernatural.

Without a word or even a moan he fell forward upon his face and lay there like one dead.

A shrill laugh fell from her lips, but almost before it reached the atmosphere, it was changed to a cry.

She flung herself upon her knees before the boy and took his little, burning hand in hers, pressing her hot lips upon it wildly.

"I have killed him!" she whispered, hoarsely. "Do you hear that, my darling? I have killed him, and in a moment they will come to take your mother away to hang her. But you must not fret, Dick. I knew that it would come sooner or later, and it has come now, but you must not let it worry you, my darling. Oh, Dick! Dick! Dick!"

"Think what you are doing, Liz," she said, almost tenderly. "The child is very ill—dying, perhaps, and you are exciting him like this. For his sake, calm yourself, Liz, and listen to me."

"Calm!" echoed the poor woman, as though that were the only word that she had heard. "How can I be calm when I have killed my husband and my child is dying? Oh, girl, do you know what that means to me? Have you any idea what it means to be all alone in the world with a weight like that upon your conscience?"

"Hush!" cried Leonie, earnestly. "You have not killed Ben. You have only stunned him, and if he returns to consciousness to find us still here, I would not give much for any of our lives. Do you hear me, Liz? Do you not see the necessity of our taking Dick away before he returns to life?"

"You are right!" she exclaimed hoarsely. "He may not be dead—child, it would be better if I had killed him, for when he awakens he will kill us all. What shall we do? Help me to think! My brain seems to be on fire!"

"With him?" cried Liz, pointing to the child. "You must be mad. Do you think any one is going to risk a disease like that for his sake or mine? There is nothing that we can do, but you can go. There is no reason that you should die because we must."

"Do you think I am such a coward that I would leave you here alone? I would rather die with you. No, Liz! If one of us must remain we must all do so, but—I have an idea, Liz. It is a hopeless situation for you anyway, and therefore, it cannot be any worse. Every moment may be precious to us now, and therefore, we must act quickly. We must call upon the police for protection. We must have an officer here and have Ben arrested when he awakens."

"No. I must remain. If he were to awaken and find you here without me, he would kill you without the hesitation of a second; but if he should recover during your absence, I could invent some story that would keep him talking until your return. Do not fear for me, Liz, but, for God's sake, hurry!"

For only one second Liz paused; then, with not a glance in the direction of the prostrate man, she murmured a word of blessing upon the head of the girl who had, at the risk of her own life, befriended her, and hastened away.

Only once she looked at the child. The great eyes were fixed pleadingly upon her, as though beseeching her not to forsake him.

"Don't fret, Dick!" she said. "Nothing shall harm you, my poor little one, until I have been killed first."

The sound of her own voice, in the terrible stillness that had fallen upon them, was uncanny. She shivered with fright.

She turned from the unfortunate child, and cast a look of dread upon the man beside her, and, to her horror, found the hideous, glaring eyes fixed upon her.

She could not prevent a little shriek of terror. She watched him as though fascinated, while very slowly he arose to his feet, never once removing his terrible, glassy eyes from her face.

It seemed ages until he had gained his feet, and after he had, he still stood glaring at her, slowly rolling up his sleeves in a manner that seemed to paralyze her with horror.

CHAPTER XXII.

Like a bird that is magnetized into inactivity by the movements of a snake, Leonie sat and watched Ben Mauprat.

Slowly, and showing his teeth in a hideous manner that was peculiar to him, Ben continued to approach, until within a few feet of her he made a sudden spring.

How it was that she escaped him she could never have told, but she became conscious that she had leaped by him, and was standing a few feet away holding the child who was a heavy burden in spite of his being a physical wreck.

But she forgot it. She did not even remember in her fright that she had him in her arms, but stood there clasping him closely to her, panting with terror.

The man turned toward her again, but before he had advanced many inches, she seemed to realize the necessity for immediate action, knowing but too well that his next attempt would not be attended with failure.

Hastily she laid Dick in an old ragged chair and placed herself before it. With cold defiance she lifted her handsome head.

"Now, Ben Mauprat," she cried, her voice ringing out with clear determination, "I am only a weak girl, but I am determined that you shall not touch that boy, and if you do, it shall be over my dead body. You may not know it, but I was never one to threaten uselessly. There is nothing in life that makes it valuable to me, therefore there is no reason why I should not keep my word. But for your own sake listen to me a moment. I have sent Liz out of the room. It will be utterly useless for you to attempt to find her, but if you harm me, she will hand you over to the police within ten minutes. You will not have a possible chance of escape. She is determined that she will save the life of her child, and she knows that upon mine his depends. Now, Ben, listen to reason! You say that you have a purpose to accomplish. You destroy your chance of doing it, and send yourself to the gallows."

She paused, her strength almost deserting her. She was trembling in every limb, but there was little evidence of weakness about her. She seemed like a marble statue imbued with life and unchangeable resolution.

"I shall not send myself to the gallows!" he exclaimed, his eyes blood-shot, either from the blow on the head, or his rage, Leonie could not quite determine which. "I am going to give that boy the beating that I have promised him. I am going to give you one for your interference in my affairs, and then after that I shall settle with Liz, and before I am through with her she will wish she had never been born. Do you understand that, young woman?"

"I understand that you are a very foolish man who are risking your own neck to gratify a miserable spirit of revenge. Ben, there was a time when you were my mother's husband. Because of that connection with one who would have been dear to me had I been old enough to know her, and who was the one sacred thought of all my young life, I plead with you to spare yourself the shame of dying upon the scaffold!"

"You are talking like an idiot. I am a fool that I have listened to you at all, but I am through now. Stand from before that boy! I shall settle with him first and you may come after."

"Anything that you choose to call it, but I say determination. You shall not touch him!"

He strode toward her, his brutal face purple with passion, his heavy fist clinched as though to enforce obedience, but instead of thinking of the words that she had been speaking to him, Leonie had been making a plan of action.

She was too busy thinking how she was to save herself and the boy, whose life seemed to depend upon her, to wonder at the continued absence of Liz.

As she saw Ben coming to her, she sprung aside for the moment, and almost before he realized that she had moved, she was back in her place before Dick again, a broken pitcher filled with water, clasped firmly by the handle in her hand.

With the water still dripping from his face and falling over his clothes, he made a desperate spring upon Leonie!

She lifted the pitcher, and was about to bring it down with all her force upon his head, when the door suddenly opened and Liz entered!

A man in the blue uniform and brass buttons of a police officer sprung into the room.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, savagely. "This house is mine, and I command you to get out of it!"

"I am going to do so at once," answered the officer, serenely, "and you are going with me!"

"I think you will miss your reckoning in that!" answered Ben, bracing himself in a manner that the officer understood at once to mean fight.

"I don't want to have to use any force with you, my man," he said calmly, but with every evidence of meaning precisely what he said; "but if I must do so, you will find that I know how to use a club with good effect. This woman has sworn out a warrant for your arrest. I have never been sent out yet for a man that I did not take him back with me, dead or alive, and I do not propose to make you an exception to the rule. My record shall remain unbroken. Now, are you ready to go with me quietly, or must I use force?"

"You can use whatever you please," replied Ben, looking over the man's shoulder at Liz; "but before you do it, I have a little debt to settle."

"Oh, was it? Well, I hope, as you have taken so much trouble to save it, you may enjoy it. You have played the devil with me, and I have never allowed any one to do that yet without giving them what they deserved. I am sorry that I have not time to at least allow you one prayer, but it is impossible on this occasion."

Almost before he had ceased speaking, he had drawn a revolver from his pocket, and pointing it at the woman's head, pulled the trigger.

Accustomed as he was to such scenes, the officer had not contemplated such an act upon the part of the man, but Leonie seemed to understand perfectly what was coming.

Perhaps it was the suggestion of fear, since cowardice often makes one more wary than the coolest bravery.

As the pistol was leveled, she threw out the pitcher that she held and struck the man's arm, sending it in an acute angle.

The bullet passed, perhaps, not two inches above Liz's head, but, as the smoke cleared away, Ben saw her standing there unharmed.

What he might have done to Leonie under the circumstances can better be imagined than described, but before he had an opportunity to allow his fiendishness swing, he was caught by the officer.

One blow from the revolver across the man's head cut the flesh until the blood streamed across his eyes, and the next instant an escape might have been effected that would have cost them all their lives, but that Leonie seized the piece of wood that had served Liz so well, and planted another blow upon the back of Mauprat's head.

It did not stun him, but brought him to his knees, giving the officer time to recover himself.

Before Ben had staggered to his feet, the "bracelets" were slipped over his wrists, and he found himself powerless.

Even then his efforts at escape did not cease. He made a leap in the direction of the fire-escape, but before he could reach it, the burly hand of the officer had him in a vise-like grip.

"If you try that again," he exclaimed hoarsely, wiping the blood from his eyes with the back of one hand, "I'll settle you with this club! Do you understand me? I never beat a man if I can help it, but when he[Pg 19] forces me into it, he never wants another from the same source. Now come on!"

He gave Ben a jerk which nearly upset him, but if he expected quiet yielding he was mistaken.

Ben turned, even pinioned as he was, to show fight, but a single blow from the club was all that he required.

The officer jerked him to the window, and throwing it up, put his head out and blew his whistle shrilly.

It did not require many minutes until the call for help was answered and the other officer who had been summoned came up-stairs.

"I did not want to risk an escape," the first man said by way of explanation. "He is one of the toughest customers that I have come across in many a day."

"You have escaped me this time," he said savagely, "but I will have my revenge, if I am forced to break through prison walls to get it. And as for you"—turning to Leonie——

"Shut up!" commanded the officer. Then to the two women: "You need not be afraid. He'll get a good long spell for this, and when he gets out he won't be so fond of this sort of thing. You need not let it worry you in the least degree. Now come on, and mind you step quickly."

The handling that he received was not of the gentlest, and as the officer closed the door behind him Liz crept up and touched Leonie gently.

"You must not fear," answered Leonie bravely. "There are many things that we both can do, now that there is no longer any danger from him. But the first thing is to attend to Dick, poor little Dick. You must forget Ben, Liz, and remember only that Dick needs you."

"You may be quite sure that I shall never desert you while you want me. I have no mother, Liz, no one on this earth any more than you have, and after I have accomplished my mission we will go away and live together, if you wish, getting what happiness we can out of the life that we shall make for ourselves."

"God bless you, my noble friend. I think you have already saved me from a madhouse."

CHAPTER XXIII.

A nebulous gleam of light from an almost exhausted candle fell upon Leonie and Liz as they sat silently in the room where Dick lay in a disturbed slumber.

He had been placed upon the almost comfortable bed that Ben Mauprat had used as his exclusive resting-place, and appeared more comfortable than they could have hoped.

An old-fashioned clock upon the mantelpiece tolled the hour of two, and, with a shiver of horror and dread that she could not control, Liz drew nearer to Leonie.

"You go to bed," she whispered in a tone that would not disturb the child. "You must be almost dead!"

"I am not in the least sleepy," answered Leonie. "You go. You will need all your strength to-morrow."

"I couldn't sleep. I don't feel as if I ever could again!" she answered, drearily.

The question was asked with a nod of the head to indicate Dick, and Liz glanced in his direction eagerly.

"God knows I hope so," she said, with some degree of color warming her pale cheeks. "I should go mad if he died!"

"You must not say that, Liz. You must not rebel against the will of the Lord. Why should you wish to keep him here for your sake, when your own reason must tell you that it would be for his happiness to be in Heaven?"

"You don't know what it is! You don't know how alone I should be, and how I love him!" cried the woman, passionately.

"Do I not?" answered Leonie, sadly. "There was one to me as near almost as he to you. I loved him with all the strength of my nature, and I lost him. You may be sure that you have a sympathy for me which only a similar experience can bring."

"I cannot. The wound is too new. Liz, you told me that you were married to Ben Mauprat thirty years ago, did you not?"

"And that he deserted you and married another woman. Was there ever any divorce that enabled him to do that legally?"

"No. He married her knowing that she never could be his wife so long as I lived. He was not then what he is now. You would never believe that he was the same man, nor me the same woman, for that matter. We had a daughter that Ben was mad about. He seemed to love her as he never loved anything before or since, and she died. He blamed me with her death, when my own heart was breaking. He said that it was my neglect that had killed her. We had a terrible quarrel, he beat me and left me. I did not hear anything more of him for years, then one day I heard that he was married. I searched for the truth and found it. He was married to a young woman whose name was Lena. I saw her, and I heard him call her name. They had a child, a little girl, but Ben never seemed to care for her as he had done for our little one. I went to Ben and tried to persuade him to come back to me, but he only laughed at me. I did not tell the poor young thing that he called his wife the lie with which he had deceived her. What would have been the good? It was too late then to save her the disgrace that would have been upon her, and she was a beautiful, delicate girl. Soon after that Ben committed a crime and was put in the penitentiary. Before he was released she died. I knew that the child had been adopted by some wealthy people, but I never saw Lena again after that night. The girl who told us who you were was the child. She is his own daughter."

"If it had not been in her naturally, he could never have done it! She would have died first! Do you think any one could ever have made a thief of me?"

"But Evelyn Chandler did not refuse, because I saw her do it! Liz, the only man who has ever stood my friend, the man to whom I owe a debt that never can be paid, is engaged to marry Evelyn Chandler, and I have sworn to save him. There is but one way to do it, and that is to prove her parentage, and the crime that she has committed! God knows if I could give my life and save Lynde Pyne, I had rather do it, but that would do no good! It would but insure the sacrifice."

"Lynde Pyne! Lynde Pyne, did you say?" asked Liz, in a whisper, leaning excitedly toward Leonie.

"Is not he the man who expected to be his uncle's heir, but his uncle left all his money to Luis Kingsley instead?"

"I don't know, but I think now that you mention it that I have heard something of that kind!"

"Yes, that is who it is! Ben knows where the will is that was made after the one that gave Luis Kingsley the money. It gives everything to Lynde Pyne! I have heard Ben and his daughter speak of it frequently. They had it planned that she was to marry Lynde Pyne, and then the will was to be produced. It makes him one of the wealthiest men in the state."

"Very many things that I could not understand before. Have you any idea where that will is?"

"No. But it must be somewhere in Ben's things, because the producing of it depended upon him exclusively. His daughter wanted it, but Ben would not let her have it. I am not sure, though, whether it is here or in Luis Kingsley's office."

"He made a pretense of working there, but he was not in the office more than half an hour during the week, and then only when he wanted to be. Luis Kingsley knew that Ben had him in his power, and he did not dare oppose Ben. Ben played the respectable because of his position down there."

"Liz, listen to me. You have said that you owed me a debt of gratitude for what I did for Dick to-night. For myself, Heaven knows I would never ask anything of you, but would be glad enough if there were anything that I could do to make life more endurable to you. But, Liz, there is another! One who is as dear to me as life itself, and for his sake I ask that you help me to prove this. Help me to gain possession of that will, to prove the unworthiness of Evelyn Chandler, and I will stand by you and bless you until life leaves me! Promise me that you will do this, Liz."

"I promise with all my heart. I would do it, even if I knew that I should never see you again, for the kindness that you have already shown my poor boy, and for which God will surely bless you. I don't know exactly how we are to find the will, but I do know about the proof concerning Ben's daughter, and I can get that for you before morning if you want it."

They were interrupted by the sound of a groan, and rising, Leonie glided noiselessly to the bed. The boy was awake, and in his eyes could be plainly seen the presence of death.

Leonie raised him in her arms. Her heart ached for the grief that she knew the unfortunate mother must endure, and in the sympathy that was aroused she forgot her own matters for the time.

The glassy eyes wandered to Liz's face and remained there as though in dumb pleading.

"Are you suffering, my boy?" she asked, endeavoring to strangle the sobs that arose in her throat.

With all his frail strength he was striving to say something, but the words died upon his lips before a sound was articulated.

"Well, never mind it now, dear. That will do when you are well and strong. Now you must take the medicine that the doctor has left, and——"

"No!" he gasped. "No use. Good-bye—mother. It is all—over now, and he can't—beat me—again. The will—is—in——"

He caught his throat with his hands and seemed trying to tear the words from it, but a fit of strangling ensued that was horrible.

Once again he endeavored to speak, but it was followed by one gulp that turned him purple in the face.

He lifted his eyes once pleadingly; then settled himself back after a long sigh in Leonie's arms.

For many moments she held him closely;[Pg 20] then with an expression of terror, placed her ear near his heart.

"Remember that he is with God," she said gently. "In wishing to resist the will of Heaven you wish to place him back here again where——"

There was no need for the sentence to be completed, for it would have been uttered to deaf ears.

Unconsciousness was the kindest thing that Heaven could have sent, for it relieved her for the time of the terrible grief of knowing that she had lost the only being who held her to life.

Utterly helpless and alone, Leonie left the room, and running down-stairs, endeavored vainly to find help, then went back feeling that she could not leave the living and the dead together under circumstances so ghastly as those.

Upon the floor Liz sat with the body of the boy clasped to her breast, rocking him to and fro while she sung to him the lullaby with which she had soothed him to sleep in infancy.

"Hush!" she whispered, lifting her finger warningly as Leonie entered the room. "The baby is asleep. He has not been well, and you must not wake him."

But before she could lay the child upon the bed, she felt ten long fingers close over her throat from the back.

She endeavored to cry out, but they clung all the more closely, closing tighter and tighter until she was as helpless as the child upon the bed.

CHAPTER XXIV.

As the terrible thought came to Leonie, with all its frightful import, she endeavored to conceive some plan by which she could save herself, knowing that upon the quickness of her action alone depended her chance of life.

And life never appears so intensely sweet as when we are looking the loss of it squarely in the face.

She knew that she had as well undertake to move the fingers of a hand cast in iron as those upon her throat.

It required not an instant of time for those thoughts to flash briefly through her head, but the time seemed ages to her strained nerves.

Still, under all the excitement and horrors of the night, her mind had never seemed so clear, so perfectly capable of coping with positions that appeared hopeless.

Endeavoring to restrain her breathing, so that she could endure the choking as long as possible, she threw a quick glance about her. Within reach was the pistol that the officer had torn from Ben's hand, and had, in his subsequent haste, evidently forgotten.

She shuddered as she caught sight of it, but at that moment the fingers resumed a closer hold.

She gave herself a fierce wrench, and endeavored to turn herself in the terrible grasp, but she was like a piece of metal held by a trip-hammer.

Under the strain of hideous necessity, she put out her hand and grasped the revolver.

In it she saw the only hope of life, but what a frightful hope it was! Still there was not an instant to lose.

It seems to require a hundred words in cold type to describe the action of a second, for certainly it was not much longer than that before the little weapon of death was clasped firmly in Leonie's hands.

Unaccustomed as she was to the handling of such instruments, and further affected by the terror of the moment, her finger came first in contact with the trigger.

It was self-acting, and before she realized that it was really in her possession, there was a frightful explosion, and the next moment she felt the hands drop from her throat.

The concussion put the light out, and she was in absolute darkness, with death and lunacy!

It was not an enviable position, most particularly as she had no idea of the extent of the damage done by the pistol.

Even in the darkness she could not fail to see the phosphorescent glare from the wild eyes of the woman that glittered like those of a cat.

With a quick dodge, Leonie passed her, sprawling over a chair in the darkness, but with the dexterity of mania Liz followed her.

A chase ensued that for dramatic horror could not be excelled, and yet, perhaps, the interest was felt most by the participator who was conscious of the terrible danger in which she was placed.

She still had the revolver clasped in her hand, being pretty sure that at least three chambers were still full, but that was to be used only as a last resort.

Then, to her surprise, Liz paused. She could see her quite distinctly by the glare in her eyes.

"Liz," she said, gently, "don't you know who I am? Why do you want to hurt me, dear? I am Leonie! Leonie, whom Dick loved, and who loves both you and him! Don't you know that, Liz?"

"You can't deceive me!" she answered in a tone that was horrible. "You are Ben, and you have come to beat my poor boy when he is dying! But you shall not do it! Do you hear that? I have been a good wife to you, but it is ended now! You shall not beat my child again, and in order to keep you from it, I am going to kill you!"

"Listen to my voice, Liz, and let that convince you that I am not Ben. Indeed you are wrong, dear. Don't you know how we were talking just now about the will that was made, and you said that Ben knew where it was? Don't you remember how poor little Dick tried to tell us something about it? I am Leonie, Liz; can't you understand that, dear?"

"You can't fool me; I knew you were Ben, but you thought I would not recognize you in the darkness. I am going to kill you, then I am going to take my boy and go away where no one will ever know. Oh, I have thought of it often, often! I have all my plans made, and when they find you they will never suspect that I had anything to do with it. I have always known that it would come to this sooner or later, and I have thought many times of how I would do it—just with this long, thin knife that I have got in my hand. It will go to your heart so easily that I don't think that any one will ever see the wound that it will make. I don't want to hurt you any more than I can, for I used to love you, Ben; but I am going to free Dick. Do you hear, Ben? I hope you are ready to die, for as there is a God your time has come!"

There in the darkness, with only those glittering eyes visible, and the faintest outline of her surroundings, even with a revolver clasped in her hand, the position was one of almost incalculable danger to Leonie, who knew as little about a revolver as a child.

She saw the woman creeping toward her again, and a wild desire to escape if the most desperate chances were required, took possession of her. Her heart seemed almost to stop its beating.

She turned and fled, careless of direction, and the next instant tripped over something, tumbling to the floor with a crash!

Feeling that every moment was precious, she groped about for it, but it was not to be found. Then she felt the brush of a woman's skirt over her.

Leonie believed that her hour had come, but with a last struggle for precious life, she caught the woman's feet at the ankles and upset her. The respite was only momentary.

She readily understood that an attempt to cope with insanity was but another form of madness, and leaping to her feet, she approached the window.

Her resolve was desperate. She would trust to a jump in preference to a lunatic.

As she threw up the sash, she caught sight of a rope that was attached to the sill, for some purpose of Ben's own. Hastily securing the end in a knot around her waist, she sprung upon the sill and let herself down.

She did not pause to consider the danger. It was alluring beside that which she had but just escaped.

Down, down she went through the gloom of the night into the street, but before she reached the pavement, she felt a heavy hand laid upon her.

"You young rascal!" a voice exclaimed. "What are you doing leaving a house in that fashion in the dead of night?"

Leonie grasped the hand and shook it. There were tears in her voice and in her eyes, tears that were the result of hysteria.

"I have been fighting with a maniac," she exclaimed, hastily. "For God's sake look!"

She had glanced up at the window through which she had escaped, and as she did so the street lamp showed her the figure of a woman standing in it.

"Don't jump, Liz! Don't, for the love of Heaven!" she shrieked, wildly. "You will kill yourself! There is no rope to save you, and there would not be a chance! Oh, Liz, for God's sake go back!"

She jumped from it back into the room, and as Leonie thought she had listened to her warning, she saw her appear there again with something clasped in her arms.

Before the girl could open her mouth through the horror upon her, there was a wild scream of laughter, and the next moment Liz had leaped into the air, with the burden still held closely to her.

Breathless, ghastly with hideous fear, Leonie grasped the hand of the man who stood in silence beside her.

People in the neighborhood who had heard the wild cry that the stillness of the night made all the more shrill and fierce, put their heads out of the window to see the cause, and in a moment the street was crowded with men, boys and even women, some drawing on their coats and others not even taking that precaution against the dampness of the night.

The police arrived, then the ambulance, and with tenderness and care the woman and child were placed within.

"No," he answered, kindly. "She is not dead, but it might be kinder to her if she were. The child is dead. Is she your mother, my boy?"

It was the first time that Leonie had thought of her clothes, and her face colored slightly as she answered:

"No, sir, not my mother, but my friend! Her husband was arrested to-night and taken to jail for trying to kill her child. He died of——"

But the surgeon had no time for details. It was necessary to get the woman to the hospital as soon as possible, and giving the address to Leonie, he gave the order to the driver.

"If you will come home with me," he said, "I will see that you have a place to sleep to-night."

But Leonie remembered the letters that she must secure that night if ever, and replied bravely:

"I shall not be afraid. There can be no danger now. Good-night, sir, and thank you."

She turned and left him, after taking his address, and once more entered the house where her experiences had been so alarming.

To a person of the strongest nerves the prospect was not a pleasant one, but at least there was nothing to harm her now.

CHAPTER XXV.

They had almost reached it when, as they were turning a sudden corner, they were met by a man—evidently a gentleman, from his dress and appearance.

"Worse than that, sir," answered the man who had performed the arrest. "He tried to kill his wife and child. Shot at her in my presence."

"Why, how was that, Ben? You see, the man is in my employ, and I am naturally interested in him."

"Will you come to the station house with us, sir, if there is anything you wish to ask?" said one of them. "He has proven himself a dangerous customer, as you can see by that cut over my eye, and I want to get him locked up before I am forced to crack his skull."

Luis Kingsley made a gesture of acquiescence, and silently followed the lead of the officers.

"You had better bail me!" he said; "but failing in that, there is a message that I want you to take now—to-night, sure! There must be no mistake about that, for upon it more than you think depends. You must go to Miss Evelyn Chandler, and tell her what has happened to me. You must tell her that Liz and Leonie Cuyler are at my house alone, and that—I am afraid something will happen to them."

"She knows," replied Ben, curtly, "and she will understand what I mean. Do you think that you can get me out to-night?"

"Well, don't let it be later than to-morrow. Be sure that you deliver the message at once, for upon it depends more than I can tell you. You promise?"

It was given and jotted down in the Russia leather note-book that Luis Kingsley carried, while Ben Mauprat was locked up.

Mr. Kingsley made no very strenuous efforts to get bail accepted, but left the station-house after ascertaining the exact charges upon which Ben had been arrested. He lighted a cigar and walked leisurely down the street.

"Now, who is Miss Evelyn Chandler, and what in thunder did he want me to deliver that absurd message to her for?" he asked of himself, mentally. "Hanged if I know whether I ought to do it or not. If I only knew where he lives, I don't think I should bother about notifying Miss Chandler at all, but as I don't, and the chances very decidedly against me finding out, I had better keep my promise. If Miss Chandler goes there, I might follow her and thereby put myself in possession of the papers with which that man has so often threatened me. Let me see. Why, this is the address of Leonard Chandler, one of the wealthiest men in the city. It can't be that this is his daughter to whom Ben Mauprat has sent a message. It seems to me that there is the promise of something sensational here. At all events it is worth following up. I most decidedly shall keep my promise to Ben and call upon the young lady."

There was no longer any hesitation on the part of the young man, but hailing a passing hansom, he leaped in, gave the address, and went rolling over the cobble-stones as rapidly as the bony horse could carry him.

He glanced up at the massive brown-stone front, before which he was deposited, with considerable surprise.

"What in the name of all that is wonderful could Ben Mauprat have to do with a young woman living in a house like this?" he asked of himself.

"She is one of the servants," he told himself. "The name is one of those curious accidents with which one often meets. I wonder what the people will think of me for presenting myself at their front door to inquire for a servant? Well, if the worst comes I can excuse myself on the plea of philanthropy. Ha! ha! that is something after the order of the devil quoting Scripture!"

He was ushered into the drawing-room, where the servant stood waiting for his card.

Kingsley put the idea out of his head that Miss Chandler was a servant, and handed his card to the man.

"Will you say to Miss Chandler that I am a messenger from another, and that I should appreciate an immediate interview as a favor?" he said. "Assure her that I will not detain her five minutes."

"There is a mystery in this," he said to himself, "that I must solve. What could that old drunken tramp have to do with people like these? Evidently I must keep my wits about me."

His soliloquy was interrupted by the entrance of Miss Chandler. Kingsley caught his breath hard at the vision of beauty she presented.

She was clad in a gown of dead black, above which her bare shoulders gleamed like marble.

She came toward him swiftly, and he had scarcely recovered himself, when she stood beside him.

"To what am I indebted for the honor of this visit, Mr. Kingsley?" she asked, referring to the card in her hand for the name.

"I—— The fact is, I am placed in a most awkward position, Miss Chandler!" he exclaimed, flushing furiously. "I was made the unwilling messenger of a man who has gotten himself into trouble. He gave me a message to deliver to Miss Evelyn Chandler, but you could not by any possible chance be the lady, though this is the address he gave."

"Perhaps you are not mistaken after all. There are a number of unfortunate people in whom I am interested. If you would kindly give me the name of the man I might be able to tell you whether the person meant was myself!"

"His name is Ben Mauprat, a thoroughly worthless fellow, but one in whom I have been interested myself. He——"

"I think the message is intended for me, sir!" interrupted Evelyn, with perfect composure. "You say that Mauprat has gotten himself into trouble?"

"Yes; a trouble that is more serious than he thinks, perhaps. He is charged with attempted murder!"

For all the coolness of her utterance a frightful pallor overspread the face of the beautiful girl, that seemed to threaten unconsciousness.

Kingsley took a step toward her as though to offer assistance, but she recovered herself and smiled.

"Those things are so dreadful for a lady to contemplate," he said, deprecatingly. "I am sorry to have shocked you, Miss Chandler."

"I beg that you will give it no consideration whatever. Do you know who it was that he attempted to kill?"

"I suppose so. Those men always do try to injure the ones who are most necessary to them. And what message was it that he sent me?"

"He requested me to say that Liz and Leonie Cuyler were at his house alone, and that he was afraid that something would happen to them."

Again the lovely face grew ghastly, but that never-failing control was exerted successfully, and Miss Chandler laughed outright.

"I suppose he wants me to go there to see that nothing shall befall them, and that, too, after he has tried to take the life of poor Liz. Is that not like one of those men? It was so kind of you, Mr. Kingsley, to take all this trouble. I am very much obliged to you. It must really be dreadful for those two poor women to be in that house alone under the fearful circumstances."

"It is nothing for me, I assure you. On the contrary, I shall be but too happy if you will make any further use of me that you desire. I see that you are dressed for a reception. If it would be of any service to you, it would give me pleasure to go there in your place and remain during the night if they should require my presence."

"I don't know how to thank you, but I think I shall go myself for a moment and perhaps bring them home. There is really nothing further that you can do, but be assured that what you have done is most thoroughly appreciated. Good-night."

He was so evidently dismissed, that there was not the slightest excuse for his remaining longer, and reluctantly he was compelled to take his leave.

Something in her manner, as she left him, seemed to attract him, for the door had scarcely closed upon him, than he paused with a curious expression upon his face.

"How cleverly she avoided giving me that address!" he muttered. "Why should she have turned so pale over the fact that Ben Mauprat was in trouble? and how is it that a young lady in her sphere would allow a man of Ben's stamp to call upon her so freely? As sure as fate there is something wrong! I should like nothing better than to get that young woman in my power, for I have not seen so pretty, so magnificent a creature in many days.

"At least, it can do no harm to watch, and, my pretty Evelyn, you do not leave that house this evening without my knowing every foot of ground you touch."

With which commendable resolution, Luis Kingsley stationed himself upon the opposite side of the street in the shadow, and took up his vigils.

"Are you really ready for once on time?" he asked. "I am glad of that, as I have a special reason for wishing to be early."

"You surely would not think of going yet? Why, there will be no one there at all."

"That is precisely the reason that I wish to go at once. Now, you know perfectly well that there is nothing that puts me so thoroughly out of humor as contradiction, so for Heaven's sake! leave it off for once and come immediately! You will find that they are expecting us early, and besides that, some one always has to be the first!"

Seeing that Leonard Chandler was in no mood to stand opposition, Miss Chandler uttered a sigh and ran lightly up the stairs.

"What shall I do?" she asked of herself, when she was securely in her own room. "Ben surely meant by his message that I was not to leave those two alone there; but even should I go, what could I do against them both?

"Plainly there is but one course, and that is to go to the reception, slip out when I return, and go to that house.

"I don't know what Ben meant, but he certainly did not send me that message for fun. I cannot see what he expected me to do! That is what puzzles me! What in Heaven's name has ever made him such a fool? He has risked everything, and perhaps lost me the stakes for which I have ventured so much. Curse him! I knew he would do this sooner or later, but there was no chance to act without him.

"And now, to please that old fool down-stairs[Pg 22] I have got to go to that reception and smile and chatter while my thoughts are occupied with the hideous danger that threatens me.

"If I could but see Ben for five minutes and know how things stand! But that is not even to be thought of! I am afraid of—— Heavens! I dare not think what!"

CHAPTER XXVI.

It was not a pleasant contemplation, that of facing the dreary, desolate house where her experiences of that evening had been so frightful, and it was with a shiver of horror that Leonie turned from the door which she had closed upon herself.

She stood for a moment irresolutely, her womanly cowardice fighting with her strong desire to gain possession of the papers that she believed the house to contain, feeling that if she left it until the morrow that the opportunity might be forever lost; yet it was a hard fight.

She was but a girl, weak of courage when she had time in which to think of fear, and the occurrences of the evening were not calculated to eradicate nervousness, yet with a determination that was singularly strong, she put fear from her and walked up the stairs.

All about her was in utter darkness, save for a ray of light that seemed to creep disconsolately through the window by which she had made her escape.

She looked at it with a shudder, remembering the terrible tragedy that had followed her exit through it, but not daring to give herself time for reflection, she began a search for matches.

She knew where the candle had stood at the time the pistol put it out, and groping her way through the gloom she succeeded in finding it.

There were a few matches upon the waiter of the holder. The pale gleam cast a fitful glow over the room that was uncanny. By it the objects appeared ghostly, and she drew back with a low cry of fright as her foot struck the straw of which Dick's bed had been composed.

She smiled at her own timidity when she saw what it really was, but her courage was of that watery character that threatened to desert her at each moment.

She did not dare to even trust herself to the inactivity of waiting for the break of day, but set about looking for the papers of which Liz had spoken, and which she knew must exist somewhere. But where was she to begin to look? She glanced about her helplessly.

"I feel quite sure they are not in the secretary down-stairs!" she muttered. "There was not a drawer in it locked, and surely Ben would not leave things like that about carelessly. However, there was that letter that I read, and which I still have. No, they were not there, or I should have discovered at least some trace of them. Let me see!"

Carefully she gazed about her, then realizing that she could hope for nothing without making a beginning, she began a thorough investigation of the premises, hampered by the scarcity of the light.

Behind boxes, in closets, between the pictures and back of an old chromo that adorned the wall, under everything that promised a place of concealment, she looked, but all to no purpose.

She was about to give it up in despair, when, as a last resort, she tore the clothing from the bed upon which Dick had died.

Between the mattress and the cords that were drawn across the bed in lieu of either springs or slats, she saw an old tin box!

The box was locked, but after a delay that was most exasperating in her excited state, Leonie succeeded in breaking the lock with a hammer.

As the lid opened, she grasped the papers within, and seating herself at a table, began looking over them eagerly.

There were extracts from old, yellow newspapers, photographs that seemed to be the relics of ages, and letters by the score.

From the contents of the box, one would have thought the man possessed of a mania for preserving such things, a thought in which Leonie would have concurred before she had completed her self-imposed task.

There were letters from confederates, letters from friends, letters from his mother, a few from Liz, and underneath, as though those were the things that he wanted to preserve most, she found another box of paper.

Passing over the smaller papers, she opened a letter, addressed in the stylish penmanship which she knew belonged to Miss Chandler.

With a thrill of satisfaction Leonie laid the letter aside, apart from the others that had been rejected, and took up another.

"Surely that will be enough!" she exclaimed, her expression almost fierce. "I will take copies of these, I will show them to her, assuring her that the originals are in my possession, then surely she will not still refuse to abandon her plan of marrying Lynde Pyne. I can then place the will where the rightful heir can be restored and—go away."

The last words were scarcely more than a sob, but she resolutely closed her throat upon it, and turned to her work.

First came several that amounted to nothing as far as she was concerned, then followed some smaller ones. The yellow one that she had in her hand was read twice.

It was the marriage certificate between Elizabeth Johnson and Benjamin Mauprat, dated thirty-two years before.

There was another one of the marriage of Eleanor Cuyler and Benjamin Mauprat dated between seven and eight years later, but across the face of it was written in Ben's own ungainly scrawl the words in red ink:

There was a copy of the certificate of the birth of Evelyn Mauprat, and also another copy that was perhaps of more interest than all to Leonie.

It was the one of her own birth—"Leonie Pyne, daughter of Roger and Eleanor Pyne!"

How her heart beat as she read the words, knowing that she was a legitimate child!

After a long look she put it aside, and turned her attention entirely to looking for the will.

She found it at last at the bottom of the box, wrapped in a piece of tissue paper, and opening it began to read:

Then unable, through feminine curiosity, to wait further, she looked at the signature. It was clear enough, and duly witnessed: "Roger Pyne."

She sat for some time with the will in her hand, unable to see the letters because of her trembling; then by a tremendous effort she controlled herself, and read it through to the end.

It stated clearly and concisely that all other wills made by him were revoked, and that he had discovered the reports brought to him by his nephew, Luis Kingsley, about Lynde Pyne to be utterly and entirely false, and that in consideration of the evil character which it showed the said Luis Kingsley to possess, he desired that it should be known that he made Lynde Pyne heir to all his estates, real and personal, cutting Luis Kingsley off with the proverbial dollar.

Then after it had been read and re-read, the will dropped into the girl's lap, and her eyes gazed dreamily from the window.

It was her father who had made that will, her father who had died believing that the woman he had made his wife was a bigamist.

She knew enough of law to know that all she would be required to do would be to produce that marriage certificate that was in her possession, together with the record of her birth, to break that will, having all those millions come to her; but the thought brought her no pleasure.

Even if she had desired to take from Lynde Pyne what his uncle had given him, she would be forced to make public her mother's disgrace in order to do that, and not all the money in the universe could have tempted her to even consider it.

She must face Evelyn Chandler with the proofs in her possession; she must know beyond a doubt that the engagement between her and Lynde Pyne was broken, she must restore the will to the one most interested and then——

Her work would be accomplished, and for the sake of her mother's memory she must go away where the secret could be preserved.

It was not a pleasant prospect; and now that she felt her mission was about at an end, the desolation and loneliness of her position struck her with greater force than it ever had since that morning when she knew that her single friend had left her forever.

There, in her hands, were all the proofs that she needed; and as the thought came that there was no longer a necessity for bravery, a long, deep sob seemed to come straight from her heart. She bowed her head and sobbed.

But in the midst of her yielding to grief, a sudden sound attracted her, there in that silent house, where it seemed that even the noise of a mouse would sound deafening.

She straightened herself suddenly, and clasping her hands above her heart, listened.

It was a footstep, clear and distinct, coming stealthily up the uncarpeted stairs.

For a moment her heart seemed to stand still; then, springing up, she dashed to the door.

Quivering with fright, she undertook to fasten it and bar it against entrance; but before she could succeed, a veiled figure, spectral under the light of the pale candle, stood before her, preventing the action.

CHAPTER XXVII.

For some moments it seemed to Leonie as though the figure that stood before her could be nothing human.

The very blood seemed to freeze in her[Pg 23] veins. A pallor that had the appearance of death crept over her face, and a trembling seized her that seemed to shake her in every limb.

"I came by way of the street-door, and I want to see Liz!" answered Evelyn Chandler, coolly. "Where is she?"

It rested upon the chair whereon Leonie had left the box with the papers scattered about, some having fallen upon the floor, others lay on the side of the bed where Dick had died.

"And in the absence of the members of the family, you have been plundering the papers!" she exclaimed, her alarm causing a hoarseness that made her voice sound uncanny.

Before she could reach the chair, Leonie had recovered her powers of action and thought. She flung herself between Miss Chandler and the chair, barring her progress.

"Yes," she cried excitedly, "if you choose to put it so, I have been plundering in the absence of the family! Do you know what I have discovered? That you are even a viler woman than I gave you credit for being. That you have lied to me, and that you have rendered further concealment on my part a sacrifice that I decline to make.

"You knew that the words you said to me the night that I discovered you to be a thief, robbing the man who had been a father to you, were utterly false from beginning to end, and yet you tried to break my heart without a revulsion of conscience.

"Now listen to me, Evelyn Chandler, for it is I who dictate terms this time, and you who must abide by them or take the consequences. I have every proof in my possession that makes me mistress of the situation. I want the engagement between you and Lynde Pyne broken without delay. I want him restored to his rights as the heir of Roger Pyne, and I want you to make good the last cent of the money that you took from Leonard Chandler to buy the silence of your own father!"

A smile that was cruel in its irony played over the face of Miss Chandler as she calmly listened to the girl's words.

"Are you mad?" she asked coldly, "or do you think I am an idiot? It seems that you have thrust yourself into the secrets that were never intended for you to know, but since you have done so, it is useless for me to deny that Lynde Pyne is the rightful heir and——"

"No, he is not! That is only part of your scheme to deceive me, but I tell you that I know the story in its entirety. I, Leonie Pyne, am the rightful heir to that fortune which I have no intention of ever claiming. I have my mother's marriage certificate."

"You are either deceived yourself, or else purposely endeavoring to mislead me. Lena Cuyler's marriage to Ben Mauprat was not legal, as he had a living wife from whom he was not divorced at the time of his mock marriage to my mother. That marriage annulled, perfectly legalizes her subsequent union with Roger Pyne and establishes my birth as legitimate. Therefore I am the rightful heir. Your birth, you see, is the one upon which the unfortunate cloud rests that makes you even possess no right to the name your convict father wears. Now the question is, are you ready to resign Lynde Pyne without publicity being given to these matters, or must Leonard Chandler and the world come in possession of a knowledge that I desire to conceal for my mother's sake? I wish to impress upon you before you answer, that there is no romantic feeling of wishing to spare a sister in my offer to repress the truth or a portion of it; it is only my dead mother. Now, what have you to say?"

For some moments a cold, dull gray had overspread Miss Chandler's face. A wild horror had come into her eyes, but gradually she had controlled it.

To be the daughter of a convict was bad enough surely, but to be his nameless child was a disgrace of which she had really never dreamed.

Still, revulsion at the contemplation of disgrace had never distressed her much, and she recovered from the feeling quickly.

She determined not to lose the position of wealth and luxurious ease that she then held without a desperate struggle, and she was perfectly aware that to lose Lynde Pyne meant more to her than one would readily suppose.

With all her heart she longed to strangle Leonie, but controlling her venom, she said, almost humbly:

"I don't think you can realize how you have surprised me. I cannot think yet that what you have said can be true. Prove it to me and I will do what you say. Let me go over those papers with you. Let me see the truth for myself."

There in the stillness of the night it rung out with a little metallic sound that was chilling. She shivered as it ceased.

"I am afraid I could not trust you so far!" she exclaimed, coldly. "A woman who would dare so much as you have already done will bear watching. You will excuse me and take my word for it. I know!"

"Why should I do that? Why should I take your word any more than you should mine?"

"Because I have never deceived you in anything. Because I have been perfectly frank and open always. It is utterly useless, Evelyn. You can obtain absolutely nothing from me in that way. I have been deceived too often to allow you to do it again. These papers are in my possession now, and there is no power that could tempt me to part with them. I will not ask you to make your decision to-night, but I shall take the liberty of calling upon you at your own house to-morrow when you can give me your answer. And now I shall be grateful if you will let me alone."

"You have had your opportunity to speak uninterruptedly, now do me the favor to listen to me," she said, slowly. "I may tell you that I do not in the least doubt the truth of what you have said, but I shall go further. The very fact of not doubting makes me all the more determined that nothing shall prevent me from securing those papers, not even murder! Do you hear me? You know that I did not pause at theft, and I tell you that I shall take the risk for what it promises. There is not a human soul that knows I came here to-night. What proof, therefore, would there be against me? If you will give up those papers willingly, I will divide with you the fortune that I shall receive through being the wife of Lynde Pyne. If you refuse I will have them, cost what they may!"

There was not the slightest doubt in Leonie's mind that Miss Chandler meant what she said.

She threw a quick glance about her to see where the pistol she had dropped was, and also to locate the knife which she knew Liz had.

She saw the revolver immediately. It lay directly behind Miss Chandler upon the floor.

In order to get it she would be forced to leave the papers she was guarding unprotected, and possibly not even then could she reach it.

The knife she saw, with a shiver of terror, was upon a table not a foot from Miss Chandler's hand, and, as though attracted by the direction of Leonie's eye Miss Chandler turned hers in that direction.

She smiled, seeming to comprehend the thought that had flashed through Leonie's brain, put out her hand calmly and grasped it by the handle.

Seeing that immediate action was imperative, Leonie seized the papers that she had put aside and thrust them into the bosom of the shirt she wore.

Fortunately, in imitating the dress of the poorer classes, she had put on a shirt without a linen bosom, but one that opened down the front.

"If this is to be a fight for possession," she said, coolly, "it might be fair for me to point out to you my superior advantages. It is true that you have that knife in your hand, but you have nothing like the strength that I have, and my dress will be of the greatest possible benefit to me. I warn you that it will be only with my life that I will resign the papers that are more to me than all the world. Do you still intend to contend for their possession?"

"Your question is not worthy of an answer. You know that in your bosom you hold more than life to me—you hold happiness and honor. For the last time I ask you to give them up! I do not intend to purchase them, but I mean to take them by force if you still refuse. What is your answer? Make it for the last time, and quickly!"

The two women, both desperate, faced each other with a resolve that meant life or death.

There was not the slightest evidence of weakness or fear in either, but a cold determination that was horrible.

There was the undoubted resemblance of sisterhood between them as they stood apparently revolving their plans of action.

That the moment she made an effort to pass that motionless, rigid form that blocked her passage to the doorway, the long, sharp knife that Liz had bought to protect her child would be plunged to the hilt in her body.

She had no wish to die that way, and still less to place the papers that she held in Miss Chandler's hands.

The rope by which she had made her escape before was out the window, and to trust to it without having it tied about her body was a most forlorn hope.

There was but one possible way, and that she seized upon with a suddenness that threw Miss Chandler entirely off her guard.

Miss Chandler knew nothing of the situation of the articles of furniture in the room, and the darkness was intense.

Before her sister's eyes had time to become accustomed to the absence of light, Leonie circled about her and reached the door.

She knew that if she could but succeed in making the street, that her safety would be assured, and having so much the start of her pursuer, she did not doubt her ability to do so.

With a savage cry Miss Chandler started after, but Leonie's advantage was too great to be denied.

Miss Chandler was about to give up in despair, when a sharp, agonized cry from the dark hall almost froze her blood.

She hurried down the steps and groped about in the gloom until her hand came in contact with something, she scarcely knew what.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

With all her frail strength, Leonie was struggling in the grasp of a person who held her with the strength of a giant.

The excitement of the entire day had been too much for her and unconsciousness was threatened, but by a mighty effort she overcame it, knowing too well that upon the perfect retention of her faculties, everything depended.

"Tell me first where you were going in such hot haste at this hour in the morning and why?" demanded the stranger. "I claim that you are a thief."

"You seem too willing. I must understand the cause of all this before I do anything. Now act like a sensible boy and tell me where you were going and why?"

Holding her with one hand in a grasp like iron the stranger took a match-safe from his pocket, and holding it between his teeth while he selected one, he struck it and lighted the gas in the hall.

Miss Chandler uttered a low cry and fell back. She had recognized Luis Kingsley.

"You, Miss Chandler!" he exclaimed. "This is indeed an unexpected encounter. Was this little vagrant trying to rob you?"

Miss Chandler was utterly at a loss what reply to make. She had almost as soon have had that will in the possession of Leonie Cuyler as of Luis Kingsley, and a chill of horror seemed to seal her lips.

Leonie could not exactly comprehend the situation, but she could see that Miss Chandler was not anxious to have the man know the secret that she was endeavoring to conceal, and Evelyn was striving to determine how much he had heard of the conversation that had taken place up-stairs.

Leonie had determined that she would tell him the truth, as he appeared a gentleman; and seeming to read something of her determination, Evelyn Chandler forced herself to speak.

Leonie started perceptibly. The name told her all that Evelyn wished her to know.

"I came by the desire of Ben Mauprat, as you know. A man whose wife I have befriended more than once. My presence here is therefore not to be questioned; but yours seems singularly like unwarranted interference."

"Your words are curious, coming to one who entered to protect what he believed to be a woman in distress. May I inquire who this boy is? And why there seemed to be a quarrel—if not a fight—going on between you? My dear Miss Chandler, a young lady in society may have the right to go from one reception to another between three and four o'clock in the morning, but they are not so charitably inclined that they make disinterested visits at this hour. I confess that my curiosity is aroused. Where is the wife of Ben Mauprat? Who is this boy? Why are you here? And why was he endeavoring to escape you? I readily acknowledge that I may not have the right to ask you these questions, but situated as we are, I not only do ask them, but I demand that you answer."

"Very well, then. I shall answer them. In the first place, the wife of Ben Mauprat is ill and has been taken to the hospital. The boy is Ben Mauprat's son. I was here at the request of Ben Mauprat to know if there were not something that I could do for the family in whom I have long been deeply interested. He was endeavoring to escape me because I wished to turn him over to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children to be taken care of. Even if Ben should be released from the position in which he is now placed, he is not a proper guardian for that boy, but the boy did not wish to do as I said. Now, is that satisfactory?"

"And you were demanding obedience to your will at the point of a knife. Was that it, Miss Chandler?" asked Kingsley, coolly ignoring her question.

In her hand she still held the knife that she had taken from the table, and which, in her excitement, she had forgotten.

Her face became crimson. She could find no answer, and with a short laugh Kingsley turned to Leonie.

"Nothing!" she answered. "I deny your right to detain me here, and I command you to release me!"

"Spoken like a true son of Ben Mauprat!" exclaimed Kingsley, ironically. "It may not come amiss for me to remind you, Miss Chandler, nor you, Master Mauprat, that I have never been taken for a fool, and even if I had, there is no reason to believe that I am one. I have never gone prowling round in the dead of night without an object; therefore, following my usual example, I did not come here without one. I know that there is a mystery afloat. I have scented it, and I am determined to fathom it. I do not believe that you two are interested in it alone. I intend to search this house, after I have first made an examination of this boy to see what he has concealed upon his person with which he wished to escape, and which you were determined to prevent at the risk of murder."

He looked from Leonie to Evelyn, and from Evelyn back to Leonie, but neither spoke.

Both were endeavoring to think of some plan of action, and one seemed to be as uninventive as the other.

Had there been a desire upon Miss Chandler's part to act in unison with her sister, they might readily have thwarted Luis Kingsley, but there was little more desire in her heart to have Leonie in possession of the papers than Kingsley.

"You have expressed your determination," she said, coldly, "now listen to mine. I propose that you shall leave this house, and I intend that you shall do it without accomplishing the design that you have intended. The question is, will you do it peaceably or not?"

She saw that it was a desperate case, and desperate cases required heroic handling, but he was unprepared for the amount of spirit that she displayed in a woman.

"Whether I do or not you deserve credit for your bravery!" he answered, slowly. "I do admire it! Upon my soul I do! Let me tell you something, Miss Chandler! Whatever you may say to the contrary, I am fully convinced that you did not come here this night for motives of charity alone, and I am further convinced that the reason that you gave for your unpleasantness with this boy was—pardon me—not the truth. But for all that, there is something about you that appeals to me strongly. I don't want to be your enemy! I don't want to do anything that will in any way injure you, but there are reasons why I am just as much interested in the contents of this house as you can be; therefore if you will take me into your confidence and trust me, there is no reason why we should not work together and benefit each other. A woman of your standing and wealth does not interest herself in a man like Ben Mauprat for nothing. Come, now! Is this to be a sort of partnership between us, or are you determined that I shall find out all for myself, to your detriment, perhaps?"

Leonie breathlessly awaited the answer. She felt that upon it depended her chance of escape with the papers, and so of saving Lynde Pyne.

"There is no reason why I should make any bargain with you, sir. I command you to leave the house! In the event of your refusing to do so, I have in my possession a revolver which I shall not hesitate to use. I have not wished to threaten, but you have forced it upon me. Do not think that I shall fear, for this is that boy's home, and he has the right to protect it from entrance of burglars who break in in the dead of the night. He will be the single witness in the case, and I think I shall have nothing to fear from him. Now once more, will you go?"

"Now less than ever! You have firmly convinced me that there is something, even more than I thought, at the bottom of all this, and I am determined to discover it. Now, my dainty one!"

With a suddenness that lost Leonie her footing, he dropped his hold of her, and sprung toward Miss Chandler, catching her about the waist and pinioning her arms. With the ease of an athlete he turned her around, and wrenching the knife from her hand, threw it upon the floor.

Leonie had secured it within the twinkling of an eye, and with it she sprung toward the door.

But Kingsley had not left the rear unguarded in any such manner as that. She fell back with a little gasp of terror.

As soon as she could recover from her disappointment she turned and looked at Evelyn and Kingsley.

He had pushed her backward upon the stairs, and holding her with one hand and his knee succeeded in finding the revolver of which she had spoken.

Without the quiver of a muscle he calmly pocketed it, and released her from her uncomfortable position.

"I am sorry that you forced me to treat you so roughly," he said mildly. "There is nothing more annoying than to be compelled to use one's strength against a woman. There is so little of manhood in it, and yet one cannot always help it. Now, Master Mauprat, that you have seen there is no possibility of escape, are you ready to stand and deliver?"

There was something almost genial in his manner of saying it, and but for her knowledge that he was an utter scoundrel, Leonie could almost have liked him.

Yet she did not think much of that at the moment. Her mind was centered upon how she was to get away with those papers, a thing that began to appear to the last degree hopeless.

She realized how impossible it was for her to cope with him physically, for she would be less than a feather in his hand, and she saw that if she was to save Lynde Pyne she must give up the idea of sparing Evelyn Chandler.

She saw her way if she could but prevent Luis Kingsley from seeing the certificate of her mother's marriage with his uncle.

With a deprecating gesture she turned the handle of the knife toward him, as the vanquished do in battle when acknowledging themselves defeated.

"You have not offered to compromise with me, Mr. Kingsley," she said coolly, "but I am open to a consideration of that kind if you see fit to make it. No, further than that, I will make the offer, if you are prepared to listen."

CHAPTER XXIX.

Before Kingsley had an opportunity to reply, Miss Chandler had sprung by him and had caught Leonie's hand in an iron grasp.

"You must be mad!" she whispered hoarsely. "Think what you are doing! You lose every possible hope! There is no doubt but what we can escape if you will only help me. For God's sake keep your wits about you and do the thing you contemplate only when you are overpowered and forced to yield."

She perfectly realized there was not the shadow of a hope for them, and she wanted to preserve that marriage certificate.

She understood that it was but the copy of a record, and that she could prove her words without it; but it was the greatest saving of valuable time to keep what she had.

Besides, she had not looked at the name of the clergyman nor the witnesses, and they might be very hard to find.

He knew his power, and he allowed her, without interference, to talk to her companion as much as she chose, though every word that she uttered could be distinctly heard by him.

With a slow smile, though she was far from feeling in any degree mirthful, Leonie turned in his direction.

"I am," he replied. "You shall have ample time to say anything that you wish. Will you proceed at once?"

"You must remember that there is honor among thieves, Mr. Luis Kingsley," she began, "and the promise that you shall make me before you hear my secret must be kept to the letter. Do you agree?"

"I agree to abide by whatever promise I make. You may be sure of that. But the question is, whether I shall make the promise or not."

"I think you will. It can make no possible difference to you who I am, nor how I came by my information, but I have come into possession of a secret of yours which I am willing to sell for my liberty. I will tell you in the first place that the reason why I do not wish you to search me is that I am not the boy that you suppose, but a woman."

"He was fond of a cousin of yours, but not of you. The cousin's name was Lynde Pyne. He had been brought up to look upon himself as your uncle's heir, a fact of which you were unable to see the justice. You were determined that such should not be the case. You, therefore, went systematically to work to alienate the affection of your uncle from his favorite nephew, pouring into his ears a tale of the treachery of Lynde Pyne that finally had the desired effect—that of causing your uncle to make a new will, leaving to you the bulk of his fortune."

"It seems to me that for a young woman whom I never saw before in my life, you are wonderfully well acquainted with my affairs."

"Poor girls need money as well as other people, and some of us have learned from men that the easiest way to obtain it, is often to discover the private affairs of men of millions like yourself, and trade upon the knowledge that we have gained."

She turned for a moment and looked at her sister. She was standing with her back leaning against the door, her face deadly white, her eyes glaring like those of an animal.

It was a desperate case with her, but there seemed absolutely nothing that she could do to avert the terrible danger that threatened her.

A weakness came over Leonie, the weakness that is engendered by human sympathy for a person in distress, but then a consideration of all that Miss Chandler had done against her wiped it out, and she turned her eyes in the direction of Kingsley with a little shudder of horror.

"You asked me, I think, how I proposed to handle this," returned Leonie. "Well, I have not quite reached that point yet. You know sometimes a trade falls through, and the larger the transaction the greater the danger attending it. Now, Mr. Kingsley, fortunately for your cousin, but most unfortunately for you, the stories told by you about Lynde Pyne to your uncle were discovered by him to be false while there was yet time remaining to him to make a new will. That will was made!"

"I have read it myself. You are cut out without a dollar, while the entire fortune is given to Mr. Pyne without reservation. What I propose is to deliver that will over to you, if you will release me from this place without trying to in any way molest me, or attempting to search me."

"I decline to answer that question, but I know where it is, and I will put you in possession of it when I have your assurance that you will do as I have demanded. So far as the other papers are concerned, they relate to the birth of a person, which cannot concern you, but in which I am interested as I was in the securing of that will. You understand me, I think, without further explanation."

She intended him to believe that she wanted to extract money from Miss Chandler, and he fell into the trap easily enough.

"I am willing," she continued, "to give up the papers that concern you if you will allow me to retain the others that are in my keeping without interference."

"I accept the terms," he said, slowly. "I think Miss Chandler's presence here places her as much in my power as I care to have her, and I am not at all desirous of securing her money, therefore I agree to your terms."

"You will eternally regret it if you do!" she gasped, hoarsely. "Do you know what the papers are that she wishes to conceal? Do you know who she is?"

"The key to this door!" cried Leonie, excitedly. "Throw it to me and the will is yours!"

"Here is the will!" interrupted Leonie. "The key—quick! There is a man in front of the house. If you hesitate I shall break the glass and pitch it through if you kill me!"

"Hear me!" panted Miss Chandler, catching Kingsley by the lapel of the coat and holding him frantically.

It but impeded his progress as he would have sprung toward Leonie; and seeing that she would not hesitate a moment to accomplish the purpose that she had assured him she would, he took the key from his pocket and flung it toward her.

Knowing that he would catch her if she made any attempt to escape with the will, she threw it down, unlocked the door, and sped away down the street like the wind.

The man of whom she had spoken as being across the street was a myth, but it had seemed to put an idea into her head that strangely enough had not occurred to her before.

Not even pausing to take breath, she ran along under the gray of the awakening morning, her mouth parched and dry, her tongue seeming to cleave to the roof of her mouth.

"Quick!" she gasped. "A moment's delay, and you will be too late! He may have escaped now! There are millions of money depending upon it. Quick!"

Something of her excitement seemed to communicate itself to the tired man. He set into a run with her, and with an evidence of surprise, stopped before the residence of Ben Mauprat, where the door was already open, and in which he could see the shadowy figures of a man and woman.

"Arrest that man!" she gasped, pointing dramatically toward Luis Kingsley. "He has a will in his possession that has been suppressed for years!"

"Arrest that woman, who is masquerading in the clothes of a man!" exclaimed Kingsley angrily, seeing that he had fallen into a trap.

Miss Chandler had sunk back helplessly. The officer glanced hastily from one to the other.

"I think I had better take you all in!" he said. "That seems to be the safe plan. Come, now, and no foolishness!"

CHAPTER XXX.

Placing the three before him, and compelling them to lock arms, the officer was about to take up the line of march, when something in the back pocket of the man's trousers attracted him, the coat being lifted a trifle over it.

He thrust his hand forward and pulled the pistol from it that Kingsley had taken from Miss Chandler.

It was the single hope that the man had retained of release, and a low oath fell from his lips as he realized that it was gone.

"I owe this to you!" he exclaimed to Leonie. "You shall see how well I know how to liquidate my debts. Is this the honor that you claimed should be among thieves? I kept my word and you betrayed me; you shall pay for it with interest."

"Stop your threats and go along quietly, or I'll quiet you," cried the officer, lifting his club threateningly. "You are a nice party altogether, you are."

The sergeant's eyes were opened to their widest as the gentleman of elegant appearance, and the lady in the costume of a reception, entered his precinct.

"What are this lady and gentleman arrested for?" he inquired sternly of the officer.

"Absolutely without reason!" exclaimed Kingsley, attempting bravado. "We were out on a little mission of charity in connection with a family that has had a terrible affliction befall them to-night, when the officer arrested us. It is an outrage!"

"Only this, sir: I was on my beat when this boy came running up to me out of breath and demanded that I go with him to arrest these parties. I went to see what was wrong, and I found these people under suspicious circumstances. The boy claimed that the man had a will concealed upon him that had been hidden for years, and the man claimed that the boy was a girl in disguise. The house that they were visiting to perform a charity was the one belonging to Ben Mauprat, who was arrested to-night, and whose wife jumped out the window later with her child in her arms, so that there was nobody in the house for them to have gone there to see."

The sergeant looked dubious, then after a moment of hesitation, he decided to "hold them for examination!"

It was with perhaps the greatest amount of relief that she had ever felt in her life that Leonie saw the two conducted to their respective cells, though she knew that she must follow.

As she was leaving the room, she lifted her eyes pleadingly to those of the sergeant and exclaimed:

"There is no chance of his escaping with that will, is there? It would place in his possession a large sum of money that rightfully belongs to another."

"That will, if one exists, will be deposited with me inside of fifteen minutes!" he answered.

She was thoroughly exhausted in mind and body, and feeling mentally at rest at last in her cramped apartment, she stretched herself out wearily upon the hard bench that was the only bed offered, and was soon sound asleep.

There was a vague wonderment as to what had happened to Liz, and what she was to do when all the facts that surrounded her had been made public; but she was too tired for anything under heaven to disturb her, and after a moment of wakeful dreaming she was in the land of Nod!

The question was addressed by Lynde Pyne to Andrew Pryor as the two men shook hands on the morning after the event just narrated had taken place.

"I was about to put the same question to you," returned the elder man. "I am losing hope. I wonder what could have happened to the boy? I have given his description to every police station in the city; I have private detectives at work, I have done everything that lies in my power, but all to no purpose! The matter is shrouded in as great a mystery as it was at the beginning. I am about coming to the conclusion that he has been foully dealt with!"

"How is it possible!" cried Mr. Pryor with annoyance. "How are half the horrible things that you read of daily in the papers possible? I don't know, but one never can tell what may happen, nor what has happened. I have had the most flaming advertisements in the papers, asking him if he were safe to at least let me know. Lowell was a great reader of the papers, and if he had seen it he would surely have answered in some way. He has never seen it, and he has not because—he is dead!"

Pyne's hand came down upon a glass, knocking it to the floor with an awful crash.

"Have you any reason for thinking that?"[Pg 26] he demanded so hoarsely that Pryor's attention was attracted from his concern about Leonie to his friend.

"No, no!" he answered. "Why, what is it, Pyne? You were not acquainted with Lowell, were you? I did not know that you had ever met him more than once."

"You are quite right! It is only the horror with which those things naturally affect me. I can never regard such things, even in imagination, without feeling faint."

"In your profession I should think you would have overcome such things entirely!"

"One would think so, but it does not seem to have been the case with me. I do not believe that I shall ever recover from it. My cousin was to go to Miss Chandler's to begin her visit there to-day, was she not?"

Andrew Pryor was about to put his hand upon the bell to ring, when the door was suddenly thrown open, and Miss Pyne, with Miss Pryor, entered.

The former held a newspaper in her hand, and both seemed excited to the last degree. They paused, however, upon seeing Lynde.

"What is it?" he demanded, as neither of them even greeted him. "There was something that you wished to say, and you have hesitated because I am here. Can you not tell me, Edith, unless your news is a secret? The papers do not usually contain secrets that the world may not share, and from your manner I should say that it is something that you have learned from them."

"You are quite right, Lynde," she answered, laying her hand affectionately upon his shoulder. "I did learn my news from the papers, but it is something that will hurt you most seriously. So much so that I am afraid to tell you. But of course there can be no truth in it. You must take consolation in that, dear."

He had grown ghastly again. He endeavored to speak, but the horror that was upon him seemed to paralyze utterance.

He took the paper from her, and in silence she pointed to the article that had caused her such consternation.

The headlines were sensational, describing as they did the arrest of Miss Evelyn Chandler, the daughter of one of the wealthiest citizens of the metropolis, in company with Luis Kingsley, of Wall Street fame, in a disreputable place.

Edith Pyne had read no further than that; but calling the attention of Miss Pryor to it, they had hurried with it to Mr. Pryor's study.

He seemed to understand that some dreadful thing had happened, that there could be no mistake, and though Leonie's name was not mentioned in those first lines, he seemed to know intuitively that they related to her.

"You must not take those horrible words as literally true," she exclaimed, gently. "You know so well how many mistakes these papers make. Do not look like that, Lynde! You frighten me!"

"Do not distress yourself about me, dear," he said, gently. "There is nothing wrong. Read the article to me, please. I do not seem able to see quite distinctly."

Still kneeling there beside him, she read it to the end. About the arrest in the deserted house of Ben Mauprat, about the sensational demand of the boy for the arrest of the man with the will, of the counter-charge of disguised sex made by the man, of the march to the station-house, of the costumes of the party, of how the "boy" had given his name as Leonie Cuyler Pyne——

Then the papers found were described and copied, the will acting as a kind of supplement.

There was not a word spoken in that room for the space of five minutes when the reading had ceased.

"Let me be the first to congratulate you, Lynde," he said, his kind old voice shaken with emotion. "You have gained your fortune at last, and if it has cost you a wife, the loss is the greater gain of the two."

"It is not true!" cried Lynde, hoarsely. "There is not a word of it that can be true. There was never any such will made. My uncle died, believing me guilty of the acts of which my cousin accused me, and Roger Pyne was never married in his life. Do you think that he could have had a wife and I not know it! Why, it would have been——"

He broke off suddenly, remembering the comments that had been made upon the resemblance between Edith and Leonie upon that night that they had sat side by side at the table.

"Where are you going?" Edith asked, timidly, something in his expression frightening her.

"To the station-house where these people are said to be. I must know the truth."

"Do not distress yourself further about Neil Lowell until I see you again. If the article contained in that paper is true I can take you to him within the hour."

"I cannot tell you now. There is a mysterious something that makes me horribly afraid that I shall find it all too true, but until my return I can say nothing!"

Lynde bent his head and kissed his cousin. With an impulse that she could scarcely understand she reached up and placed her arms about his neck.

"Something tells me that you will not find it false, dear," she said, gently, "and, notwithstanding the sorrow that it will bring upon that unfortunate woman, I cannot regret it. But if it should prove true, I feel convinced that that woman will try to hold you to the promise that you have made her by pleading the cause of her love. Promise me that you will not listen to her, Lynde!"

"You must not ask me to promise until I know what I am doing, for I have never broken one in my life, dear."

He loosened her arms from his neck, thinking, with something like a choking sensation, of the one that he had already given and wondering if anything would happen to release him from it before it was eternally too late.

"Yes. You may be sure that it is all true, Lynde, and that you are the heir to your uncle's fortune at last."

"You seem to have forgotten, all of you, that if this story is true, that will can make small difference to me, as my uncle left a daughter of whose existence he died in ignorance. The money will be even less mine than it was before. Do not think that I grudge it to the unfortunate girl, for that is the only part of the story that offers me any pleasure at all."

The consternation of the group was even greater than before, but not waiting for comment, Lynde placed his hand upon Mr. Pryor's arm and hurried him from the room.

"There is one hope!" exclaimed Edith to Miss Pryor when the men had gone. "If Miss Chandler knows that there is no chance for Lynde to get the money she will not hold him to that miserable engagement, perhaps, for I feel convinced from his manner that if she should he would still marry her!"

CHAPTER XXXI.

By courtesy of the captain, Miss Evelyn Chandler was allowed to receive a guest who had called upon her, in his private office.

She had expected to see Lynde Pyne, and had prepared her manner of receiving him; but as the door opened she staggered back before the pale, haggard face that confronted her.

"You!" she exclaimed, as the door was closed, and she found herself alone with the man who had been a father to her, and whom she had so grossly deceived. "I—I—did not expect you quite so soon! Did you receive my note?"

One would scarcely have recognized Leonard Chandler in the subdued, pale man that stood before Evelyn; but there was something about him that frightened her more than that had ever done. She trembled as his eyes held hers, and catching by the back of a chair, let herself down in it as though to release her hold meant a fall.

"I have received nothing!" he answered gravely. "What information I have had came to me from the newspapers, confirmed by the fact that you were not in your room this morning, nor had you been all night! I have come for a denial of the shameful story that has been published from you, and for irrefutable proof of that denial!"

He spoke calmly, but the most disinterested could have seen how he was suffering.

His pride had been cut to the quick; besides which, he loved the girl who had been one of his household since her childhood, and who had taken the place of the daughter that he had so much craved, but that had not been given him.

"I know that appearances are terribly against me!" she cried desperately. "I have no proof that I can bring forward in my own defense, but I am innocent. It is a hideous plot that they have concocted to deprive me of my honor, and to rob you of your money. If you will only help me, I am quite sure that we can find a way to prove how false it is."

"If I am to help you, and of course you know that if you are innocent I will do that to the expenditure of the last dollar that I possess in the world, you must answer my questions clearly and truthfully," he said, passing his hand across his brow wearily. "I shall not try to conceal from you how this has hurt me. It has stung my pride and pierced my heart. My wife is in bed under the shock of it all, for she has loved you as well as though you had been in reality her child. We must begin at the beginning and take matters as they came. Why were you in that house last night?"

"And you went in the night without ordering the carriage? You went to that part of the city alone? Listen to me, Evelyn! You know how anxious I am to do for you anything that lies in my power, but I will not assist you in a lie, and that is one! You must tell the truth, if you expect anything from me in return."

"Then listen to me, and I will tell you the truth whatever the cost to myself. You know that I am not your child. I knew that fact. One day a man came to me—such a terrible man that no words could ever describe him to you. He told me that he was my father. He told me the most odious secret of my birth, and in my terror I allowed him to see that I knew little of my own antecedents, and that he could work upon my fears. It continued until I wrote him that first letter that you saw copied in the papers.

"Then I discovered that what he had said was a lie from the beginning. He had known my mother and knew the story of my adoption, determining to work upon that to extract money from me. I found it out in time, and forced him to admit that it was true. Then he forged the other letters that you saw printed. Last night I received a letter from his wife telling me that he had been arrested, and that she had found those letters. She offered to place them in my hands if I would go there for them, assuring me that she would not deliver them to a messenger for fear of their never reaching me. I went; you know the rest."

The story had been dramatically told, and it seemed to him that it might be the truth.

With all the heart he had he hoped it was, and there was something like eagerness in his voice as he put his next question.

"Destroyed it! Why? Wait a minute! The papers stated that the woman jumped from the window a few hours after the arrest of her husband, crazed by the death of her child. In a state of mind like that, how was it possible that the poor woman could have thought of writing to you? Besides, knowing that Mauprat was arrested for attempted murder, why should she have written you so late at night? And why would not the morning have done for your visit?"

"Evelyn, are you telling me the truth? It does not seem so. It will be useless for you to lie to me, for that woman's insanity was but a temporary aberration of the mind; and while she can never recover from the injuries of her fall, she is perfectly able to answer any questions that may be put to her."

She had not read the part of the paper that told of Liz Mauprat's condition, and her single chance lay in the fact of her death!

She lifted her head, but not an idea could penetrate the mental darkness about her.

"Evelyn," Mr. Chandler said slowly, "granting what you have said to be the truth, how do you reconcile the fact of your mother's name having been Mauprat to the story you have told? We adopted you, my wife and I, and we never saw your mother again, but the papers of adoption gave her name as Eleanor Mauprat, and the certificate of your birth, and of her false marriage to your father, tells the rest. Can you explain those truths away? I don't want to be hard with you. I want to give you every chance that lies in my power, but I will not protect a woman who would rob her best friend, who would condemn her sister, as the monster they make you appear has done; who would stop at no wrong however great, to save herself from a humiliation that at worst could have been but the sting of an hour. If this thing is true, and that man were really your father, was the fault yours? Were you not so much the more to be sympathized with, that your birth rested under such a cloud? If you had but trusted to me, do you not know that I would have protected you?"

She was the same girl that had defied Leonie Cuyler in the library at the time she was discovered to be a thief!

"Do I not know that you would have protected me?" she asked coldly. "No, I do not! You came here and have offered to assist me, because you did not wish your name brought in the scandal that you felt was about to be connected with me, and now you wish to pose as a saintly and martyred man who rescued the daughter of a convict but to have the serpent sting you. You think that I should fall down and bless you for what you have done for me? Let me tell you how I appreciate it. From my earliest remembrance my only feeling for you was one of fear. I would have applied to any stranger for assistance sooner than to you. You let me know in a thousand ways that upon my conduct alone depended my chance of remaining in the position in which you had placed me. You had shown me the luxury of money, you had me educated to the belief that life was not worth the living without it. You gave me no means by which I could earn my own support and I knew that expulsion from your door meant starvation or service in some one's kitchen. It was theft to close the mouth of my father or death to me! I chose the easier. You ask if what I have told you is the truth? Well, then, no! I am the daughter of an ex-convict. Worse than that, my mother died in the Tombs, convicted of theft! I did steal your money, and Leonie Cuyler saw me do it. While there I told her the story of her birth and of mine to force her to keep my secret. That was a great mistake on my part. I should have found another way. Now what are you going to do? If you pose as a martyr I shall tell my story to the world of the tyrant that you are in your family, where even your own wife sits in fear and trembling. You have but one virtue to commend you, and that is half a vice—honesty, and even that you carry no further than the negative will cover. You are not dishonest so far as money goes. You would have protected me? Where was that poor woman, your brother's wife, whom you let starve with her little child, because she had married your brother against your august will? Do you want that story published to the world? I was only waiting for matters to come to a head before forcing you to my way of thinking in these things.

"Now listen to me. If you refuse to do what you can for me in this, I shall tell these things of which I have spoken to the world; I shall give them the true history of the unfortunate cashier who robbed the bank in Rochester, driven to it through your cruelty; I shall tell them the story of Lillieth Dalworth, your niece, whom you drove to suicide. I do not ask anything of you after my release from here, but I demand that. You have the money to buy it, if you will. I have no crime to answer for that is not bailable. You understand what I mean. Do that, and you will never hear of me again!"

He had remained very quiet during her long harangue, and when she had finished, he bowed courteously.

She felt that she might have mastered him long, if she had only had the courage, and she took the chair that she had vacated with a smile that was complacent, while she made no attempt to veil its sneer.

"Is there anything else that you would like to say?" he asked, quietly. "Is there no message that you would like to send to the woman who was a mother to you, and against whom there is no charge that you can bring?"

"Then I may bid you good-morning!" he said, his manner unchanged. "You shall hear from me later."

"You told me as I came in," he said slowly, calmly, "that there was no charge against Miss Chandler by which she could be held, and that she would be dismissed when she was brought before the justice, did you not?"

"There is nothing more," returned Mr. Chandler, coolly. "When you have made out the complaint, I am ready to sign it, and I should feel grateful if you will do it as speedily as possible!"

CHAPTER XXXII.

While Miss Chandler sat there complacently waiting for some one to conduct her back to the cell where she had passed the early morning hours, or tell her that the carriage was waiting to take her to her home, an officer in uniform entered, bearing a card. He gave it to her with a ceremony that under other circumstances might have been amusing.

She took it with a loftiness of bearing extremely out of keeping with her unfortunate position, and in the same manner that she might have spoken the words to Leonard Chandler's servant, she said:

"I don't know how to express my sympathy for you in a trial like this," he said gently. "It must be horrible!"

"A ghastly sort of mistake," she replied, with a little shuddering laugh intended to be pretty. "I must apologize to you for the absurdity of my dress. Fancy receiving one in the morning in a gown like this."

Pyne gazed at her in absolute amazement. Had she taken leave of her senses that she could deliberately jest under circumstances like those?

"It is nothing!" he stammered. "If you were only out of this your gown would be the last thing that I should think of. How did it happen?"

"I will tell you when we are at home. This room is comfortable enough for ordinary purposes, but I don't like it."

"There is a mistake, of course. That goes without saying, when I am an inmate of a prison."

"But—I—mean about Mr. Chandler. The charge against you was made by him ten minutes ago, and signed with his name."

Evelyn Chandler arose slowly from her chair. Every particle of the color had slowly left her cheeks, leaving her ghastly in pallor. She gazed at Pyne as though convinced of his insanity.

"You must be mad," she exclaimed, slowly, the words falling from her lips like lead. "He was here only a few minutes ago, and left me with a promise that he would return at once. You cannot be correct."

Before he could finish his sentence she flew to the door and tore it open. The captain met her there.

"Is it true that Leonard Chandler has entered a charge against me?" she demand, her voice sounding like nothing human in its terrible hoarseness.

She made a curious picture standing there with that expression of hideous agony upon her pallid features, her throat and shoulders bare, her nude arms thrown upward.

There was not a man in the room who did not admire her in spite of the serious charges made against her. Lynde Pyne came to her assistance, and tenderly drew her back into the room, while he closed the door. She raised herself in his arms after a moment of inactivity, like a fiend.

"Let me go there!" she cried, madly. "Let me tell them what he is! He has betrayed me, and publicly in the courtroom I will tell the world what he is. I will pay him for this if it takes my life."

"Calm yourself, dear!" exclaimed Lynde, gently. "There is nothing that you can do against him. Come! You will be summoned to the courtroom in a few minutes for preliminary examination. If you will allow me, I will, of course, act for you; but you must tell me all the evidence there is against you. You must keep nothing from me, for therein lies your only chance. Will you do it, Evelyn?"

She shrunk from him for a moment as though in terror of even the sympathy she read in his eyes; then she sprung forward like a cat and caught him by the arm, lifting her glistening eyes with intense excitement.

"I have your promise that you will marry me!" she cried. "This does not release you. Tell me that is does not?"

His face quivered with the agony that it cost him to speak, but he replied bravely:

"The misfortune of the opposite party[Pg 28] never releases one from a promise. I am ready to keep my word when the conditions of our contract shall have expired."

"Then you will do it at once—at once! A will has been found that gives everything your uncle possessed to you. The fortune that millions could not cover is yours, and Leonie is cleared of any complicity in the crime of which she was, in a way, accused. Are you ready to keep your word now?"

"The proofs are not yet in my hands, and even if they were, the fortune to which you refer is not mine. You forget that in the papers which will be brought before the court there will be one showing that my uncle left an heir who can lay a claim before which the strongest will could not stand."

"Then you intend to leave me to the fate that that cursed fiend, Leonard Chandler, has prepared for me?" she cried hoarsely. "You intend to allow me to be sent to the penitentiary, thinking that will cancel your promise to me, and leave you free to marry the heiress. That is it, is it?"

"You know that it is not!" exclaimed Lynde almost roughly. "I have no more idea of marrying Miss Pyne than I have of marrying Juno. Don't talk so foolishly. I am ready to do anything within the range of human capability to help you."

"But you can do nothing without money—absolutely nothing. You must take that money or you must see me sent to prison."

"Once for all—I will not do it. Now let that settle it forever. Are there any points that you can give me to assist in your defense? I do not ask you whether you are guilty or not. At least, I shall give the benefit of the doubt——"

"No!" she cried shrilly. "You shall not do even that. The proofs are so strong against me, that if my innocence is proven it must be bought. Witnesses must be purchased. There is no other way. I am guilty! I am guilty of all that and more, but if you don't wish the woman whom you have sworn by a solemn oath to make your wife, an ex-convict when that ceremony is performed, you must accept that money and save me. Leonie knows the truth, Ben Mauprat knows it, that woman, Liz, knows, and the letters that Ben had not the sense to destroy, are against me. How can you prove all those things liars without money?"

"Not one. I have grown honest at last in that I can acknowledge it. Lynde, Lynde, listen to me! I have borne it bravely, but I am not brave. I am the greatest coward under God's heaven. Oh, listen to me and save me! I cannot go there to that prison, and yet there is not a point for my defense. He brought me up in luxury and idleness. I knew nothing but wealth and plenty, so that when that horrible man came, what was I to do? He told me that my father was a forger and my mother a thief. He threatened to make those odious facts known unless I furnished him with the money that he demanded. I knew Leonard Chandler so well that I was convinced that to have him hear the story would be but to have him turn eternally against me. He would not give me the money that was required to buy my father's silence, and my father would not remain quiet without. What was I to do? There was but one course left. I learned the lesson that my parents taught. I was the offspring of thieves, why should I be different from them? Now, Lynde, you know the truth. I have tried my best to appear stony, but I am afraid. What am I to do? Oh, my dear, if you leave me to my fate, I am lost indeed! Lynde, promise that you will not! Swear to me that you will save me! Swear it, Lynde, by——"

"Hush, dear!" he whispered, laying his hand across her mouth as she kneeled there in front of him with her wild eyes raised appealingly. "There is no need of an oath. You may be sure that I shall do for you everything that lies in my power. I will turn heaven and earth to save you!"

"And if you fail," she continued, her teeth chattering horribly, "what then? When I am released from that place, when my life is shadowed by the most awful curse that could befall a mortal, you swear that you will take me away? That you will not forget the promise that you made long ago?"

"A promise given is for all time, and under all conditions and circumstances to me!" he answered, huskily. "Let us end this scene, Evelyn. I came here to find out what I was to do to assist you, but it seems that I must work in the dark. I may as well tell you frankly that if this is all you have to say, there is little hope. Is——"

Before the sentence could be completed, the officer entered to announce to them that the hour had arrived for her appearance before the judge.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

The little dingy courtroom had never witnessed such a crowd before as the one that packed it from the justice's desk to the door, and even out into the hall and down the dirty steps.

Women, men and even little children, had come to see Miss Evelyn Chandler, of whom they had read in social circles, and many of them seen, under arrest!

Her reception-dress was covered by the long cloak that had concealed her gown when she started upon that memorable visit to the rooms of Ben Mauprat upon that fatal night.

A pair of long, black gloves covered her hands, and a black hat with nodding plumes shaded her lovely face.

She leaned upon the arm of Lynde Pyne as she entered, pale, but composed, while he was ghastly. Immediately behind her was Luis Kingsley, haggard and gray of countenance, while Leonie, followed by a policeman, brought up the rear.

She still wore her masculine garments, but with an air of timidity and modesty, now that the world knew her sex.

She had scarcely made her appearance than Andrew Pryor leaped forward, seizing her effusively by the hand.

"You, Neil!" he cried, almost breaking into tears in his delight. "This is the greatest happiness of my life! How came you here? Who has been getting you into trouble? I knew that something had happened to you when you did not come back; but thank the Lord I've found you at last! How did you happen to be here? Tell me all about it, my boy, and I will see that you are released at once!"

"I am afraid that you will find I have deceived you, Mr. Pryor, and then I shall lose the friendship that I have valued as one of my best possessions, and I have few."

"You have deceived me?" he exclaimed. "Nonsense! How have you deceived me? I tell you, it is not possible! What is it that they accuse you of? My friend Lynde Pyne is here. He is a lawyer and he shall defend you. Why, he has tried as hard to find you as I have, and seemed even more interested. Don't be afraid! He will get you out of here soon enough!"

With utmost good nature he patted Leonie upon the shoulder, and allowed her to take the seat the officer indicated, turning his attention to that individual.

"What is that boy accused of?" he asked. "He is as innocent as I am! Never did a wrong thing in his life!"

"A girl!" he gasped. "Have you all gone mad? Why, that boy is Neil Lowell, and he worked for me as my private secretary. He is the best fellow in existence, and never did a wrong act in his life!"

Andrew Pryor sat down very suddenly. He seemed to be utterly overcome by the intelligence he had received.

He remembered the refusal to attend the stag supper, and a smile came to his face; that was followed by many other minor things that all seemed important now, then his hand came down upon his knee with peculiar force.

"And Pyne knew it all the time!" he exclaimed, below his breath, with a firmness that left no room for contradiction. "I see it all now as clearly as can be. Of course he knew! Well, this beats a novel!"

There is so great a sameness about such trials that there is little to tell of the occurrences of the next hour or more.

Leonie was discharged for want of evidence against her, but Evelyn Chandler and Luis Kingsley were both held to wait the action of the Grand Jury, the one to answer to the charge of grand larceny, the other of felonious concealment of a will.

There was great excitement evidenced when Leonard Chandler took the stand against his adopted daughter, but the questions that were put to him were few, and answered in a tone that was not audible to those twenty feet removed from him.

Then there was a murmur of voices when Lynde Pyne asked for bail for his client, which was strenuously opposed by Leonard Chandler on the ground that she had demanded it of him, expressing a determination to leave the state before the trial.

Thereupon the bail was fixed at a figure that Pyne could not cover, since the will had not yet been admitted to probate, and the money was not his until it had.

Miss Chandler and Kingsley were therefore placed in the hands of officers of the court to be conducted back to prison.

"Take courage!" Lynde whispered to her at parting. "What can be done for you I will do, you may be sure of that. I will procure the bail and you will be released within a few hours at most."

Andrew Pryor was holding her firmly by the hands while she half smiled into his face.

"You little rascal—I mean witch!" he exclaimed. "Why did you not tell me of this long ago? Did you feel that you could not trust me? It is the most extraordinary thing I ever heard of! Where did you get the information that enabled you to do a man's work?"

"You forget that I was a typewriter for a number of years, and that I learned a man's business through copying it for him," she answered, deeply affected by his kindness.

"You are coming right home with me. You shall still be my private secretary if you are a girl."

"Oh, hang it all, I forgot about the fortune you will have now, and that you will not have need of me any longer. I am half sorry for the good fortune that robs me of you."

"I am as poor as I was before, Mr. Pryor, and if you will allow me to return to you, you will save me many hours of distress over what my future is to be. I am forced to earn my living now as formerly."

"Changing my male attire for that of a girl will not alter my circumstances, unfortunately."

"I don't understand it, but come home, and we will talk it over there. Mrs. Pryor has been just as anxious about you as I have, and will be as glad to see you. So will the girls, though hanged if I don't believe they will be disappointed at the change in your sex, for they were all more than half in love with you. Besides that, you have a cousin there——"

"And another here, that you will not give an opportunity of speaking to her," interrupted Pyne. "You must not be so selfish, Mr. Pryor. You believe me that I am glad to find in you a cousin, do you not, Leonie? I congratulate you from the bottom of my heart."

"It is so good of you!" she returned gently. "I realize how hard it must be for you when you remember that my mother's disgrace is the first that has ever stained your noble family. Perhaps some day you will let me tell you the story, and then you may find a little sympathy for the woman who was driven to the act of which she was guilty to save her child from starving."

"And my uncle allowed that torture to rest upon his wife? I wonder that you can look upon one of us, knowing that it was one of our blood that caused you such suffering!"

"This is not the time to speak of things like those!" Mr. Pryor cut in. "I am going to take her home with me now, Pyne. You will know where to find her when you want to see her, and you also know that you will be always welcome."

Andrew Pryor led Leonie, still in her ragged costume, down to his carriage, placed her inside with old-school courtesy, and gave the order for "home."

"I can hardly realize it," he exclaimed, when he had closed the door, "that you are really a girl! What a surprise it will be to Mrs. Pryor and the girls. And you put on that costume as a sort of private detective?"

"Oh, no! I put it on because after I discovered Miss Chandler to be dishonest I was arrested as an accomplice, and in order not to be forced to tell my story, I ran away. I did it for safety! What I have discovered about my birth, came to me as the result of accident!"

"A remarkably timely accident! If I can curb my curiosity until we get home, I must hear all about where you went when you left my house, and how you happened to be detained. I shall keep you talking for a week."

"There is just one thing that I must do first of all if you will let me," returned Leonie, almost reverently, "and that is to pay a visit to Liz. Poor woman! But for her, I might still have been there in that room surrounded by rats and beaten almost to death by that demon, Mauprat. I have felt within the last few hours as though the life of that helpless child of hers had been the price of my freedom and of Lynde's restoration to his fortune."

"Yes, certainly. And it seems to me that I owe her a debt that never can be repaid for that, not to speak of her great kindness to me. But for her I think I should have gone mad."

"Yes, of course you shall pay the visit. That is all right, but what is this about Lynde's fortune? Surely you know that if you prove yourself the daughter of Roger Pyne the money is yours."

"The money is not mine, sir. My father never even knew of my existence, and I have no more right to the money than you have. Surely a man has the privilege of leaving money that is his where he wishes. But I tell you this, that right or wrong, I would put my hand in the fire and burn it off before I touch a cent of it. It was never intended for me, and I will have nothing to do with it. Please say nothing more about it, but let this settle it forever!"

CHAPTER XXXIV.

Notwithstanding the extreme cordiality of her reception by Andrew Pryor, Leonie felt, naturally, some misgivings regarding the welcome she would receive from the feminine portion of the household.

She was, however, prepared for anything, and it was with a most thankful heart that she heard the exclamations of delight that were unanimous when she was seen at the door of the drawing-room in company with Mr. Pryor.

Doffing the ragged cap that covered her head, she smilingly received the welcome of Mrs. Pryor, followed by that of the young ladies, and grasped the hand of Miss Pyne with suspicious warmth as it was extended last.

"I don't know what we should do with you for giving us the fright that you have!" cried Mrs. Pryor, warmly. "I honestly think that Mr. Pryor has not slept a night since you left us so unceremoniously."

"Before you make any more such remarks as that, my dear," he exclaimed, laughingly, "you had better let me tell you the romance that clings to my private secretary! He is not a man at all, but a young woman who happens to be the first cousin of our little friend here, Miss Edith Pyne!"

If he intended to create a sensation, as of course he did, his object was achieved to its fullest extent.

There was not a word spoken in the room for many moments, Mrs. Pryor being the first to break the silence.

"I don't think that I should have had the courage to face you after my deception, dear Mrs. Pryor," she said, timidly, "but for the cordiality of your husband. If you will allow me, when I have more time than now, I will explain to you the reason for my assuming male attire and passing myself off upon your kindness in a false light. I hope you will forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive, absolutely nothing! And you are really the cousin of Edith Pyne?"

"You read that remarkable story in the papers this morning, did you not?" cut in Mr. Pryor. "Well, this is the child of that marriage. You may be sure the papers will contain many sensational points to-morrow that they failed to get to-day, and New York will be more surprised than it has been for many days."

"I don't know what your name is, Neil Lowell," exclaimed Edith, with a merry laugh, "but I am very much pleased that you are my cousin, and before you take off your boy's clothes, I should like to kiss you!"

There was general merriment, of course, but Mrs. Pryor's next question put an end to it.

"This young lady is in haste to pay a call. While she goes to change her dress I will tell you all that! Gwen, or the one of you that is nearest your size, will furnish you with clothes, my dear, until your wardrobe can be changed. Run away now, and be back as quickly as you can."

Understanding the kindness of the intention, Leonie gave him a glance of gratitude, and followed the girls from the room.

Laughing, chatting, asking a hundred questions in as many seconds, they went on their way as though they had been friends for life, and it was with a heart filled with the sincerest of gratitude, that Leonie realized that she had found friends at last, friends who would never fail her in her bitter struggle with loneliness and isolation.

They soon found a gown that would fit, and not long afterward she announced to them that she must make her call at the hospital.

The carriage was ordered to the door, and she was driven away with as much ceremony and respect as though she were a member of the family, where she was in reality but a dependent.

But as she rode onward her thoughts fled from her own good fortune to that unhappy woman who had done so much to aid her in securing that which was more to her than her life, and a great sadness took possession of her.

How good God was to her, giving her name and friends when she had lost all hope, yet how far He seemed from that poor creature lying there knowing that she must die, and that the child whom she had so much loved had preceded her.

She explained to the person in charge of the building who she was, and was admitted to the ward in which poor Liz lay upon one of the little, white-draped cots.

Very quietly Leonie approached her, and, kneeling beside the bed, kissed her upon the forehead.

"I did not until you spoke!" she answered weakly; "but nothing could ever cause me to forget that voice. You are Leonie; but how changed you are."

"Borrowed plumes make changes in us all! They have told you of the terrible things that happened last night, have they not, dear?"

"Oh, Liz! I hope it may not be true! Do not you know, dear, how we had planned to go away and live together? If you will only get well, Liz, we can do that now."

"That was before Dick died," she replied, with as much cheerfulness as a rapidly dying woman can express.

"No. I shall never trouble any one again. God has been very good to me, after all, Leonie. He knew that I could never live without Dick, and he placed a means in my power without making me responsible for it. They tell me that I sprung out that window, but I have no remembrance of it, and I know that He will not hold me guilty. My boy is waiting for me, Leonie, just across the river, and when I close my eyes I can see him as distinctly as I can you, only that he is robbed of his deformity and his rags. It does not seem like little Dick, and yet I know that it is he. The Lord has sent him to help his mother safely over. I have not lived a guiltless life, Leonie, but for Dick's sake the Lord will forgive."

"And you are not afraid, Liz?" whispered Leonie, the awe of her tone making it extremely low.

"Afraid of my God?" returned the woman wonderingly. "Afraid of Heaven when I have known such torture here upon earth? Oh, no! I have been praying to God to have mercy upon Ben and send him repentance. That is my one torture now that I am dying. I have not forgotten you, dear, and I never shall; but here, just at the last, when I remember all the wickedness of his life, I do not see how God ever could forgive him!"

"Upon that I found my hope. Oh, Leonie, it seems so sweet to know that it is all over and done with at last. All the old heartaches, the terror, the fear lest Ben should kill my poor, helpless baby. No one but God could ever know what a hideous nightmare it was, but it will be over now in a few hours at most. I hope you may be happy, my dear girl, and that we may meet in that heaven that is promised to us all."

"I almost wish that I could go with you," whispered Leonie, choking back her sobs. "There is so little of happiness here, and so much promised there. I know that I am ungrateful to Heaven for all the kind friends that have been sent me, but my mother is up there, Liz, and sometimes the desire is so strong upon me to see her and Dad, to be with them again, that I can scarcely control it."

"Yes, and if you can deliver them a message for me, tell them that I ought to be happy, that I am ungrateful, but that the whole craving of my heart is to be with them and with God. Tell them that I have and shall do only what I believe they would advise and wish me to do. Oh, Liz, I wish that I might go with you!"

There was something curiously touching in that scene, so simple and yet so explicit in its faith. There was not the smallest doubt in the heart of either.

"Not yet, dear," she whispered. "Life should hold many things that are precious to one so beautiful and so good as you. Heaven has not forgotten you. Only trust it all to God. But when the good days come, do not[Pg 30] forget Him in your enjoyment. Remember that the hour that I am awaiting almost impatiently now must come to you at last."

She had never seemed so utterly alone since that night upon which her grandfather had left her to battle with life alone.

She could scarcely control an hysterical sobbing, but for Liz's sake she knew she must.

She lay there with her head upon the dying woman's pillow, the feeble hands straying softly over the short hair from which the hat had fallen.

There were a few whispered words that Leonie did not catch, then a hand was placed gently upon her shoulder.

She lifted her head and saw beside her an attendant—a sweet-faced, low-voiced woman.

A peaceful smile hovered upon it. The lips were open, and a dimple rested in the left cheek as it had been in girlhood.

She slipped from beneath the hand that the attendant had laid upon her arm, and fell to the floor, her bright, beautiful head falling across Liz's bosom.

CHAPTER XXXV.

"Lynde is down-stairs, asking for you, Leonie. I don't think you are well enough to see him, but Mr. Pryor insisted that I should ask you. What shall I say to him, dear?"

Edith Pyne bent and kissed her cousin affectionately, as she asked the question, and Leonie's eyes filled with tears. Kindness had never seemed to affect her so much as since the death of poor Liz, and she had never received more of it. They all seemed to vie with each other in their attempts to do most to make her comfortable, and in consequence kept her in a state bordering on hysteria.

"I will go down to see him, of course," she returned, with a little quiet smile. "You are all too good to me. You will make a perfect baby of me if this continues."

She arose, and assisted by Edith, made her way down-stairs; but at the door of the library the support was withdrawn, and she was left to enter alone.

She did not notice the fact, as she thought she should find all the family gathered there, if she thought of it at all; but she seemed to understand when she saw that the room contained Lynde Pyne alone.

A dainty crimson overspread her face, but controlling her timidity, she entered and quietly placed her hand in the one extended.

"I expected to see you more exhausted, after the trying scenes through which you have passed," he said gently. "I am pleased to see you looking so well."

"Edith and the rest have been trying to persuade me that I was in a fit state for rapid decline, or nervous prostration," she answered, with an attempt at lightness. "It is quite a relief to hear you say to the contrary."

"I am sorry that I cannot say the same for you. You seem harrassed, haggard. Tell me, will you not, how things are going? I have been so anxious to know; but no one knew, or if they did, refused to tell me."

"It has distressed me! I never knew how few friends I had until now. I cannot procure the amount of bail required for—Evelyn, and surely you know what the result of that will be. She is in the Tombs in a state of mind bordering upon insanity. I know that I should not tell you this, and yet, you may be able to help me. The men whom I have accounted my friends refuse to go on the bond for me, saying that she would but escape, and I should be left with an amount to pay that would ruin me, as, of course, I have offered to make the amount good in the event of an accident. Even Mr. Pryor swears at me when I insist upon it that he must do as I say. But if you would speak to him the effect might be different."

"It is so good of you to take this interest in her. If there is anything that I can do, you may be sure that I will with all my heart. Oh, Lynde, I tried so hard to spare her. I entreated her to see the condition in which she was placing herself, but she would not. Why, upon the night that we were all arrested, I told her of the papers that were in my possession—papers that I had no wish should ever come before the public. I did not even ask her to resign her position as the daughter of Leonard Chandler, but I could not see her become your wife knowing that she was a—— I cannot say the word. The thought of it is hideous to me!"

"I sometimes think I am going mad! She holds the most solemn pledge from me that man could give to woman, and I have not the power to break it. But let us leave this subject! It is not a safe one for you and me to speak upon. You will do what you can with Mr. Pryor?"

"There was another thing that I wished to speak to you about. I have engaged one of my friends, a lawyer of considerable prominence, to examine the original records and prove that your mother's marriage to Ben Mauprat was not legal, in order that your claim to the fortune your father left may not admit of question. It may be rather painful for you, but be assured that all will be done to spare your feelings that can be. You will trust me for that, will you not?"

"I don't think I quite understand you. You say that you have engaged a lawyer for me?"

"And I have authorized no one to do it. I have already said that I have no right to that money, and no intention of having it! It is yours, and yours it shall remain."

He looked at her a moment in stupefied silence, then placed his hand very gently on hers.

"And you think that I am so little a man that I would receive what is yours by every right under Heaven? You think that I would rob a girl to enrich myself?"

"It is not that!" she cried earnestly. "It was never meant for me, and I should always feel that I was using that to which I had no right, that I was living upon charity so to speak! It would eternally hang like a stone about my neck, dragging me to a premature death. You must not ask me to do it, Lynde, for indeed I cannot!"

"But consider, dear; even were I to do the contemptible thing you wish, your heirs could one day come forward and demand their rights of me, and there is not a law under the sun that would not give it to them. You see I should but become a trustee, after all, responsible in the years to come for that of which, very likely, I should not take the best of care. There is nothing for it, Leonie, but for you to accept that which is yours by every right, and of which you have been robbed so long."

A slow, determined light was burning in her eyes, her hand loosened itself from his, and she arose slowly to her feet.

"If that is all that you have come to say, let me settle it with you as I have with Mr. Pryor, who has ceased to bother me upon the subject. I will not touch one cent of that money. I did not sell my sister to a prison for the sake of gaining a few paltry dollars, and I will not have it appear even to myself that I did. If there were no other reason than that, it would still be enough."

His face was deadly pale and quivering with the suppression he was putting upon himself, but he was very quiet, for all that.

"It seems too absurd," he said slowly, "for us to be standing here fighting like two children over who shall and who shall not have the money. Your argument is unreasonable. You might as well say that I am selling my cousin to a prison in that I contemplate prosecuting him for the concealment of his knowledge in this affair. There is just one thing that I wish to say to you, and that is that I shall never touch a dollar of the money which no more belongs to me than it does to Evelyn Chandler. If you wish Luis Kingsley to have possession of it, a man who until a few days ago, was a stranger to you, why, I have nothing to say."

"You don't really mean that!" she exclaimed. "You would never do anything so mad!"

"It contains less of madness than the absurdity you contemplate. I swear to you that I do mean it. I will never touch it!"

She hesitated a moment, her eyes filling with tears, then went a step toward him, laying her hand upon his arm timidly.

"At least we can come to a compromise, Cousin Lynde," she said, with strong emphasis upon the relationship. "The money was left to you; you say it is mine by right of my unfortunate birth, which never was intended. Very well! I will agree to accept one-half if you will take the other. Surely you can see the justice in that! I tell you frankly, that if you refuse, Luis Kingsley may have the money!"

If he only could have said to her what was in his heart! If he only had had the privilege to propose to her the compromise that was hovering upon his lips, he would have felt himself the happiest of men, but honor closed his lips.

"None!" returned Leonie, turning to him, desperately. "Oh, sir, I wish you would make him see that I am right and he is wrong! I wish you would make him understand how impossible it is for me to do as he thinks I should! You see it as I do, do you not? At least he should take half!"

"That seems to me fair enough, Lynde, unless you could name a different compromise!"

He laughed as the remark was made, but would have recalled it if he could, when he saw the expression of both countenances.

"You must give me time to think of it!" cried Pyne, speaking hastily, to cover his confusion. "That is a proposition that I never thought of before. I will call about it to-morrow; and in the meantime, Leonie, see what you can do about the other matter that I spoke to you of, will you not?"

She was about to reply, when the door opened to admit a servant, followed by a messenger.

"Have I your permission?" asked Pyne, glancing from Leonie to Mr. Pryor, as he held the message in his hand.

Receiving their permission, he tore the end off and read hastily. A frown contracted his brow; then, with the ghastliness of death covering his face, he read it aloud:

Neither of the distressed listeners spoke until he had reached the door to answer the imperative call. Then, with a bound, Leonie was beside him.

"If anything has happened you will let me know, will you not?" she asked, her voice not more than a whisper. "You know what I mean. I should like to see her before——"

"Let us hope that it is nothing of that[Pg 31] kind!" returned Lynde, his throat seeming to close over the words. "Surely God will give her time for repentance!"

CHAPTER XXXVI.

The drive from the residence of Andrew Pryor to the Tombs was a long one, and almost an hour had elapsed from the time of his leaving there until Lynde Pyne arrived at the big, gloomy prison.

He went at once to the official there, and told of the summons that had been sent him.

Where she had procured it, no one was able to say, but certain it was that the deed had been done, and that she had been removed to the prison hospital.

With set face and anxious heart, Lynde made his way to that quarter that he had visited more than once in his practice, a visit that had always been attended with horror, but now a thousand times more than ever.

He was shown to the cot whereon the once famous beauty rested, her drawn face now whiter than the drapery of her cot.

The eyes were closed, the sheet pulled up so that none of the disfiguring bandages about the shapely throat could be seen.

"One can never tell. She lies like that all the time, and will answer no questions that are put to her."

"Oh, yes! There is no reason why she should not! At first I was very positive it would be a fatal case, but we succeeded in stanching the blood sooner than I hoped for. She has lost a great deal however, and could not have stood much more. We have to watch her all the time, however, for fear she will attempt it again, and another opening of the artery would certainly prove fatal."

"Certainly, only you must be careful that she does not exert herself in the very least. Keep her in exactly the position that she now is, and if the slightest thing should happen, I will be within call. If she should take it into her head to talk to you, do not allow her to utter more than a few words at a time and those very softly; you understand?"

He walked away as he finished speaking, and Lynde took the chair beside Evelyn's bed. Her eyes opened almost at once.

"He said that I should not die," she said slowly, and with great difficulty of articulation, "but he lied! I will die. When a woman is determined upon a thing like that, there are not men enough in the world to prevent it."

"You must not say that, dear," exclaimed Lynde, gently. "He only wants to save your life for your own good. I think I have succeeded in securing bail for you, and you must get well now in order that we can determine what is best to do for you."

"Never!" she cried, as vehemently as the circumstances would allow. "Do you think I would owe my liberty to her? Not if I died like a dog, as I shall! You have all forsaken me and lied to me. You who pretended that you would protect me above every one upon earth. Do you think I did not know that you were not trying to get bail for me? You thought that you could deceive me until you succeeded in having me sentenced to the penitentiary, and then you would do as you liked. You would leave me and marry her. Well, I decided that I would not go there. I knew that there was but one way to save myself from it, and I took that means. That old fool told you just now that I should get well. I tell you that I shall not, and you and my dear sister"—with a disfiguring sneer—"may look upon yourselves as my murderers! Why did she not come here with you? I want to tell her before I die the price that she has paid for her husband."

"Evelyn, for God's sake think what you are saying! You know that Leonie is not guilty of your horrible charge!"

"She is guilty of that and more. But for her I should have been at home and happy now, but she thought that I was the fortunate one, and she thrust herself upon me, determining that she would rob me of everything that made life a joy. She has succeeded. Go and bring her here! I want her to see the result of it all! I want to see her glory in her own work here before my eyes before I die! I want her to see what a thing she has made of her sister, and I want her to know that my blood rests upon her head."

"If you do not cease this, I shall call the physician and leave you!" Lynde exclaimed almost angrily.

Before he could catch her, or in any way stay the mad act, she had leaped from her cot upon the opposite side from him, and had torn the bandages from her throat, then catching her finger in the stitches that held the long wound together, she ripped them open.

Only insanity could have given her the courage to have accomplished an act so deliberate in its atrocity.

Pyne uttered a gasp of horror and sat still as though paralyzed. The doctor, from the other side of the room, saw the act.

Like a flash he sprung up and rushed desperately after her; but she eluded him, a laugh like the fiendish yell of an infuriated animal sounding upon the stillness of the room. It seemed to arouse Lynde.

He leaped to his feet, and together they succeeded in catching her and forcing her down upon the cot, where she was bound; but it required their united strength to do it, and then only when the floor and bed-clothing were saturated with blood.

"She is a raving maniac!" the doctor ejaculated, pausing to wipe the perspiration from his brow.

Bound as she was, the hideous laughter continued to fall from her rapidly paling lips.

"Quick!" he exclaimed to Lynde. "Go for assistance. Tell some one to bring my surgical instruments. There is not a moment to lose!"

The struggling grew weaker, and she lay very quietly when they leaned over her again.

They sat there beside her, doing what mortal men could do to restore her, but to no purpose.

The end came without a return to consciousness something like half an hour later.

"It is much better that it should have been so," the physician said consolingly. "She very likely would never have recovered her mental faculties, and even had she, the horror of an awakening would have been worse than death. She was too frail of constitution ever to have endured the tortures of prison life."

"But to die like that without a prayer for mercy!" murmured Lynde, shudderingly.

"It would never have been different. If you grieve, my dear boy, you are very foolish. The kindest act God ever performed for her was in allowing her to die."

"I am afraid not. Her last words you alone heard, consequently they rest with you, but the manner of her death must of course be reported, and the papers will naturally want the conclusion of so startling a story. I suspected that it would be something like this, for I believed the act to be that of a lunatic in the beginning. My belief is that she has been insane for years, though that, and the manner of her obtaining the knife with which the deed was done, must forever remain a mystery."

"God help her, it is her one chance in eternity. I hope that it may have been so."

If he could not profoundly regret an occurrence that had rid his life of a contemplation that was more hideous than death, he was not to blame, for he had tried to do his duty nobly, though only he himself could have told what a frightful prospect it contained.

Very gently he told the story to Leonie, concealing in his own heart that which he knew would cause her the greatest sorrow.

He told her that her sister had died violently insane, because he believed there would be a germ of comfort in the knowledge.

She was deeply affected, not because there had ever been, or could ever have been any affection between them, but because there were no words of forgiveness, and because she blamed herself to a great extent for the untimely end and the grewsome circumstances that led to it.

"There is one thing more," she said sadly, when the subject had been talked over for some time. "Mr. and Mrs. Chandler should be told. In spite of all, I feel that the death will strike them very closely home, and either you or I must tell them, Lynde. Don't you think so?"

"Perhaps you are right. They knew of my relations with her, and Mr. Chandler is not kindly disposed toward me. It might be better for you, though I will not ask it if you had rather not."

"Yes. If left until to-morrow, the papers will do it for us. God bless you, Leonie."

She hurried from the room quickly, that he might not see the tears that had gathered in her eyes.

She knew so well how much that death meant to her, but she tried to put that thought from her.

It was her sister who was dead—her sister whom, if she had not loved her, was yet her mother's child.

In the place where the mother had died, the daughter who had despised her memory followed.

She sat down half paralyzed under the fearful thought that, after all, it was the "retribution" of which the old Mosaic law has spoken.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

Her eyes showed traces of weeping, and her countenance contained the radiant glow of a saint that has received the gift of righteousness through suffering.

Mr. and Mrs. Pryor, and the Misses Pryor, together with Lynde and Edith Pyne, were in the library awaiting her, and as she entered she was warmly greeted, and a comfortable chair placed for her.

"You look tired and worn, dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Pryor, with motherly kindness. "I think it would be much better for you to go up-stairs and take a much-needed rest, than allow yourself to be tormented by these careless young people."

"I had rather remain, if you will allow me," returned Leonie, meekly. "I don't think I could rest, and I should not like to be alone. This is ever so much better, where I can feel what kind friends and true the Lord has sent me in my loneliness."

"And Leonard Chandler!" cut in Mr. Pryor, unable to curb his curiosity. "What did he say?"

"I cannot tell you how deeply he feels it all!" exclaimed Leonie, sadly. "I think, had he been her father, his grief could not have been greater. He feels that to a great extent he is blamable for what has occurred. Mrs. Chandler is almost in hysteria. She was under the care of the physician when I left. Evelyn's conduct is all the more remarkable[Pg 32] to me, when I think of the loving tenderness that must have been hers in the home of her adoption. My heart has ached until it has seemed almost breaking. Mr. Chandler has asked my permission to have the body removed at once to his house, and buried from there."

"Certainly; what right had I compared with theirs, even had I chosen to press my claim? They were so kind to me! Why, it seemed almost as though they were accepting me in her stead. When I was leaving Mrs. Chandler clasped her arms about my neck, and with tears streaming over her face said: 'You must fill her place, dear. Remember that I shall have no daughter now. My heart and home will both be empty. You must fill the vacancy that her death has left!' I don't know what I have done that so many friends should be given me, just at the time when I fancied myself most alone!"

"It is very nice of the Chandlers, indeed!" cried Mr. Pryor, dryly. "I don't doubt in the least but that it would be charming for them to have you take their daughter's place, but there are others who have a 'pryor' claim, eh, Lucretia?"

"Do you realize, girls," she said, sweetly, "that it is less than an hour until dinner? Remember your father's horror of a cold dinner, and take yourselves away to dress at once!"

There was a general movement in obedience to the command, but as Leonie was about to follow them, she felt a hand placed very gently upon her arm.

"Won't you wait a minute, please?" Lynde asked, half timidly. "I shall detain you only a few seconds."

She tried to prevent the crimson from rushing over her face as she felt it doing, but the effort was without avail.

"There were a few questions that I wanted to ask you about the—funeral," Lynde stammered, when they were alone and the door had been closed. "I thought, perhaps, you might not care to have it talked of before the others. Will Mr. and Mrs. Chandler attend to everything, or do you do it?"

"They wished it all to be just as though none of this horrible recent past had taken place. They believe with me that she has been insane for years."

"That is all, then. And, Leonie, something must be done about that will very soon. When can you give me an hour to speak of that?"

"Oh, Lynde, why do you torture me with that old question? You know that I will never have anything to do with it. But there is one thing that I wish you would do. Where is the necessity for prosecuting that poor man, Luis Kingsley? Surely losing all his fortune is punishment enough for what he has done."

"But I must do it if that will is admitted to probate. There is just one way that he can be saved, and that is for you to make your claim to the money, and prove it valid. Otherwise he must suffer."

He knew that she was not sufficiently a lawyer to know whether he was telling the truth or not, and he also knew that, under the circumstances, the point he had made was a strong one.

She gazed at him a moment; then her lips began to tremble, and her eyes filled with tears.

She turned away from him hastily, but not before he had seen, and the sight was too much for him.

A man can never endure to see a woman in tears, and most particularly not a woman whom he loves.

One quick step forward, an extension of the arms, and she was taken to his breast.

"I know that I am a criminal to tell you of my love while that poor girl lies dead in that dreadful place!" he exclaimed, contritely. "But what am I to do? The temptation has overpowered me. After all, she never loved me, and she knew that I did not love her, therefore the circumstances cannot be the same. Leonie, darling, I do not ask if you will be my wife, because I know you will! You have never endeavored to conceal from me that you love me, and through all the wretched past that has been my single consolation. Tell me that I have not been wrong, sweetheart!"

"Why did you wish to distress me about the will when you knew that it would be compromised in that way?" she asked, a little smile rippling through the tears. "Oh, Lynde, it has been such weary, hopeless waiting. I cannot realize that there are really no barriers between us now. There was a time when I would rather have died than have you know the shame that rested upon my mother's name, but after all the fault was not hers, and it would seem to me now that concealment meant shame upon her memory. Tell me that you do not despise me for it, dear?"

"Do I look as though I despised you for anything, or could despise you for anything under God's heaven?" he asked tenderly. "My darling, you have come to me through grief and suffering, but you are mine at last, thank Heaven, and all the more precious because of the waiting and the misery."

She lifted her face and allowed him to kiss her after the weary restraint of months.

In that kiss, they seemed to live again through the weary, hideous time that had intervened since their meeting, and it was with a thankfulness to God that neither of them could have expressed that they realized it was over and done with forever.

"If Dad could only know how happy I am in spite of all the sorrow I have known!" muttered Leonie. "Dear old Dad, if he could only have lived to see his little girl as she is now! But surely up there with God he knows it all, and the joy with my mother is as great as mine!"

"I hope we will not be punished for our happiness, Lynde," she said slowly. "It seems dreadful when one thinks of——"

"There can be no wrong in the love that God has given, my dearest!" he whispered. "Why should we try to conceal what our whole hearts are crying aloud?"

She made no attempt to answer him, but allowed him to comfort her, now that the long wait was ended.

"We have, sir!" returned Lynde, with manly quiet and dignity. "Under the circumstances that exist, we wish the matter to remain our secret for the present, or rather that of the family. Perhaps we have been premature, but——"

"Nonsense. You would have been foolish not to have taken advantage of the opportunity that God made for you especially. I congratulate you both with all my heart. I have never had anything make me happier, and I am sure all the rest of the family will join me."

Luis Kingsley was not prosecuted for the felonious concealment of a will. He was released from prison, and shortly after disappeared from the country. No one knew where he went, and presumably no one cared enough to inquire. He was as utterly dead to Lynde and Leonie as though the grave were between them.

Ben Mauprat was sentenced to two years in the penitentiary for assault with intent to kill, with a charge of complicity in a robbery hanging over his head upon his release. But the chances are that he will never be prosecuted upon that charge.

Leonie entered her claim to the estate simply to prove the legality of her mother's marriage, and won the case, against the man who was to become her husband shortly afterward.

It occasioned considerable merriment among Lynde's friends, but there were none of them who did not envy him the "romance of the thing," as they termed it.

They are very happy, Lynde and Leonie. They are regular visitors at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Chandler, where Leonie is petted and made much of, while the home of the Pryors will be hers until after her nuptials shall have been celebrated.

And so the story ends as does all life, with the reward of virtue and the punishment of vice.

Transcriber's Notes:

Added table of contents.

Cover image may be clicked to view a larger version.

The address transcribed from the front cover may be incomplete (probably missing a street number) because damage to the original copy has rendered it nearly indecipherable.

This story was serialized in The New York Family Story Paper beginning on March 1, 1890. It was later reissued as a stand-alone booklet. This transcription is based almost entirely on the later booklet publication, but the original serial has been referred to in a few places to confirm words lost due to damage to the booklet copy.

The original serial publication of the story was attributed to Wenona Gilman.

Page 4, removed unnecessary quote after "Godfrey Cuyler seized the girl by the shoulder." Corrected typo "tighly" in "fingers tightly laced." Corrected typo "Godfred" in last sentence of chapter II. Added missing quote after "I have come to you for your advice." Changed ? to ! after "hang a detective!"

Page 6, removed duplicate "and" before "stepping to the side."

Page 9, corrected typo "brillancy" in "terrible brilliancy." Corrected typo "adressed" in "addressed to himself."

Page 10, corrected "Payne" to "Pyne" in "Good-morning, Mr. Pyne."

Page 11, corrected typo "an" for "and" in "and again looked calmly." Corrected typo "accidently" in "accidentally performed." Corrected typo "Chicage" to "Chicago."

Page 12, added missing quote after "It is 'Edith's cousin,' I suppose." Corrected "gate" to "gait."

Page 13, changed ! to ? in "What is it that you know of Miss Evelyn Chandler?"

Page 14, corrected "Evelyn to Chandler" to "to Evelyn Chandler."

Page 15, corrected typo "yo" for "you" in "What do you mean?" Corrected typo "Mauprat" in "Mauprat turned sullenly." Added hyphen to "Carry her up-stairs" for consistency. Corrected typo "iminent" to "imminent."

Page 16, corrected single to double quote after "Go for the doctor, quick!"

Page 17, retained unusual spelling "sploched" from original.

Page 18, corrected "braclets" to "bracelets."

Page 20, corrected "he" to "her" in "in silence beside her." Corrected ! to ? in "Is she dead?"

Page 21, removed extra period before question mark in "think that you can get me out to-night?" Corrected "hansome" to "hansom." Corrected typo "palor" in "pallor overspread." Removed unnecessary quote after "and go to that house."

Page 23, corrected "hed" to "had" in "had left the box with the papers."

Page 24, added missing quote after "Now, is that satisfactory?"

Page 25, corrected typo "interrrupted" in "Miss Chandler had interrupted." Corrected single to double quote after "You are sure?" Corrected typo "thives" in "should be among thieves." Corrected typo "seargeant" in "those of the sergeant."

Page 26, corrected "see" to "she" in "she had so grossly deceived." Removed unnecessary quote after "as Leonie Cuyler Pyne——"

Page 28, removed hyphen from "court-room" ("dingy courtroom") for consistency.

Page 30, corrected "supression" to "suppression." Added missing quote before "You know what I mean." Changed "was" to "were" before "a few whispered words." Changed "Liz'" to "Liz's" in "Liz's sake" and "Liz's bosom."

Page 31, corrected comma to period after "certainly prove fatal."

Page 32, added missing quote before ""It seems dreadful when one thinks."

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